The Union Forever

Between 1836 and 1884 about 12,000 immigrants made the 2000 mile journey from Independence, Missouri on the Oregon Trail. William Jay Bowerman, the University of Oregon's iconic one-time  coach of Track & Field and whose forebears came to Oregon in that migration, would tell his team members, "The cowards never started, the weak died along the way and that leaves us.  The men of Oregon."

Those were the men and women who, on February 14, 1859, brought Oregon into the Union. Those courageous women who survived that incredibly arduous experience were, of course, not allowed to vote as citizens of the new state.  Nor were African-Americans, Chinamen or Mulattos. But as America drifted toward the bitter, bloody chaos of the Civil War, Oregon joined the Union forbidding slavery.  It wasn't until August 26, 1920 that the 19th amendment to the Constitution finally gave women the right to vote and Oregon Suffragettes had played a leading role in that movement.

The Chinese, Mulattos, and African-Americans had to wait until 1927 for their deliverance to the ballot box.

Bowerman identified a culture in the state of Oregon that was shaped by those pioneers who crossed the plains and the mountains, forging rivers and, in some cases, resisting the welcoming committees of hostile Native-Americans.  That gritty code of the trail is evident in the way, from the beginning,  Oregonians vote on issues.  On the Trail, no person was an island.  Everyone was dependent for survival on the others in their party and that spirit of interdependence became an element of the Oregon culture.  In those early family farms surrounding the settlements, doors were left unlocked so a neighbor could get something needed if the owner was away.  This willingness to help a neighbor also became a part of the culture.

Why did Oregon voters time after time vote against allowing gas stations to put in self-service pumps?  The principal reason was to save jobs for their fellow citizens.  Oregon and New Jersey remain the only states to forbid self-service.

It would be an interesting study to discover what percentage of today's Oregonians are native-born compared to arrivals on the now friendly Oregon Trail. Whatever that number might be, the reality is there are lots more coming than there are going.  Coming soon: Who wins the Most Valuable Player trophy for the state's high achievers from 1859 to 2020?

In The Beginning

Three centuries after Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492, almost every coastline of every continent on earth had been mapped and explored, except for the polar regions and one other: the coast of the Oregon territory.  It took an American Captain, Robert Gray, to open the gate to our region by sailing into, and naming, the Columbia River.  That leads to the big question;  How the hell did he turn that sailing ship around in the narrow main channel when he figured out this thing was a river?

The Russians and the Brits had been bumping heads exploring Alaska for years before any serious expedition headed south subsequent to Bob crossing the bar at Astoria.  Don't you think at least one or two Ivans or Berties would have gone to their leaders and said, "Hey, Captain, we're freezing our asses off up here?  There's got to be plenty of fur bearing creatures down there where it gets hot."

Anyway, they finally came, Russians, Brits, French, and of course, Americans.  It would take awhile for everything to settle down and I will be looking into some of the adventures that followed. One more thing: How about that Captain George Vancouver (nickname: "The Couve") of the British Royal Navy, who took it upon himself to name everything he laid his eyes on in the Pacific Northwest?  He named our best mountain, "Mt.Hood" after his pal, British Viscount Samuel Hood, some Teddy-boy commander in the British navy who fought against our brave sailors in the Revolutionary War.  Doesn't that bloody well piss you off?  It does me.  Let's give it a real Oregon name.  How about Mt. Protest?

You don't think so...OK, a contest: Give me a better name and the winner (I command 51% of the votes) will be the point thrust of our start up protest against Samuel Hood and his George Washington-hating cohorts. This thing could get legs.

See More from William Landers

The Write Stuff

The best thing about blogging is that now you're part of a distinguished profession.  You're a published writer. You know, like Bob Woodward, Shakespeare, Sam Clemens, Tom Jefferson, Martin Luther, and Maureen Doud. Whether people read your narrative or not is irrelevant; if you say you're a writer and you string words together then stop them with a period, you're a writer.

So I will continue blogging, sending my complete sentences out into the ether for the enjoyment of intellectually advanced blog followers or those who feel superior making fun of the stumbling presumptions of would-be Pulitzer prize winners.

I'm going to focus a series of future blogs on the state of Oregon (home of my birth).  Taking my bachelor's degree in History at the University of Oregon under the guiding scrutiny of my major professor, Ed Bingham, I read a lot about my home state and found much that was unique, interesting, and inspirational about this Land of the Empire Builders.  Maybe you, too, will agree that Oregon is a special place.The writers of the TV series, Portlandia said it was where young people come to retire.

I will write about some of the people who made this place the way it is. So stay tuned and grease your axels as we get ready to hit the Oregon Trail.

No Man is an Island

As I start my third month as a resident at the retirement complex, Russellville Park, a quote from John Donne's "No man is an island" crawls into my mind from some long ago literature class. John might have been writing about my new home. He tells us that every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main and he finishes with the line"...therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee."

About 600 apartments occupy the west and east units of Russellville Park and my place on the third floor of the east building features a large balcony overlooking a Portland residential neighborhood.  In my first few days here a strange feeling about the occupants of this place became apparent to me... Words are difficult to find that will define it but if you twirl together thoughtfulness, compassion, respect, helpfulness, and friendliness that will give you a clue to the vibe.

You first notice among both the men and the women a wide ranging degree of physical disrepair. Lots of walkers.  Lots of canes.  Some wheel chairs. Many eyes are brightly lit while others not so much. But everyone still appear to be serious players in the game.   Early on I joined a breakfast club that proved to be a microcosm of Russellville Park's residents except for the all male feature.

