In anticipation of our move eastward toward Portland, I figured it’s time to add another edition of my father’s story as related by my mother, Thelma Johnston Loika.
As Internet connections move from Hillsboro to our new abode, there might be a brief hiatus in entries to this website. Please be patient, as there are three more chapters to come.
Here’s a link to Part V.
For those who don’t subscribe to HBO, you probably missed John Oliver’s August 2nd hilarious take on the news. Oliver is executive producer and star of “Last Week Tonight,” a witty roundup of outrageous acts by U.S. and foreign government officials that masquerade as news.
In the 8/2 program, he ended the program with a sing-along delivered by 19 boys and girls who seemed to understand all the song’s nuances.
The sing-along followed Oliver’s lengthy exposé of how the U.S. Congress routinely attaches riders to legislation that usurp the will of Washington, D.C. voters. Recent referendums authorized needle-sharing programs to combat the spread of deadly infectious diseases and said “yes” to the legalization of recreational marijuana.
Congress nixed both.
The Boston Tea Party was all about taxation without representation. How can the U.S. government justify its treatment of a mostly black population in the District of Columbia?
Hmmmm.
Alabama and Alaska,
Arizona, Arkansas,
California, Colorado,
Connecticut and more
There are 50 states in total
And we’ll sing their names with glee
But there’s one place that gets shafted
And it’s Washington D.C.
All the rest of us can choose a path
That we think is best
But any choice that D.C. makes
Is easily suppressed
‘Cause some asshole with a rider
Who might live in Tennessee
Can destroy a needle program
For preventing HIV.
Let them have gun laws!
Let them have weed!
Let them decide
The things that they need!
And if you’re totally convinced
That there should be just 50 states
Well then let’s all kick out Florida
‘Cause no one thinks they’re great
Oh yes let’s all kick out Florida
‘Cause no one thinks they’re great.
Do I think Oliver is treating Florida fairly? Let me answer that with two questions and answers about the “Sunshine State.”
What’s the state flower of Florida? Concrete.
What’s the state bird? The extended middle finger.
Those are two reasons Alice and I live in Oregon.
When Alice and I moved west to Oregon, we landed in Hillsboro. We picked a pleasant apartment complex sight unseen, utilizing the guidance of zillow.com.
We thought Hillsboro was a town, but now it’s a city. And our apartment is smack-dab in a sterile environment owned by Tandem Property Management, strategically situated across the street from computer-chip manufacturer Intel Corp.
Euphemistically called the Silicon Forest, this land originally was nothing but forest. Today, though, Hillsboro, rapidly approaching a population of 100,000, is clear-cut of virgin timber, as landscape engineers dot once-fertile land into a hodgepodge of cookie-cutter housing developments, franchised fast-food eateries and industrial parks, all pretending to be greener than the rest.
The lure causing an unprovoked blemish upon this part of the planet: high-tech industry, sometimes perceived as “clean.” But underneath the sanitary veneer is a plague: the promise of quick riches.
This plague is akin to what is happening to the rest of Portland. An increasing influx of new residents is moving in, and real estate prices are going through the roof, reaching crisis proportions. That’s why construction is evident everywhere. What we are personally experiencing is not an anomaly; one of my Uber passengers calls it the “San Francisco-ization of Portland.”
Tandem Property Management sees the increasing demand for housing as a proper opportunity to raise rental rates unconscionably. When asked for justification for the disproportionate increase, its on-site manager gave a straight-faced reply, “Well, everyone else is raising their rents.”
Anyone who stays here shall bear witness to a future where a landlord ignores resident loyalty in lieu of the almighty dollar. Too bad they’re ignoring Intel Corp.’s plan to double carbon dioxide emissions across the street.
Our new apartment, though, will give a true view of Portland: a panoramic window toward the City’s westbound freeway – US-26 – notably called Sunset Highway, because in the late afternoon, driving out of town focuses drivers’ eyes onto a brilliant, blinding sunset.
