After an 11 month sojourn in Oregon, it's lovely to set foot in my beloved Brooklyn again. Another novel completed and so many feature articles published in the past year (a few of which have been added to this site, with links to the originals - many thanks to the staff at The Source Weekly in Bend, Oregon, including Eric Flowers, Aaron the Publisher, and many more) 2008 is shaping up to be a remarkable year; including the Republic of Georgia being invaded by Putin, Karl Rove still unindicted, and the Obama/McCain match-up more focused on flag lapels and fearmongering than the issues.
Anyway, I'll try to keep this updated but can't promise anything; another book is the works so we'll see... The audio version of my first novel "Sellout" is doing ridiculously well at www.podiobooks.com/title/sellout Download a chapter and listen for yourself!
Oh, if you're as interested in other writers as me, visit www.brooklyneagle.com and search me - over 50 of Brooklyn's best writers have been documented and/or interviewed. It's a helluva town, let's just hope it doesn't devour me whole.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Obama's Oregon
Easily the most intense and interesting assignment over the past year was covering Barack Obama's swing through Oregon in May 2008. I mentioned RFK's last visit to the state, just prior to the tragedy in L.A., and many were outraged - And then, last week, a Florida man was arrested for having plans of his own...
The original story and images may be found at:
www.tsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2822&Itemid=2
It’s 9am and the local press is anxious. It’s been 40 years since the last presidential candidate, Robert F. Kennedy, visited Central Oregon and Barack Obama will be here any minute. Gulping organic coffee and checking lenses, “Change We Can Believe In” badges pinned to our chests, the bran muffins go ignored.
Across the lot, PV Powered employees huddle together, a brisk wind keeping jackets zipped, overtime conversation close. They’re the first for Secret Service, electronic devices aside as the magic wand swipes over bodies. They enter, but we aren’t allowed: “Thank you, now stand over there – Again.”
And then the bus arrives – not Barack’s black world-tour barge but the traveling press. Reuters and NBC, bloggers, months into this morass and better equipped, CNN and ABC bring small stepladders, wear laminated badges reading “Fired Up! Ready to go!” and “Camp Pain 2008.” They sprint for the caffeine. The bran muffins still go untouched.
To my right is Jessica Slider, staring off at the three towers of the Old Mill, the Stars and Stripes swaying on high. Doing video stills and new media for the campaign since February 2007 and promoted to the plane only recently, “I feel good.” she replies when asked. Grateful that she’ll be home tomorrow, in Chicago for a well-deserved Mother’s Day off, she then she looks about nervously – as if her personal welfare isn’t approved for release. “I really shouldn’t be on the record.” she apologizes then disappears.
Moments later, I get the expected pat on the back, “Hi! Don’t I know you?”
“No.” Seeing the short, energetic man-child all too eager to know me. It’s Nick Shapiro, Oregon communications director for the Obama campaign. Jessica did the requisite handoff; Nick wants to be on the record.
“The Clinton campaign said that North Carolina would be a game-changer, and it was...” offers he, rapid-firing the official line, “After that this game has moved to Oregon – We’re 33 pledged delegates away. This is a race of change: The Future versus the Past. What you need to know, not what you want to hear.” Nick’s solid, I’m scribbling like it’s the Ten Commandments.
There’s a sudden excitement. “He’s five minutes out…” says someone and the Secret Service does final checks on the building, opening doors, closing them, one last walk around PV Powered. Bomb- and/or bong-sniffing German Shepherd panting in the shade. The black bus at last arrives.
Wait for it... Him: Don’t blink, in a flash Barack Obama is whisked inside.
Cameras click as CEO Gregg Patterson and President Glenn Harris welcome the Illinois Senator to PV Powered. Light blue and white striped shirt with dark slacks, Obama is remarkably at ease. Interested in solar inverters, PV Powered’s product line – A question, too distant to be heard, curiosity, then an explanation, demonstration, as select employees assemble and others peer through a sliding window into the main factory. His back to us, disregarding clicking cameras and digital recorders, he is here for them. One hand on a worker’s shoulder, the other gives a firm shake, “Thanks for the good work. I hope you vote for me.”
We’re merely snooping. Racing between bay doors as the hands-on tour inside continues, the talk among the traveling press is replete with rumor. That Hillary left a bunch of kids outside at an earlier Oregon event, cold and shivering during the photo-op. That the tone has changed, Obama is now focused on McCain but won’t dismiss Clinton. A loan to settle her campaign’s staggering $20 million debt (including over $11 million she has loaned herself) may be in the works. Maybe her as vice president, but Bill Richardson is being a good ally... Anything to soothe supporters and unify against McCain in November.
Reporters are a gossipy bunch, hearing the same speeches, real scoops rare, and Athena Jones is perhaps the most jaded. “Make sure you call it beautiful Bend!” she recommends, partly in jest, as another reporter sighs, “What else will he say? Solar power is bad?” A blogger for NBC, Athena left the Clinton campaign two weeks ago to join the Obama junket; her Blackberry screen is cracked and she recalls Brooklyn as home.
“It’s more relaxed.” is her perceived difference between the two campaigns. “There’s less spin here.”
We’re all tired of spin. Of one candidate being called unelectable when neither can close the deal. Deniable whispers about Obama being Muslim, even after his (Christian) Reverend’s uproar. Hillary’s “white supporters” unwilling to vote for the biracial Barack. Friday’s news that another of McCain’s lobbyist pals/staffers has been linked to another dubious land deal. Voters at the whim of the cycle, leaks, important issues usurped by ten-second clips... The message – why we should vote for or against this person – is too easily lost.
Then Barack Obama exits the building and steps to the podium. After thanking the managers and employees of PV Powered, and noting that “our microphone today is partially-powered by solar energy...” the Senator lauds that this “is truly a workshop of the future. Places like this are part of the reason that Oregon is such a leader on clean energy. And this is an election where we have a chance to finally have a President that shows that same kind of leadership.”
The door has been kicked open and an attack follows: On Cheney’s energy policy, two meetings with environmental groups and forty with energy companies and lobbyists, failed leadership over eight years, an unending war. Obama speaks for only a few minutes but his strategy through November is obvious:
A vote for McCain is a vote for another four years of Bush.
Any questions? The traveling press gets the first nod, and each tries to corner the candidate, hoping for a gaffe on an absurd question: Did Hamas endorse him? Is McCain’s connection to the Keating Five fair game? Who’s more patriotic? Will he attend church tomorrow? But Obama won’t bite; he instead focuses on the future, beating McCain foremost.
“I think it’s going to have to do with who has a plan to provide relief to people when it comes to their gas prices. Who has a real plan to make sure that everyone has health insurance? Who has a real plan to deal with college affordability? Who can help American families live out their dreams? And so, rather than an abstract set of questions about is he too liberal? Is he too conservative? How do voters handle an African-American, et cetera... I think this is going to be a very concrete contest around very specific plans for how we improve the lives of Americans and our vision for the future. And that’s the debate I’m going to welcome.”
Oregon’s ballot initiative process and medical marijuana get their due. “If we’re going to prescribe medical marijuana for patients, it should done by doctors and not something people casually say, ‘Hey, here, this might help...’ But I have no interest in seeing our Justice Department spend its limited time and resources challenging state laws the people of Oregon have thought through and ratified, rather than hunting terrorists or cracking down on those who are doing wrong to our fellow U.S. citizens.”