The large round table seating seven or eight regulars at the back of the dining room opened at 7:30 AM under the supervision of the Director of Operations, Lou, an ex-cop from California. Assigned seating. An outside observer would find amusement in the ordering of the table mates, starting with Lou.  The server stands by him and Lou nods his head, without speaking, and she writes on her pad.  Next, another nod of the head and she writes. And so around the table until I am the first to break the silence with my order.  In time, she will know my head nod.

If anyone at our table spotted an empty cup on a saucer he would reach over and put the cup on the table so it wouldn't rattle when our table mate with Parkinson's disease was cutting the food on his plate. Small acts of kindness. Part of what makes this rich environment of Donne's Continent main.  The common bond shared by the residents of Russellville Park might come from the awareness that each of us will eventually learn the secret of life's darkest mystery.

The ambulances that come for their guests at Russellville Park shut down their sirens well before arriving.  But sometimes in the dark of the night you might hear one far away and if it awakens you recall the words of John Donne (updated from 1623):  ...therefore never send to know for whom the siren wails, it wails for thee."

Oh, Say Can You See

Traveling with University of Oregon basketball coach Dick Harter in the early '70s was never dull.  The ex-Marine brought a game plan out of his war room that sometimes clashed with other athletic department programs but his all-out, hell for leather, take no prisoners style of basketball won him a wildly enthusiastic fan following.  One opposing coach was quoted as saying, "God, his players come at you like a squadron of Kamikazes."  Harter jumped on the name and from then on they were the "Kamikaze Kids."

Following an away game at Washington State, the Oregon basketball team bused from Pullman to overnight lodgings in Spokane before the return trip to Eugene the next day.  After getting his team settled in, Dick took a few of us to the bar for a nightcap. The place was empty but for a lone man at the end of the bar.  It was longtime Pac-12 official Frank Buckowitz who had worked our game.  Dick sent him a drink and he raised his glass to us.

The bar was closing when Buckowitz passed our stools.  Dick said "Hey, Bucky, nice game (we won).  Come by the room for a nightcap."  As the assistant athletic director  I knew this was dangerous territory bringing an official to the coach's room, but confronting Harter had no appeal for me either.

Bucky said, "Lead the way."

Revelry ensued.  Drinks all around and war stories of past games flavored with Bucky's tales of officiating filled the room with a constant roar of laughter. Finally the Whistle-Blower got up and said, "I've got to get some sleep but, Dick, I want to tell you what I like about your team. When they play that Star Spangled Banner, your guys are standing straight and showing respect." He continued,  "And I'll tell you something else, Dick.  I'm working your game against the Beavers in Corvallis next Friday and if I see your guys SINGING the Star Spangled Banner, I don't see how you can lose."

The room exploded in laughter and whooping.

True story.  After every practice the next week Dick Harter held choir practice and on the following Friday night, in Gill Coliseum, Oregon's hardwood warriors could be mistaken for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

They didn't lose the game.

Dress To Impress

Selecting the perfect garments to wear in public so as to alert discerning viewers to the secrets of your vibe is an art.  Like painting.  Or cooking at its highest level.  My wife, Georgann, had the gift while I had the gaffe.

The one time in my life when I could match the appropriate apparel to the occasion was when I worked summers in the logging woods between college semesters.  I admit my outfits were not the result of my flair for woodsy attire but, rather, the dictates of the logging environment.

You wore a metal helmet to soften the blow of a limb striking your head.  You wore wide elastic suspenders to hold up your pants because a belt might snag on something and take you along on an unpleasant journey; the stretchy braces would at least give you a chance to survive.  And you cut the hem off your pants legs, leaving a frayed but snag-proof row of little dangling threads. Complete the ensemble with your calk (pronounced "cork") boots with metal spikes on the soles and you are styling as that most heroic of all common laborers: the Oregon Logger (never "Lumberjack").

My attempts at cool dressing have gone downhill since those days setting chockers.

In the early '60s I took a job as Alumni Secretary for the University of Oregon.  In 1958 Oregon's football team went to the Rose Bowl and the Alumni Secretary at that time had purchased neckties for the alumni to wear to the game.  The ties had regimental, alternating stripes of lemon and green.  Those babies were BRIGHT.  You might wear one on a hunting trip to avoid getting shot.  And, oh my, after the game there were hundreds of neckties that never made it to Pasadena. One of my early challenges in the job.

A few years later Oregon played Texas in football and at half-time those of us in the press box were served a lunch by Texas co-eds. A young lady approached me and asked, "Are you from Oregon?" After acknowledging that, yes, I was indeed from Oregon, she continued, "That explains it.  When I first saw your tie, I just thought you had bad taste."

Yeah, Texine, your first thought was right.  And we lost the game.

The Doors Are Closing

Her voice is perfect. Pleasing timbre with undertones of sincerely caring about your comfort and safety. "The doors are closing." A definitive statement of fact letting us know we are prepared for action.  "The train departing." She puts a slight up-rise inflection after the "ing" in "departing" that suggests we are about to share an exciting adventure and then she says with quiet urgency, "Please hold on." There is an accent mark in tone over the word, "on."

"The doors are closing.  The train departing.  Please hold on."

Whatever Max train you're on you will hear her (I think her name is Monique) repeat these three sentences at every station and it never becomes annoying. Not like those songs the Good Humor Man assaults us with every summer. Monique's calm message is an almost musical reassurance that we are moving out and we are going to get there.  Safe and sound.

I'm tempted to investigate how to find Monique so that I might retain her to record the words I will compose.

Everyone forgets things from time to time, Bill.  Just forget it.

It is OK to eat lots of ice cream because you can balance it by not eating lots of kale.

Being a bit older will only save you the annoyance of people stopping you on the street thinking you are George Clooney and asking for autographs.

Maybe I'll hop on the Blue Line to Gresham and give this some thought.