We’ll be close to friends and near Portland’s Bethany neighborhood filled with energetic, mature homeowners with whom we might share congenial repartee. We’ll constantly witness the crush of automobiles heading to and from Hillsboro and points west.
Our new abode has an outstanding neighbor: a property manager by the name of Carlos, who has proved so far to be a gem. Through a few deft maneuvers as well as divine intervention, the amount of our rent increase is reasonable and, after all the toil and trouble that a move entails, offers a realistic view of the real Rose City.
Alice and I will be closer to the heart of Portland, and I will be able to write and Uber here too. We’re looking forward to the future.
All photographs by Alice McCormick.
Two recent weekend trips into pinot noir country served as a primer on savoring great wine.
Four visitor-friendly wineries were chosen at random. All appeared to put their best foot forward in welcoming curiosity seekers and gourmands with learned taste buds.
Cooper Mountain Vineyards, 20121 SW Leonardo Lane, Beaverton, demonstrated you don’t have to venture far from Portland to discover great wine. White wine devotees may find its pinot gris, chardonnay and pinot blanc to their liking, but five different pinot noirs gave my palate a complete workout.
Ranging in price from $20 to $50 a bottle, the five wines offered subtle differences that elicited reactions from “very nice” to “wow.” Seemingly unpretentious, Cooper Mountain offers a $15 five-sip tasting as well as Friday “Neighbors Nights,” where residents commune with nature and each other while enjoying music from blues, country folk and progressive rock genres.
One doesn’t become a true connoisseur without practice, though, and we found the hosts at each winery do their best not to overshadow various vintages with their refined sensibilities.
Ponzi Historic Estate, 14665 SW Winery Lane, Beaverton, seemed more commercial, albeit on an elegant scale, with pinot noirs topping out at $100 a bottle. Alice and I found their wines to be pleasant, but the spectacular architecture and décor were overwhelmingly distracting. Ponzi organizes musical soirees on Sunday evenings from 6-8 pm that feature Latin jazz, Brazilian rhythms and swing, costing $20 per person at the door.
Ponzi’s highlights are its scenic views of surrounding valleys and Italian inspired architecture. Popular with the smart set, I felt isolated from it all, wondering what it took to focus on a terrific pinot noir.
Dreams of a fine, more informal winery came true atop a mountain range at Raptor Ridge Winery, 18700 SW Hillsboro Highway, which leads south to the George Fox University-based town of Newberg.
The photo adorning the top of this post reflects the subtle grace of Raptor Ridge.
Jonathan Ziemba, Raptor Ridge’s onsite wine connoisseur, displayed a vast knowledge of fine wines. His presence adds elegance to this winery, where owners Annie and Scott Shull offer a biweekly “summer lunch series.” For $50 a person, audaciously sublime menus are prepared by renowned regional chefs known for pairing their culinary delights with the winery’s vintages.
Only 20 diners are allowed to make reservations so as to assure Raptor Ridge’s intimate ambience. An example of fine dining to be served up by Chef Irene Bonn Laney: yellow lentil dumplings with summer vegetable relish, roasted broccolini and arugula salad, lemon butter chicken with spinach and caramelized shallot couscous, topped off with carrot cake with maple cream cheese frosting.
Yum!
With visions of wine tastings running amuck, I could not end our two weeks of sampling fine wineries without a trip to Dundee. The Dundee Hills are legion for pinot noir, and we haphazardly chose the Dobbes Family Estate, 240 SE Fifth Street, for a quick tour.
Sure enough, Dobbes’ offerings are highlighted by such pinot noir as well as the Rogue Valley in Southern Oregon. The fee for a flight of wine tastings is a modest $10, and the wines range between $45 and $65. Don’t overlook the quality of pinot noir from the Rogue Valley; there’s a good reason Dobbes imports it here.