Counting the delegates of Florida and Michigan, Clinton’s candidacy, are still open questions. And then came mine: Given soaring gas and food prices, and projections that the corn harvest will be 7% lower than last year, at what point would he suspend the use of ethanol?
“I have been a champion of ethanol over the past. I come from a corn-growing state. And I’ve said before, and I continue to believe, that we must develop alternatives to fossil fuels.”
His answer isn’t surprising – Obama and all candidates cater to farmers, especially with Iowa the first caucus – but it was his stare that struck me, both as an alternative reporter and independent voter.
“What I’ve also said is that corn-based ethanol I see as a transitional technology. We have to shift to cellulosic ethanol using non-food sources to develop energy sources. I’ve proposed in my energy plan to significantly increase the investment in other strategies for alternative fuel: switch grass, wood chips and so forth.”
Eyes directly on mine, not looking away, engaging while answering; no subtle twitch, hand to face nor side to reveal any discomfort in his position.
“It is not clear to me that – and I don’t think it’s been definitely shown – that the use of ethanol is the biggest contributor to rising food prices. But the one thing I will say is if, at some point, we have to choose between making sure millions of people get adequate nutrition and energy policy, that I always want to make sure that people have enough to eat. And I think that’s both a moral and a strategic imperative for the United States.”
A fair answer. Yet unnerving delivery: The person running for the most important office in the world held my gaze throughout, intent, believing every word, whole and heartfelt. After eight years of George W. Bush playing the fool while his administration undermines the environment and basic human rights, injects religion and partisanship into inherently secular institutions, slights science, invades Iraq, squanders trillions of national treasure and international goodwill... Instead of making a joke or offering another fall guy (Libby, Tenet, Gonzales et al) Obama looks you in the eye.
It was then that the psychological damage of the past eight years became all too clear. Thoreau said it best: “I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?”
Is Obama awake? He certainly believes what he says, and the message he has for America isn’t all rosy; there is work to be done, tax cuts and corporate gifts bygone. Even Obama later acknowledged that his $150 billion alternative energy initiative, touted as paying for itself through the selling of emission credits to polluters, may cost Americans more, as energy companies pass investment into cleaner technologies onto us. Still, when’s the last time a candidate asked for our help? Forty years or longer? Look what happened to them – How far will the establishment go to silence someone looking you in the eye and speaking the truth?
As the press conference ended and the candidate kneeled to pose with PV Powered’s employees for a picture, I still struggled with perception versus this person. Has he changed or have we? Obama was a rockstar months only ago, the fresh face that tens of thousands packed stadiums to see, the icon of the most people-powered campaign in history, with over 1.3 million individual donors and 45% of them giving $200 or less. In total, he’s raised around $240 million through March 2008, three times the amount raised by John McCain.
Still, several defeats later and momentum slowed by his “bitter” and other remarks by his Reverend coming home to roost, Obama stands at the precipice. Virtually tied with Hillary for superdelegates and around 150 total delegates away from the nomination after West Virginia, he’s been vetted and tested, toughened. Hillary still believes she has a chance. Though anyone running the tables by winning 75% of the total remaining votes (Oregon’s included) is a long shot. Barring catastrophe – caught shooting sea lions or kissing Louis Farrakhan – Barack Obama will be the Democratic nominee for president. And only then will the true toll of this extended race become clear.
Summit High School was the last stop for the Obama campaign’s latest swing through Oregon. “Living in America” by James Brown blasted in a gymnasium packed with Bendittes eager to see the candidate for the first time.
And so Obama entered to a standing ovation – the first of six. Shaking hands and seeming to float across the gym floor to the podium, grabbing the microphone and saying how nice it is “To be east of the mountains. You have some pretty real estate out here. I wanna stick around – Who’s gonna teach me fishing?”
The standing-room-only crowd ate it up. Skewering McCain as another four years of Bush within seconds and not mentioning his sole competitor for the Democratic nomination until the 11th minute, Obama spoke for 29 total before declaring:
“I can promise you this. If you give me the opportunity, when I’m president I will tell you what I think...I will always be honest with you about the challenges that we face. I will always listen to you, even when we disagree – Even Michelle and I disagree...”
Confidently striding around the stage, catching the eyes of hundreds – He’s here for them – Obama simply couldn’t help himself:
“But most importantly, I’m going to spend every single day in that White House waking up and thinking, ‘How can I make the lives of people in Bend, Oregon a little better?’”
When Clinton and McCain talk gas-tax holidays it’s pandering, when Obama says such things he’s being playful. A roar, another ovation, Bend is Obama’s to lose. He’s already out-raised Hillary 5-1 locally, and Democrats are outpacing Republicans in fundraising throughout Central Oregon.
The questions from the audience were standard, as were his answers. One on nuclear power, answered: “We don’t know how to store the waste, and safety concerns – terrorist attacks. Show me a way and I’ll consider it.” Another about counting Florida’s delegates, followed by why the United Nations is ineffective in addressing situations like Darfur – “Iraq has given U.S. intervention a bad name.” He then contrasted the cost of not working with others, given $20 billion for the First Gulf War and the second topping $600 billion.
A question about student loans was framed by the Obama couple’s $100,000-plus in loans after they graduated law school, offering Barack a chance to explain his proposal for $4,000 per student per year as a voucher, with community or Peace Corps service afterward as a condition. Ovation! The final question on free trade agreements was answered with the campaign adage “They’re good for Wall Street, but not so good for Main Street.” And, then, it was over.And, then, it was over.
“Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” boomed as Obama exited, shaking hands, signing his books, holding and kissing a newborn, taking a wide circle to ensure that everyone got a chance to see him. And he, them. Out the door with one last wave and off to the airport, back home for Mother’s Day, the reformer from Chicago, the Democratic Party’s presumptive nominee for President – Barring a backroom deal. Or catastrophe, like Bobby two weeks after he left Central Oregon 40 years ago.
The original story and images may be found at:
www.tsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2822&Itemid=2
It’s 9am and the local press is anxious. It’s been 40 years since the last presidential candidate, Robert F. Kennedy, visited Central Oregon and Barack Obama will be here any minute. Gulping organic coffee and checking lenses, “Change We Can Believe In” badges pinned to our chests, the bran muffins go ignored.
Across the lot, PV Powered employees huddle together, a brisk wind keeping jackets zipped, overtime conversation close. They’re the first for Secret Service, electronic devices aside as the magic wand swipes over bodies. They enter, but we aren’t allowed: “Thank you, now stand over there – Again.”
And then the bus arrives – not Barack’s black world-tour barge but the traveling press. Reuters and NBC, bloggers, months into this morass and better equipped, CNN and ABC bring small stepladders, wear laminated badges reading “Fired Up! Ready to go!” and “Camp Pain 2008.” They sprint for the caffeine. The bran muffins still go untouched.
To my right is Jessica Slider, staring off at the three towers of the Old Mill, the Stars and Stripes swaying on high. Doing video stills and new media for the campaign since February 2007 and promoted to the plane only recently, “I feel good.” she replies when asked. Grateful that she’ll be home tomorrow, in Chicago for a well-deserved Mother’s Day off, she then she looks about nervously – as if her personal welfare isn’t approved for release. “I really shouldn’t be on the record.” she apologizes then disappears.
Moments later, I get the expected pat on the back, “Hi! Don’t I know you?”
“No.” Seeing the short, energetic man-child all too eager to know me. It’s Nick Shapiro, Oregon communications director for the Obama campaign. Jessica did the requisite handoff; Nick wants to be on the record.
“The Clinton campaign said that North Carolina would be a game-changer, and it was...” offers he, rapid-firing the official line, “After that this game has moved to Oregon – We’re 33 pledged delegates away. This is a race of change: The Future versus the Past. What you need to know, not what you want to hear.” Nick’s solid, I’m scribbling like it’s the Ten Commandments.
There’s a sudden excitement. “He’s five minutes out…” says someone and the Secret Service does final checks on the building, opening doors, closing them, one last walk around PV Powered. Bomb- and/or bong-sniffing German Shepherd panting in the shade. The black bus at last arrives.
Wait for it... Him: Don’t blink, in a flash Barack Obama is whisked inside.
Cameras click as CEO Gregg Patterson and President Glenn Harris welcome the Illinois Senator to PV Powered. Light blue and white striped shirt with dark slacks, Obama is remarkably at ease. Interested in solar inverters, PV Powered’s product line – A question, too distant to be heard, curiosity, then an explanation, demonstration, as select employees assemble and others peer through a sliding window into the main factory. His back to us, disregarding clicking cameras and digital recorders, he is here for them. One hand on a worker’s shoulder, the other gives a firm shake, “Thanks for the good work. I hope you vote for me.”
We’re merely snooping. Racing between bay doors as the hands-on tour inside continues, the talk among the traveling press is replete with rumor. That Hillary left a bunch of kids outside at an earlier Oregon event, cold and shivering during the photo-op. That the tone has changed, Obama is now focused on McCain but won’t dismiss Clinton. A loan to settle her campaign’s staggering $20 million debt (including over $11 million she has loaned herself) may be in the works. Maybe her as vice president, but Bill Richardson is being a good ally... Anything to soothe supporters and unify against McCain in November.
Reporters are a gossipy bunch, hearing the same speeches, real scoops rare, and Athena Jones is perhaps the most jaded. “Make sure you call it beautiful Bend!” she recommends, partly in jest, as another reporter sighs, “What else will he say? Solar power is bad?” A blogger for NBC, Athena left the Clinton campaign two weeks ago to join the Obama junket; her Blackberry screen is cracked and she recalls Brooklyn as home.
“It’s more relaxed.” is her perceived difference between the two campaigns. “There’s less spin here.”
We’re all tired of spin. Of one candidate being called unelectable when neither can close the deal. Deniable whispers about Obama being Muslim, even after his (Christian) Reverend’s uproar. Hillary’s “white supporters” unwilling to vote for the biracial Barack. Friday’s news that another of McCain’s lobbyist pals/staffers has been linked to another dubious land deal. Voters at the whim of the cycle, leaks, important issues usurped by ten-second clips... The message – why we should vote for or against this person – is too easily lost.
Then Barack Obama exits the building and steps to the podium. After thanking the managers and employees of PV Powered, and noting that “our microphone today is partially-powered by solar energy...” the Senator lauds that this “is truly a workshop of the future. Places like this are part of the reason that Oregon is such a leader on clean energy. And this is an election where we have a chance to finally have a President that shows that same kind of leadership.”
The door has been kicked open and an attack follows: On Cheney’s energy policy, two meetings with environmental groups and forty with energy companies and lobbyists, failed leadership over eight years, an unending war. Obama speaks for only a few minutes but his strategy through November is obvious:
A vote for McCain is a vote for another four years of Bush.
Any questions? The traveling press gets the first nod, and each tries to corner the candidate, hoping for a gaffe on an absurd question: Did Hamas endorse him? Is McCain’s connection to the Keating Five fair game? Who’s more patriotic? Will he attend church tomorrow? But Obama won’t bite; he instead focuses on the future, beating McCain foremost.
“I think it’s going to have to do with who has a plan to provide relief to people when it comes to their gas prices. Who has a real plan to make sure that everyone has health insurance? Who has a real plan to deal with college affordability? Who can help American families live out their dreams? And so, rather than an abstract set of questions about is he too liberal? Is he too conservative? How do voters handle an African-American, et cetera... I think this is going to be a very concrete contest around very specific plans for how we improve the lives of Americans and our vision for the future. And that’s the debate I’m going to welcome.”
Oregon’s ballot initiative process and medical marijuana get their due. “If we’re going to prescribe medical marijuana for patients, it should done by doctors and not something people casually say, ‘Hey, here, this might help...’ But I have no interest in seeing our Justice Department spend its limited time and resources challenging state laws the people of Oregon have thought through and ratified, rather than hunting terrorists or cracking down on those who are doing wrong to our fellow U.S. citizens.”
Counting the delegates of Florida and Michigan, Clinton’s candidacy, are still open questions. And then came mine: Given soaring gas and food prices, and projections that the corn harvest will be 7% lower than last year, at what point would he suspend the use of ethanol?
“I have been a champion of ethanol over the past. I come from a corn-growing state. And I’ve said before, and I continue to believe, that we must develop alternatives to fossil fuels.”
His answer isn’t surprising – Obama and all candidates cater to farmers, especially with Iowa the first caucus – but it was his stare that struck me, both as an alternative reporter and independent voter.
“What I’ve also said is that corn-based ethanol I see as a transitional technology. We have to shift to cellulosic ethanol using non-food sources to develop energy sources. I’ve proposed in my energy plan to significantly increase the investment in other strategies for alternative fuel: switch grass, wood chips and so forth.”
Eyes directly on mine, not looking away, engaging while answering; no subtle twitch, hand to face nor side to reveal any discomfort in his position.
“It is not clear to me that – and I don’t think it’s been definitely shown – that the use of ethanol is the biggest contributor to rising food prices. But the one thing I will say is if, at some point, we have to choose between making sure millions of people get adequate nutrition and energy policy, that I always want to make sure that people have enough to eat. And I think that’s both a moral and a strategic imperative for the United States.”
A fair answer. Yet unnerving delivery: The person running for the most important office in the world held my gaze throughout, intent, believing every word, whole and heartfelt. After eight years of George W. Bush playing the fool while his administration undermines the environment and basic human rights, injects religion and partisanship into inherently secular institutions, slights science, invades Iraq, squanders trillions of national treasure and international goodwill... Instead of making a joke or offering another fall guy (Libby, Tenet, Gonzales et al) Obama looks you in the eye.
It was then that the psychological damage of the past eight years became all too clear. Thoreau said it best: “I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?”
Is Obama awake? He certainly believes what he says, and the message he has for America isn’t all rosy; there is work to be done, tax cuts and corporate gifts bygone. Even Obama later acknowledged that his $150 billion alternative energy initiative, touted as paying for itself through the selling of emission credits to polluters, may cost Americans more, as energy companies pass investment into cleaner technologies onto us. Still, when’s the last time a candidate asked for our help? Forty years or longer? Look what happened to them – How far will the establishment go to silence someone looking you in the eye and speaking the truth?