Joe Dobbes started his company in 2002, and today the company owns 214 acres of vineyards. Dobbes offers a “family circle wine club,” priced at three levels with tempting discounts on bottles of featured wines. The surroundings at Dobbes’ estate are eye-pleasing enough to be a tourist attraction, seemingly part and parcel of each winery in the area.
Yet isn’t it the wine we ultimately seek? Our outings encompassed four 4-star wineries, so it’s not premature to suspect plenty of visits await us in future years. The Willamette Valley south of Portland is rich in pinot noirs, and I hereby confirm the wayward tourist will enjoy the experience. Some of these grapes are becoming legends in our own time.
Five weeks ago, I began Ubering. I take fares to, from and around Portland, Oregon in the 2010 Ford Escape that Alice and I maintain in peak mechanical condition.
In order to drive for Uber, I was subject to an extraordinary background check. Although I have no criminal nor sex offender record, my application did not pass muster for over six months.
Why? There was a problem confirming my out-of-state driving record. Over the seven years I chauffeured upscale VIPs for limousine companies in the Philadelphia suburbs, I prided myself on a clean driving history.
After much gnashing of teeth, my Pennsylvania record was checked, and I became a bona fide Uber driver. [A company named Checkr still has problems with my clearance.] I observe Oregon’s rules of the road religiously, constantly checking for bicyclists and pedestrians while shepherding a host of passengers. I no longer wear a suit and tie, nor do I subsist on starvation wages. Heavens to Betsy, I wear jeans!
If not for Uber, the financial situation for Alice and me would have deteriorated into catastrophe. My preoccupation remains a deft juggling of available funds.
Portland’s city planning and roads appear futuristic, many with multilane turning options. Light-rail rapid transit trains for a system popularly known as the “Max” are a mainstay for commuters. Truck-driver unions are not as strong as back East, so it’s usual to find tractor-trailers on the road on Sundays and holidays.
Portland’s City Center is ringed by freeways, so where Interstates 5, 405 and 84 converge, along with the US-26 multi-lane freeway, traffic backups test the patience of usually placid Portlanders. Get in the way of a Portlander with rosy expectations of traffic patterns, and you might experience the underbelly of road rage.
Everyone here is not mellow, that’s for sure.
Before Uber made the local scene, cab companies were a disgrace. One of my downtown fares related a horror story how he tried to get his mother to the hospital for a follow-up appointment after she experienced a stroke, but with far more dire consequences than Alice’s.
After half an hour, my confidante received a phone call from the cabbie who apologized that he could not pick her up for another two hours. Two hours! Many of my passengers share similar stories of distress before Uber came to Portland.
As I told the Portland City Commission on July 15th, I don’t compete with cabbies. They’re supposed to specialize in white-knuckle drives. As a former limo driver, I keep my passengers relaxed and carefree. That’s what I like to offer as the Uber experience. “Ride with an author,” I sometimes boast.
Nevertheless, cab drivers and their companies bitterly complain about Uber. I understand their plight; they are losing money, and rightly so. With all the technological advances since popularization of the automobile, why haven’t they modernized their systems to head off future competitors?
These days, Uber is revolutionizing the way people travel around the country. Some tourists candidly tell me they would not travel to this city if Uber was not available. That’s how happy tourists are with the service. Mayor Charlie Hales and city councilors need to pay attention.
Through careful oversight of drivers for hire, cities have raised the number of fee categories in ever-burdensome licensing regulations. The maze of regulations bring in money for the general fund – and in certain cases, slush funds. Those are two revenue sources that help create opposition to Uber.
Jeb Bush saw the possibilities, though, for accentuating positive change, and as a consummate politician, he jumped all over the issue.
I can’t predict the future. I have no idea what will happen here in Portland, but I do know a lot of people will be extremely unhappy if Uber is saddled with unwelcome restrictions or kept out of the metropolitan area. Businesses outside the downtown area as well as familiar hot spots are flourishing as curious sightseers can check them out without the legacy of unreasonable delays.