As the press conference ended and the candidate kneeled to pose with PV Powered’s employees for a picture, I still struggled with perception versus this person. Has he changed or have we? Obama was a rockstar months only ago, the fresh face that tens of thousands packed stadiums to see, the icon of the most people-powered campaign in history, with over 1.3 million individual donors and 45% of them giving $200 or less. In total, he’s raised around $240 million through March 2008, three times the amount raised by John McCain.
Still, several defeats later and momentum slowed by his “bitter” and other remarks by his Reverend coming home to roost, Obama stands at the precipice. Virtually tied with Hillary for superdelegates and around 150 total delegates away from the nomination after West Virginia, he’s been vetted and tested, toughened. Hillary still believes she has a chance. Though anyone running the tables by winning 75% of the total remaining votes (Oregon’s included) is a long shot. Barring catastrophe – caught shooting sea lions or kissing Louis Farrakhan – Barack Obama will be the Democratic nominee for president. And only then will the true toll of this extended race become clear.
Summit High School was the last stop for the Obama campaign’s latest swing through Oregon. “Living in America” by James Brown blasted in a gymnasium packed with Bendittes eager to see the candidate for the first time.
And so Obama entered to a standing ovation – the first of six. Shaking hands and seeming to float across the gym floor to the podium, grabbing the microphone and saying how nice it is “To be east of the mountains. You have some pretty real estate out here. I wanna stick around – Who’s gonna teach me fishing?”
The standing-room-only crowd ate it up. Skewering McCain as another four years of Bush within seconds and not mentioning his sole competitor for the Democratic nomination until the 11th minute, Obama spoke for 29 total before declaring:
“I can promise you this. If you give me the opportunity, when I’m president I will tell you what I think...I will always be honest with you about the challenges that we face. I will always listen to you, even when we disagree – Even Michelle and I disagree...”
Confidently striding around the stage, catching the eyes of hundreds – He’s here for them – Obama simply couldn’t help himself:
“But most importantly, I’m going to spend every single day in that White House waking up and thinking, ‘How can I make the lives of people in Bend, Oregon a little better?’”
When Clinton and McCain talk gas-tax holidays it’s pandering, when Obama says such things he’s being playful. A roar, another ovation, Bend is Obama’s to lose. He’s already out-raised Hillary 5-1 locally, and Democrats are outpacing Republicans in fundraising throughout Central Oregon.
The questions from the audience were standard, as were his answers. One on nuclear power, answered: “We don’t know how to store the waste, and safety concerns – terrorist attacks. Show me a way and I’ll consider it.” Another about counting Florida’s delegates, followed by why the United Nations is ineffective in addressing situations like Darfur – “Iraq has given U.S. intervention a bad name.” He then contrasted the cost of not working with others, given $20 billion for the First Gulf War and the second topping $600 billion.
A question about student loans was framed by the Obama couple’s $100,000-plus in loans after they graduated law school, offering Barack a chance to explain his proposal for $4,000 per student per year as a voucher, with community or Peace Corps service afterward as a condition. Ovation! The final question on free trade agreements was answered with the campaign adage “They’re good for Wall Street, but not so good for Main Street.” And, then, it was over.And, then, it was over.
“Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” boomed as Obama exited, shaking hands, signing his books, holding and kissing a newborn, taking a wide circle to ensure that everyone got a chance to see him. And he, them. Out the door with one last wave and off to the airport, back home for Mother’s Day, the reformer from Chicago, the Democratic Party’s presumptive nominee for President – Barring a backroom deal. Or catastrophe, like Bobby two weeks after he left Central Oregon 40 years ago.
"Armed In Oregon"
Originally appearing in The Source Weekly in Bend, Oregon, "Armed in Oregon" (aka "Pistol Whipped") received heated attention and many moans from the NRA.
To view the myriad comments, visit the original story at:
www.tsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=3006&Itemid=66
You’ve just arrived at work, interested in coffee more than conversation, and a coworker enters, setting her purse down - BOOM! A gun explodes, bullet flies, nearly hitting you – Where are you? The sheriff’s office, where everyone is armed? A rural factory where busting-off a few rounds after work isn’t uncommon? No, you’re a nurse at St. Charles Medical Center and this actually happened a little over one month ago. No one was injured and the incident went unpublicized, but the nurse with the concealed handgun is no longer employed at the hospital. Everyone knows why.
She brought a ballistic umbrella in case of rain.
Others are doing the same and, at the Deschutes County Sheriff’s office, dozens of citizens are attending classes to exercise their 2nd Amendment Right. There’s another right that’s not being talked about, at least not in concealed carry classes, and that is the public’s right to know if your coworkers and neighbors are carrying a gun under their coat or in their handbag. It’s a pretty well-established right in other places where law enforcement folks acknowledge that information isn’t covered by exemptions to public records laws. But not in Oregon. Here sheriffs, including our own, are testing their right to withhold that information while at the same time dolling out permits by the dozen.
“What is the purpose of seeking a Concealed Handgun License?” asks Sergeant Dan Bilyeu, 50 years old, solidly built with short dark hair and friendly blue eyes; a handgun rests comfortably at his side. A few hands come up among the 35 or so attending the Concealed Handgun License (CHL) class Sergeant Bilyeu is leading.
“For myself, for personal protection,” answers a man in his late twenties. He is clean cut, wearing a blue polo and intense expression. “When I go camping with my family I want to take my gun along and not worry about always having it in view.”
The woman sitting down the table from me has platinum blonde hair, red acrylic nails and bracelets that jangle on her wrists as she offers, “I go riding in the mountains a lot, alone.”
A couple in their early-30s sits together in the front row; the male half speaks first, “To keep myself out of trouble.” He is wearing a thick plaid coat and a baseball hat that shields his eyes from where I sit, but his smile is unmistakable as he adds, “I carry my gun in my pickup and sometimes forget to have it in the open.” The female half of the couple nods then tenders, “Personal protection for me, I would rather be proactive than reactive, and I’ve been in situations where I felt threatened.” She is thin and strawberry blonde, wearing a turquoise top. As the class continues, three hours locked in the Deschutes County Sheriff’s office, these two will come to dominate the audience participation portion.
Skipping through several frames of his PowerPoint presentation, Sergeant Bilyeu comes to the “Exemptions” page. Clearly addressing the main demographic in the room – two long rows of Caucasian males in the rear – he makes it clear that a valid hunting or fishing license allows you to carry a concealed handgun as long as you are on your way to or from a sporting event. Pausing, he then jokes, “There’s a smell test associated with this exemption.”
Other exemptions include recreational vehicles (which are considered residences) and horses (as long as the handgun is in the saddlebag, not readily accessible) but a horse is not considered a vehicle. Also, hiding a handgun to avoid theft is not illegal. Subjectivity reigns, as reinforced by Sergeant Bilyeu: There is a dichotomy between the spirit and intent of the law. However subjective, Sergeant Bilyeu urges the class to comply with any reasonable requests that an officer may make.
This much is clear: Even if you have a CHL, you can’t carry a weapon into a Federal building, court, or post office. CHLs are state-issued, and Federal law trumps Oregon. “Concealed handgun licenses are flagged on your driver’s license,” Sergeant Bilyeu states, then stresses, “Does everyone understand this?”
In my mind, this is the turning point of the class. We are about to move from a factual presentation, conceal and carry law and exemptions, to a presentation of licensee rights. Reminiscent of 2nd Amendment entitlements, the one thing lacking is a reality check: Simply because one signed up and attended this class, is he or she proficient and responsible with his or her firearm? We’ll never know; three hours of class for $25, then $65 to apply for a CHL – but no written or shooting range test, hands-on demonstrations, nor real-life scenarios other than oral. $90 in total fees, a PowerPoint presentation, then a thorough criminal history check – That’s what is required to obtain a CHL in Deschutes County, Oregon.
“We’re not worried about the people that went through the formal training and jumped through the hoops. It’s the people that didn’t,” Sergeant Paul Garrison will tell me later.
Oregon is one of 36 “shall-issue” states, meaning that a CHL will be issued to an individual without discretion if this class is attended, fees paid, and prior felonies and other red flags (recent restraining orders etc.) aren’t found during the criminal background check. Among the majority of states, Oregon’s “shall-issue” status is at odds with nine other “may-issue” states that use discretion on a case-by-case basis before issuing a CHL. Only Wisconsin and Illinois don’t have any form of concealed-carry licensing, though Wisconsin allows “open carry” in most situations and Illinois in rural areas. The 2nd Amendment right to have a firearm is now being reaffirmed in our nation’s capital, with Washington D.C.’s 30-year ban overturned by the Supreme Court last week in a 5-4 decision. Meanwhile, Vermont is the most lax when it comes to carrying a gun, allowing residents and visitors to conceal whenever, wherever, for whatever reason. Yet Vermont is also consistently rated as one of the “safest sates” in the U.S, explaining why it is the poster-child for proponents of CHLs.
Chad Ramsey, Senior Associate Director of State Legislation and Politics for The Brady Campaign, told me over the phone, “Oregon has a long way to go in enacting sensible gun laws. Oregon simply doesn’t do a good enough job in making sure people who shouldn’t have guns don’t get them.”
Once a debate over Federal vs. State laws and regulations, gun ownership is an individual’s right, as underscored by the Supreme Court decision overturning of the ban on firearms in Washington D.C. State controls over CHLs are minimal, limited to background checks and flagging of drivers’ licenses; Deschutes County Sheriff Larry Blanton may offer whatever programs he wants – including forgoing an actual shooting test. He also gets to decide whether you can find out if your neighbor, your coworker or the guy sitting next to you in traffic is carrying a gun under his jacket.
The Source filed a State Public Records request to obtain this information and received a letter from Sheriff Blanton in response, which states that the “exact number of permits currently issued in Deschutes County is 6,671. There have been 84 concealed handgun license permits denied or revoked in 2006/2007.” Adding that “Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office declines to disclose to you the names and addresses of concealed handgun licensees pursuant to the State Public records law.” We then turned to the Oregon State Police, who were much more forthcoming.
Congratulations, Deschutes County! We are the most pistol-packing county in Oregon! 2.7% of Oregonians have CHLs (101,642 total statewide) while 4.1% of Deschutes County residents do. Multnomah County has the most CHLs, 10,590, but per capita, only 1.8% of its residents have CHLs. Sherman County exceeds Deschutes County in CHLs per capita, 4.7% vs. 4.1%, but Sherman County’s 1,855 total residents with 89 CHLs couldn’t hold us off for long. Another interesting discovery while digging into CHLs are discrepancies between state vs. county records – The Oregon State Police showed 6,156 CHLs issued in Deschutes County as of Thursday, June 26, 2008, while Sheriff Blanton’s letter, dated June 24, 2008, shows 6,671. Since 84 CHLs have been “denied or revoked” in 2006/2007, the discrepancy of 515 CHLs is rather difficult to explain.
If Deschutes County has 515 CHLs issued that the State Police are unaware of, for whatever reason, and Sheriff Blanton won’t release the names and addresses of those with CHLs, how do we know? Will we only know when too late? Road rage, a domestic dispute, don’t we have the right to know who’s packing? Our Sheriff “declines to disclose” this public information, so we’ll just have to wait, hope. Until a gun goes off…
Sheriff Blanton has other reasons for not disclosing the names, despite the law and our official Public Records request. Reached by phone, Sheriff Blanton explained his rationale for refusal, citing concerns such as the possibility of home invasion and identity theft, saying, “I don’t see any good that would come from releasing names and addresses of CHL holders.”
But, when asked about the 6,671 CHL holders in Deschutes County, Sheriff Blanton prefaced his answer with “Knock on wood,” then afforded, “We haven’t had any issue with anyone trying to affect an arrest as a CHL holder.”
Sheriff Blanton couldn’t fully explain the discrepancy between his number of CHLs and the Oregon State Police’s, saying only that Deschutes County takes 30-40 applications a month and time time to get the information to the state. Also, the number changes routinely, due to revocations after arrests, etc. Still this doesn’t explain Sheriff Blanton’s office reporting 515 more CHLs for Deschutes County than the State Police are aware of – Given 30-40 applications and a total of 84 revoked or denied CHLs since 2006, it would take nearly two years for the Sheriff’s and State Police’s numbers to synch.
Nonetheless, Sheriff Blanton supports the CHL training. “People are going to own handguns anyway, and the class is a good way for us to tell people about the law and gun safety.”
Image
If our Sheriff’s reasons to refuse to release CHL information and differing statistics behind CHLs confuse, maybe outrage, so too do indiscriminate policies. “Local control” may have cost Oregon 2 points on The Brady Campaign’s scorecard, but it remains a hotbutton issue in the bigger battle over gun rights and CHLs.
Consider the case of Shirley Katz, a teacher at South Medford High School with a CHL, who made national headlines last fall when she insisted on bringing her Glock 9mm handgun to school. Her ex-husband, Gerry Katz, has denied acting violently towards her and says he isn’t a threat to her or students, but Shirley got a restraining order and continues to insist that she needs her Glock. The school district has a policy against concealed firearms, though, and Ms. Katz was notified of possible disciplinary actions or termination of her employment as a teacher if she continued carrying. So she sued; the case hit the press and created a firestorm around the right to carry a concealed handgun in schools. Debating whether the district’s banning of concealed firearms in schools was mere “policy” (thus overridden by Oregon CHL laws) or an actual “ordinance,” Jackson County Circuit Court Judge G. Phillip Arnold denied Katz’s preliminary injunction against the Medford School District on November 9, 2007.
In deciding and arguing as such, Judge Arnold sidestepped the bigger debate over CHLs. State vs. Federal, 2nd Amendment rights of individuals vs. overall public safety. Ms. Katz is appealing the decision, as is Sheriff Mike Winters, who lost his attempt to refuse to release the names of CHL holders in Jackson County to The Mail Trubune. Still Katz cites that he restraining order against her ex-husband has lapsed and hints at a much larger argument for her appeal: Forget school policy vs. state law and the definition of “ordinance.” Instead focus on fear. Calls to Ms. Katz weren’t returned as of press-time, but she framed her new argument in an interview with the Associated Press in March 2008: “Since my case first emerged, we’ve seen six or seven more cases where students were either wounded or injured or killed. It hasn’t stopped. It’s not going to stop until security at school becomes a priority.”