Uber continues to recruit new drivers, and eventually the market may become diluted, lessening driver earnings. Nonetheless, a true revolution to transportation has been effected through the Uber cellphone app, and the San Francisco-based company now secures the financial well-being of its 160,000 freelancers, oops, “partners.”
Until a better opportunity arises, Alice’s and my future hang in the balance, along with other Uber drivers.
A funny thing happened to Alice and me while preparing a post about pinot noir wines in the Portland vicinity.
The roof caved in.
Tandem Property Management, our landlord, formally announced plans to raise our rent more than 50 percent – from $1,050 to $1,600. Before last weekend began, though, the property manager onsite promised we could lower the increase by $200 if we agree to move to a next-door remodeled apartment when our lease expires.
We salivated at the bait thrown before us, but on Monday, July 20th, as we prepared to bite into the offer, we learned an additional sizable security deposit would be required. As well, we must use professional movers to complete our end of the deal, and other contingencies were raised to destroy any hopes we might return to the apartment we dearly love.
With one hand, they offered salvation; then applying the other, Tandem took hope away.
Alice was distraught. I watched as her voice broke – almost going into tears – after she realized how empty Tandem’s offer really was. We both tried to explain the difficulty this rent increase posed to Alice’s medical recovery, but the property manager didn’t bat an eye.
The land barons of Hillsboro, who affectionately call this area the Silicon Forest because of Intel’s corporate presence, are doubling down on their perception that well-heeled geeks will flood the area. And somehow, we’re being punished for touting the Portland area on this website.
Consequently, we advise anyone attracted to move here, “Caveat emptor.” Let the buyer beware.
On Monday afternoon, we made a good-faith deposit on a different apartment just outside Hillsboro but closer to Portland. It is far away from the KinderCare location where Alice forged a bond with its toddlers and babies.
Everyone will miss one another. But we cannot stay and be tempted any longer by the mirage that an affordable apartment exists here for us and Millie, the cat.
We will have to pony up a larger security deposit than ever before to make this move. Somehow, we’ll do it, keeping in mind the following: We are merely pawns in the real estate appreciation game being played in Portland.
Some good friends stepped up and are helping Alice and me survive this change in environs. Their names: Pauletta and Terry Hoffman, and Diane and Scott Chill. The Hoffmans are inspirational cheerleaders, and the Chills led us to a suitable apartment complex where we will make our future home.
Unconscionable increases in rent are turning Portland into an unenviable place, and websites are springing up warning prospective new residents about the pitfalls here. A Google search turns up some interesting links when you key in the following phrase: “Should I move to Portland”.
You’ll see some of the bad, as well as some of the good. And for something more personal, this blog should do.
In the photo on top, I’m waving goodbye to the first-floor apartment that Alice turned into a showplace. The attractive landscaping is performed regularly by Mexican-American helpers who obey Tandem’s instructions as best they can.
In less than a month, all our possessions will be moved from the inside, and any subtle reminders denoting we lived here – including our homespun welcome mat – will be gone forever.
Here’s the good news: At our new location, we can barbecue outside on a charcoal grill.
Yes, indeed. I finally created a new page about Virgil’s life up to the time my brother Jon was born.
Here’s a link.
Do you know the meaning of the word, “unconscionable?”
That sort of thing can happen to you no matter where you live, whether it be in the money-desperate East Coast, or the fascinating ambience reputed to be exuded in Portland.
What is happening to us already is taking place in downtown Portland.
We thought we were safe, but the fast-growth city of Hillsboro, now above 95,000, appears to be vulnerable, due to our proximity to Intel Corp. The demon appeared to us surrounded by Gummi Bears that have the same false flavor as the handmade card above them.
The card read “We can’t bear to see you leave. Please stay for another year” (accompanied by an image of a teddybear).
The card and Gummi Bears, all hung by a piece of blue tape quietly placed upon our apartment’s front door prior to the Independence Day weekend, were accompanied by a faded letter that detailed a new rental price structure.
You can see those prices on our landlord’s website here.