Where Ms. Katz got her statistics from remains in question, but she has made powerful new allies. Ms. Katz at least went through classes (in a Sheriff’s office no less, hardly the preferred meeting place for serial killers and violent persons intent on a rampage) paid the fees and had a criminal background check before being issued a CHL. Her appeal won’t be heard for months but, given the Supreme Court’s new precedent for gun ownership in Washington D.C., she will probably be packing by the fall.
If I had brought my umbrella today it wouldn’t have rained.
That’s the argument being made by proponents of CHLs and less gun control. Essentially, in order to stop another Columbine or Virginia Tech shooting rampage, we need a well-armed populace: If one citizen with a gun was there, they argue, that other citizen with a gun would have been stopped. Hypothetical at best, such arguments are, quite frankly, as silly as others pro-gun groups try to make.
“Fact Sheet: Guns Save Lives” on www.gunowners.com offers a cacophony of arguments against gun control. “A citizen in the Sunshine State is far more likely to be attacked by an alligator than to be assaulted by a concealed carry holder.” and “Armed citizens kill more crooks than do police.” Using stats both dated and deceptive, far-right pro-gun groups depend on the abstract. And fear. Rape is a calling cry, as well as “anti-gun Clinton researchers concede that guns are used 1.5 million times for self-defense.”
But there are facts that these groups fail to mention. Like how violent crime has been falling for a decade, with minor, recent blips, and another 1.4% decrease in 2007, according the FBI report released on June 9, 2008. Nor do they mention Mark Wilson of Tyler, Texas, a citizen with a CHL, who ended up dead after trying to stop a shooter outside a courthouse. The battle over gun rights may be more local, individual, but pro-gun groups are now going international. Earlier this year a gunman attacked students at Jerusalem’s Mercaz Harav Seminary and an enrollee with a licensed handgun, Yitzhak Dadon, shot the assailant, ending the melee and a possible bloodbath.
“Yitzhak Dadon is a hero,” offered Alan Gottlieb in a press release as chairman of the Citizens Committee for the Right to Keep and Bear Arms (CCRKBA), followed by the rather ridiculous, “What a pity someone like Mr. Dadon was not in class last April at Virginia Tech. What a tragedy that anti-gun extremism would keep him from attending class at Northern Illinois University. He would never be allowed to teach at Columbine High School, hold a job at Trolley Square in Salt Lake City, or go shopping at Omaha’s Westroads Mall.”
Yes, you heard Mr. Gottleid right: One student in Jerusalem shot a gunman so five rampages could have been stopped in America – if not for “anti-gun extremism.”
Back in Bend, discharging a firearm is banned. This dates back decades but the original, rigid language “No person other than an authorized peace officer shall fire or discharge any gun or other weapon...” has been relaxed over the years. In 1990 the ordinance was amended to include two new caveats: “It shall be a defense to a prosecution... that the person was acting in defense of life or property...” and that “the person was test firing or discharging the weapon, as a necessary part of the person’s lawful business operations, at a firing range...” Essentially, it’s a Class A misdemeanor to discharge a weapon, unless defending your life or property, or discharging a weapon...
CHLs make holders exempt from such city ordinances state-wide, however ambiguous. And it is the proof of training element – fulfilled by the three-hour class with Sergeant Bilyeu – which makes this possible. This exemption also extends to policies that prohibit firearms in public buildings and schools. Except South Medford High School, it seems. Our CHL class being held in a county building only adds to the ambiguity – Though there is a clear sign upon entering stating that the possession of firearms is prohibited, it isn't enforceable to those with CHLs.
“I trust you guys with this information,” Sergeant Bilyeu says to us in summation, offering advice on transporting a concealed weapon once we are licensed to do so. He urges us to buy a holster with a secure clip, and discourages fanny packs or purses that can be easily forgotten on the back of a chair at a restaurant or movie theatre. There is liability and responsibility that comes with the CHL, that’s the closing message.
And it’s over, a CHL commencement of sorts. All 35 of us can now pay $65 and apply for a CHL, be legally carrying a concealed firearm in a month or so, assuming we pass the criminal background check. So we left, into the quiet night, somewhat ready to carry an umbrella in case of rain.
In Oregon, efforts to keep criminals and other dangerous people from “easily obtaining guns” continue to disappoint. The Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence does an annual scorecard of states’ performance based on five categories. Of the total 100 points available Oregon earned only 18: 0 points for the “Child Safety” category (requiring locks, preventing juvenile purchases etc.) and 0 points for “Ban Military Style Assault Weapons.” Without a ballot initiative to close the gun show loophole in 2000 (wildly approved by voters 62%-38%) Oregon would have fared far worse. The 5 out of 35 points Oregon earned for the “Curb Firearm Trafficking” category highlights how far the state still has to go. The one highpoint is the 6 of 10 available points earned in the “Guns in Public Places and Local Control” category – being a “shall-issue” CHL state, Oregon automatically loses 2 points, while “local control over firearm regulations allowed” also cost another 2 points. However dour, Oregon ranks in the middle of the pack: Kentucky and Oklahoma are the worst, tied with 2 of 100 total possible points; Utah earned 4 points, Idaho 6, and Washington State tied Oregon with 18. Tying or exceeding our neighboring states in preventing gun violence may seem comforting until we look south: California scored the most points of any state with 79 out of 100.
To view the myriad comments, visit the original story at:
www.tsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=3006&Itemid=66
You’ve just arrived at work, interested in coffee more than conversation, and a coworker enters, setting her purse down - BOOM! A gun explodes, bullet flies, nearly hitting you – Where are you? The sheriff’s office, where everyone is armed? A rural factory where busting-off a few rounds after work isn’t uncommon? No, you’re a nurse at St. Charles Medical Center and this actually happened a little over one month ago. No one was injured and the incident went unpublicized, but the nurse with the concealed handgun is no longer employed at the hospital. Everyone knows why.
She brought a ballistic umbrella in case of rain.
Others are doing the same and, at the Deschutes County Sheriff’s office, dozens of citizens are attending classes to exercise their 2nd Amendment Right. There’s another right that’s not being talked about, at least not in concealed carry classes, and that is the public’s right to know if your coworkers and neighbors are carrying a gun under their coat or in their handbag. It’s a pretty well-established right in other places where law enforcement folks acknowledge that information isn’t covered by exemptions to public records laws. But not in Oregon. Here sheriffs, including our own, are testing their right to withhold that information while at the same time dolling out permits by the dozen.
“What is the purpose of seeking a Concealed Handgun License?” asks Sergeant Dan Bilyeu, 50 years old, solidly built with short dark hair and friendly blue eyes; a handgun rests comfortably at his side. A few hands come up among the 35 or so attending the Concealed Handgun License (CHL) class Sergeant Bilyeu is leading.
“For myself, for personal protection,” answers a man in his late twenties. He is clean cut, wearing a blue polo and intense expression. “When I go camping with my family I want to take my gun along and not worry about always having it in view.”
The woman sitting down the table from me has platinum blonde hair, red acrylic nails and bracelets that jangle on her wrists as she offers, “I go riding in the mountains a lot, alone.”