Our floor plan matches that of the Devonshire. So the real message we received says: Alice and I have until August 25 to decide whether we can continue to stay in our apartment.
If we do, we’ll pay an additional $550 to our current $1,050 monthly rent, more than a 50 percent increase. And we must execute a 9-12-month lease to lock in that rate.
If we don’t agree to renewing our lease, we will be charged an additional $750 on top of our $1,050 – a total of $1,800 – on a month-to-month basis, effective September 1.
No wonder I was asked recently how Alice is coming along after her stroke. I expressed optimism in response, but I’m the one who is worked up into a lather.
And that’s how we got to this point. Doesn’t Tandem Property Management worry what kind of image this stroke of greed exudes while we try to pay off our medical bills?
That’s the definition of “unconscionable.”
Consequently, we are looking for a new place where Alice’s vision can take root and allow us to contribute to a city called Portland.
If you know a suitable place where the two of us can be comfortable, a cat can roam happily, and that contains congenial neighbors of different generations, drop me a line at [email protected].
We pull our fair share wherever we go, and will continue to do so. But the vibes here reek of greed.
On July 1, marijuana became a legal recreational substance in parts of Oregon, and the sky hasn’t fallen in Portland. The city is calm, and drug addicts are not running amuck.
That’s because none of the alarmists’ worries about legal weed drew more than a collective yawn from Portlanders. The only newsworthy observance took place at Portland’s Burnside Bridge as the clock struck midnight on July 1, mainly because the Oregonian newspaper encouraged a crowd of mostly well-behaved people to partake.
Portland is not the city of stoners that out-of-towners might assume it to be. Walking the hip streets at different hours allows plenty of opportunity for Alice and me to witness the sight or scent of wacky tobaccy. In over nine months here, we’ve seen nary a toking soul. Whatever pot use there is occurs in private.
Pot sales still are banned, too, at least for a few months. The only legal way to transfer wacky tobaccy from one person to another is via gift or trade. An enterprising event called Weed the People took advantage of a legal loophole Friday by charging an admission of $40. Once a ticket-holder had entered its small venue, the salivating stoner could walk up to tables and meet enterprising suppliers who gave away samples of their products.
A small area was set up outside to partake, where outsiders were blocked from view. There, fun-seekers sampled newly acquired goodies, easily exceeding a fair-market value of $100. The relatively bargain price of admission and publicity given this quasi-public event encouraged an estimated 2,000 people to jam a modest-sized venue in North Portland. A bond was struck there between sellers and purchasers.
Alice and I did not attend; instead, we were making our presence known inside the four-day Portland Blues Festival in downtown’s Tom McCall Waterfront Park. Blues fans were instructed not to bring marijuana into the park. Nevertheless, I expected to see or smell somebody’s newfound pot-smoking freedom.
But no, not one whiff. No passing around of joints. No smoke wafting from the peanut gallery.
Such a muted celebration typified the crowd response to Gregg Allman’s band on opening night: tepid. Only after a full moon rose through the two decks of the nearby Interstate-5 bridge over the Willamette River did the crowd begin to shed its apathy. Have Portlanders become jaded over the city’s reputed weirdness?
The newfound legalization finally was drummed home to spectators on Friday night. While adding a well-practiced rhythm and blues influence to New Orleans funk band Galactic, Macy Gray sought to wake up the beach-chair crowd with a new song, “Stoned.”
Gray inspired vocal approval, but only after urging members of the audience to raise their hand if they had a good experience from being stoned. About half the audience did so, giving Alice and me – finally – our first tangible evidence that Portlanders embraced the practice.
But Gray seemed annoyed. The folks in attendance had earned this legal freedom by living here. Why were they so blasé on Independence Day eve?
Gray ratified my own observation. Portlanders disdain partaking cannabis publicly. Smoking weed here is entirely a private ritual, and the old days of passing the joint seem destined to go into a time capsule as a throwback to the “good old days.”