A couple in their early-30s sits together in the front row; the male half speaks first, “To keep myself out of trouble.” He is wearing a thick plaid coat and a baseball hat that shields his eyes from where I sit, but his smile is unmistakable as he adds, “I carry my gun in my pickup and sometimes forget to have it in the open.” The female half of the couple nods then tenders, “Personal protection for me, I would rather be proactive than reactive, and I’ve been in situations where I felt threatened.” She is thin and strawberry blonde, wearing a turquoise top. As the class continues, three hours locked in the Deschutes County Sheriff’s office, these two will come to dominate the audience participation portion.
Skipping through several frames of his PowerPoint presentation, Sergeant Bilyeu comes to the “Exemptions” page. Clearly addressing the main demographic in the room – two long rows of Caucasian males in the rear – he makes it clear that a valid hunting or fishing license allows you to carry a concealed handgun as long as you are on your way to or from a sporting event. Pausing, he then jokes, “There’s a smell test associated with this exemption.”
Other exemptions include recreational vehicles (which are considered residences) and horses (as long as the handgun is in the saddlebag, not readily accessible) but a horse is not considered a vehicle. Also, hiding a handgun to avoid theft is not illegal. Subjectivity reigns, as reinforced by Sergeant Bilyeu: There is a dichotomy between the spirit and intent of the law. However subjective, Sergeant Bilyeu urges the class to comply with any reasonable requests that an officer may make.
This much is clear: Even if you have a CHL, you can’t carry a weapon into a Federal building, court, or post office. CHLs are state-issued, and Federal law trumps Oregon. “Concealed handgun licenses are flagged on your driver’s license,” Sergeant Bilyeu states, then stresses, “Does everyone understand this?”
In my mind, this is the turning point of the class. We are about to move from a factual presentation, conceal and carry law and exemptions, to a presentation of licensee rights. Reminiscent of 2nd Amendment entitlements, the one thing lacking is a reality check: Simply because one signed up and attended this class, is he or she proficient and responsible with his or her firearm? We’ll never know; three hours of class for $25, then $65 to apply for a CHL – but no written or shooting range test, hands-on demonstrations, nor real-life scenarios other than oral. $90 in total fees, a PowerPoint presentation, then a thorough criminal history check – That’s what is required to obtain a CHL in Deschutes County, Oregon.
“We’re not worried about the people that went through the formal training and jumped through the hoops. It’s the people that didn’t,” Sergeant Paul Garrison will tell me later.
Oregon is one of 36 “shall-issue” states, meaning that a CHL will be issued to an individual without discretion if this class is attended, fees paid, and prior felonies and other red flags (recent restraining orders etc.) aren’t found during the criminal background check. Among the majority of states, Oregon’s “shall-issue” status is at odds with nine other “may-issue” states that use discretion on a case-by-case basis before issuing a CHL. Only Wisconsin and Illinois don’t have any form of concealed-carry licensing, though Wisconsin allows “open carry” in most situations and Illinois in rural areas. The 2nd Amendment right to have a firearm is now being reaffirmed in our nation’s capital, with Washington D.C.’s 30-year ban overturned by the Supreme Court last week in a 5-4 decision. Meanwhile, Vermont is the most lax when it comes to carrying a gun, allowing residents and visitors to conceal whenever, wherever, for whatever reason. Yet Vermont is also consistently rated as one of the “safest sates” in the U.S, explaining why it is the poster-child for proponents of CHLs.
Chad Ramsey, Senior Associate Director of State Legislation and Politics for The Brady Campaign, told me over the phone, “Oregon has a long way to go in enacting sensible gun laws. Oregon simply doesn’t do a good enough job in making sure people who shouldn’t have guns don’t get them.”
Once a debate over Federal vs. State laws and regulations, gun ownership is an individual’s right, as underscored by the Supreme Court decision overturning of the ban on firearms in Washington D.C. State controls over CHLs are minimal, limited to background checks and flagging of drivers’ licenses; Deschutes County Sheriff Larry Blanton may offer whatever programs he wants – including forgoing an actual shooting test. He also gets to decide whether you can find out if your neighbor, your coworker or the guy sitting next to you in traffic is carrying a gun under his jacket.
The Source filed a State Public Records request to obtain this information and received a letter from Sheriff Blanton in response, which states that the “exact number of permits currently issued in Deschutes County is 6,671. There have been 84 concealed handgun license permits denied or revoked in 2006/2007.” Adding that “Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office declines to disclose to you the names and addresses of concealed handgun licensees pursuant to the State Public records law.” We then turned to the Oregon State Police, who were much more forthcoming.
Congratulations, Deschutes County! We are the most pistol-packing county in Oregon! 2.7% of Oregonians have CHLs (101,642 total statewide) while 4.1% of Deschutes County residents do. Multnomah County has the most CHLs, 10,590, but per capita, only 1.8% of its residents have CHLs. Sherman County exceeds Deschutes County in CHLs per capita, 4.7% vs. 4.1%, but Sherman County’s 1,855 total residents with 89 CHLs couldn’t hold us off for long. Another interesting discovery while digging into CHLs are discrepancies between state vs. county records – The Oregon State Police showed 6,156 CHLs issued in Deschutes County as of Thursday, June 26, 2008, while Sheriff Blanton’s letter, dated June 24, 2008, shows 6,671. Since 84 CHLs have been “denied or revoked” in 2006/2007, the discrepancy of 515 CHLs is rather difficult to explain.
If Deschutes County has 515 CHLs issued that the State Police are unaware of, for whatever reason, and Sheriff Blanton won’t release the names and addresses of those with CHLs, how do we know? Will we only know when too late? Road rage, a domestic dispute, don’t we have the right to know who’s packing? Our Sheriff “declines to disclose” this public information, so we’ll just have to wait, hope. Until a gun goes off…
Sheriff Blanton has other reasons for not disclosing the names, despite the law and our official Public Records request. Reached by phone, Sheriff Blanton explained his rationale for refusal, citing concerns such as the possibility of home invasion and identity theft, saying, “I don’t see any good that would come from releasing names and addresses of CHL holders.”
But, when asked about the 6,671 CHL holders in Deschutes County, Sheriff Blanton prefaced his answer with “Knock on wood,” then afforded, “We haven’t had any issue with anyone trying to affect an arrest as a CHL holder.”
Sheriff Blanton couldn’t fully explain the discrepancy between his number of CHLs and the Oregon State Police’s, saying only that Deschutes County takes 30-40 applications a month and time time to get the information to the state. Also, the number changes routinely, due to revocations after arrests, etc. Still this doesn’t explain Sheriff Blanton’s office reporting 515 more CHLs for Deschutes County than the State Police are aware of – Given 30-40 applications and a total of 84 revoked or denied CHLs since 2006, it would take nearly two years for the Sheriff’s and State Police’s numbers to synch.
Nonetheless, Sheriff Blanton supports the CHL training. “People are going to own handguns anyway, and the class is a good way for us to tell people about the law and gun safety.”
Image
If our Sheriff’s reasons to refuse to release CHL information and differing statistics behind CHLs confuse, maybe outrage, so too do indiscriminate policies. “Local control” may have cost Oregon 2 points on The Brady Campaign’s scorecard, but it remains a hotbutton issue in the bigger battle over gun rights and CHLs.