Portland stands to benefit mightily from weed’s legalization. The Rose City is the first destination allowing legal marijuana where airline passengers are transported effortlessly between the airport and downtown without ever stepping foot in a rental car. The Max – light-rail transport – is the new-fangled futuristic vehicle to move newcomers around with some of the regular folk.
The only safe, yet legal, way for people visiting Portland who intend to partake in Oregon weed is to avoid driving. You can take the Max (also known as Tri-met) from the airport, but know the Uber scene is all the rage. You can let authorized operators of the economical ride-sharing service follow the rules of the road and give you hands-on treatment.
And know that somewhere, somehow, a group of musically adroit visiting celebrants will pass a joint around in this part of the USA to acknowledge that prosecuting pot smokers is no longer a priority. It goes beyond political correctness; it’s the right thing to do.
How can a man live as long as me without experiencing how deliciously suggestive it is to go clothes shopping with a woman?
Two weeks ago Alice and I made our way back to Portland’s 23rd Avenue. My palate enjoyed the avenue’s delights before, and I was lured back once my taste buds demanded new adventures.
We found the pizza at Escape From New York Pizza as satisfying as our first, second and more tastings. A triumph for consistency, that’s for sure. And the price of a large New York-style pie was the same as before, $20 plus $1.50 for each topping.
Not the case, though, for Kornblatt’s Delicatessen. The “authentic New York style” establishment is now owned by Daniel Sohn, and he relegated the delicious ricotta-laced cheese blintzes to a mere mention on Kornblatt’s takeout menu. In addition, Sohn raised the price for his previously featured blintzes to $8.95, up from the bargain $5 advertised in a shop banner three months ago.
I began to feel seriously bummed, but Alice and I walked over to Portland’s retail outlet of Carlsbad, California-based prAna (635 NW 23rd Ave.), which specializes in women’s and men’s leisure wear.
Alice admired a long summer dress’s color inside prAna’s display window. How appealingly unconventional it seemed.
Alice walked in as I dutifully followed. Once inside, a lithe salesperson named Meghan Callaghan sauntered up to us and unknowingly opened the portal of a fantasy world.
All of a sudden, I was encouraged to feast upon the vision of my woman wrapped inside a celebratory subtle summer dress. I had no choice but to let my mind go, and tactile bursts of sensation ignited inside my fertile brain.
A few words of explanation here. Understand that while creating, writers live alone – at least, in their heads – and I routinely disappear from Alice for hours on end while at home. I appreciate it when she wears the same garments, because routine appearance allows my mind to ponder upcoming subjects for my writing.
But inside this chic clothier, I discovered how a woman rules my world. Provocative images of how the dress with a flowing skirt would fit snugly in and about Alice overtook my gray matter, and I readily submitted.
This saleswoman Callaghan was something else, too. As she absentmindedly caressed the skirt’s fiber, I imagined doing the same, but with Alice inside of it. Callaghan was tempting me with my own woman; what a thing to do!
Is this a specialty of salespeople in apparel shops? Do they wear nothing but trendy outfits utilizing model-like swirls and twirls? Are Alice and I supposed to channel Callaghan’s desirability into our own exclusive whirlwind if I buy the dress?
What is motivating me? Is this saleswoman a specialist in giving other women the means to hypnotize would-be paramours?
Well, I bought the dress, promising to write about the experience in exchange for a substantial discount on its $80 price. The deal was made right there, and Alice left the store with a new way to bedazzle me and our friends.
I’m proud of the dress. But as a man, I’m ashamed to admit this is the first practical piece of apparel I bought for a woman. Other than shopping for Victoria Secret unmentionables, I never knew the erotic thrill attendant to buying something less explicit that the woman in my life could wear.
I guess I’m a bit of a cheapskate. Also, I’m dense. But no wonder Callaghan has become prAna’s Portland assistant manager.
She has the power to cloud men’s – and women’s – minds. And we both left Portland’s Northwest 23rd Avenue with more good memories to share.