Consider the case of Shirley Katz, a teacher at South Medford High School with a CHL, who made national headlines last fall when she insisted on bringing her Glock 9mm handgun to school. Her ex-husband, Gerry Katz, has denied acting violently towards her and says he isn’t a threat to her or students, but Shirley got a restraining order and continues to insist that she needs her Glock. The school district has a policy against concealed firearms, though, and Ms. Katz was notified of possible disciplinary actions or termination of her employment as a teacher if she continued carrying. So she sued; the case hit the press and created a firestorm around the right to carry a concealed handgun in schools. Debating whether the district’s banning of concealed firearms in schools was mere “policy” (thus overridden by Oregon CHL laws) or an actual “ordinance,” Jackson County Circuit Court Judge G. Phillip Arnold denied Katz’s preliminary injunction against the Medford School District on November 9, 2007.
In deciding and arguing as such, Judge Arnold sidestepped the bigger debate over CHLs. State vs. Federal, 2nd Amendment rights of individuals vs. overall public safety. Ms. Katz is appealing the decision, as is Sheriff Mike Winters, who lost his attempt to refuse to release the names of CHL holders in Jackson County to The Mail Trubune. Still Katz cites that he restraining order against her ex-husband has lapsed and hints at a much larger argument for her appeal: Forget school policy vs. state law and the definition of “ordinance.” Instead focus on fear. Calls to Ms. Katz weren’t returned as of press-time, but she framed her new argument in an interview with the Associated Press in March 2008: “Since my case first emerged, we’ve seen six or seven more cases where students were either wounded or injured or killed. It hasn’t stopped. It’s not going to stop until security at school becomes a priority.”
Where Ms. Katz got her statistics from remains in question, but she has made powerful new allies. Ms. Katz at least went through classes (in a Sheriff’s office no less, hardly the preferred meeting place for serial killers and violent persons intent on a rampage) paid the fees and had a criminal background check before being issued a CHL. Her appeal won’t be heard for months but, given the Supreme Court’s new precedent for gun ownership in Washington D.C., she will probably be packing by the fall.
If I had brought my umbrella today it wouldn’t have rained.
That’s the argument being made by proponents of CHLs and less gun control. Essentially, in order to stop another Columbine or Virginia Tech shooting rampage, we need a well-armed populace: If one citizen with a gun was there, they argue, that other citizen with a gun would have been stopped. Hypothetical at best, such arguments are, quite frankly, as silly as others pro-gun groups try to make.
“Fact Sheet: Guns Save Lives” on www.gunowners.com offers a cacophony of arguments against gun control. “A citizen in the Sunshine State is far more likely to be attacked by an alligator than to be assaulted by a concealed carry holder.” and “Armed citizens kill more crooks than do police.” Using stats both dated and deceptive, far-right pro-gun groups depend on the abstract. And fear. Rape is a calling cry, as well as “anti-gun Clinton researchers concede that guns are used 1.5 million times for self-defense.”
But there are facts that these groups fail to mention. Like how violent crime has been falling for a decade, with minor, recent blips, and another 1.4% decrease in 2007, according the FBI report released on June 9, 2008. Nor do they mention Mark Wilson of Tyler, Texas, a citizen with a CHL, who ended up dead after trying to stop a shooter outside a courthouse. The battle over gun rights may be more local, individual, but pro-gun groups are now going international. Earlier this year a gunman attacked students at Jerusalem’s Mercaz Harav Seminary and an enrollee with a licensed handgun, Yitzhak Dadon, shot the assailant, ending the melee and a possible bloodbath.
“Yitzhak Dadon is a hero,” offered Alan Gottlieb in a press release as chairman of the Citizens Committee for the Right to Keep and Bear Arms (CCRKBA), followed by the rather ridiculous, “What a pity someone like Mr. Dadon was not in class last April at Virginia Tech. What a tragedy that anti-gun extremism would keep him from attending class at Northern Illinois University. He would never be allowed to teach at Columbine High School, hold a job at Trolley Square in Salt Lake City, or go shopping at Omaha’s Westroads Mall.”
Yes, you heard Mr. Gottleid right: One student in Jerusalem shot a gunman so five rampages could have been stopped in America – if not for “anti-gun extremism.”
Back in Bend, discharging a firearm is banned. This dates back decades but the original, rigid language “No person other than an authorized peace officer shall fire or discharge any gun or other weapon...” has been relaxed over the years. In 1990 the ordinance was amended to include two new caveats: “It shall be a defense to a prosecution... that the person was acting in defense of life or property...” and that “the person was test firing or discharging the weapon, as a necessary part of the person’s lawful business operations, at a firing range...” Essentially, it’s a Class A misdemeanor to discharge a weapon, unless defending your life or property, or discharging a weapon...
CHLs make holders exempt from such city ordinances state-wide, however ambiguous. And it is the proof of training element – fulfilled by the three-hour class with Sergeant Bilyeu – which makes this possible. This exemption also extends to policies that prohibit firearms in public buildings and schools. Except South Medford High School, it seems. Our CHL class being held in a county building only adds to the ambiguity – Though there is a clear sign upon entering stating that the possession of firearms is prohibited, it isn't enforceable to those with CHLs.
“I trust you guys with this information,” Sergeant Bilyeu says to us in summation, offering advice on transporting a concealed weapon once we are licensed to do so. He urges us to buy a holster with a secure clip, and discourages fanny packs or purses that can be easily forgotten on the back of a chair at a restaurant or movie theatre. There is liability and responsibility that comes with the CHL, that’s the closing message.
And it’s over, a CHL commencement of sorts. All 35 of us can now pay $65 and apply for a CHL, be legally carrying a concealed firearm in a month or so, assuming we pass the criminal background check. So we left, into the quiet night, somewhat ready to carry an umbrella in case of rain.
In Oregon, efforts to keep criminals and other dangerous people from “easily obtaining guns” continue to disappoint. The Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence does an annual scorecard of states’ performance based on five categories. Of the total 100 points available Oregon earned only 18: 0 points for the “Child Safety” category (requiring locks, preventing juvenile purchases etc.) and 0 points for “Ban Military Style Assault Weapons.” Without a ballot initiative to close the gun show loophole in 2000 (wildly approved by voters 62%-38%) Oregon would have fared far worse. The 5 out of 35 points Oregon earned for the “Curb Firearm Trafficking” category highlights how far the state still has to go. The one highpoint is the 6 of 10 available points earned in the “Guns in Public Places and Local Control” category – being a “shall-issue” CHL state, Oregon automatically loses 2 points, while “local control over firearm regulations allowed” also cost another 2 points. However dour, Oregon ranks in the middle of the pack: Kentucky and Oklahoma are the worst, tied with 2 of 100 total possible points; Utah earned 4 points, Idaho 6, and Washington State tied Oregon with 18. Tying or exceeding our neighboring states in preventing gun violence may seem comforting until we look south: California scored the most points of any state with 79 out of 100.
Ghost Town Tour of Central Oregon
Originally appearing in The Source Weekly, an alternative weekly in Bend, Oregon, "What Remains" is my ode to old barns and decrepit downtowns.
The original story with illustrations may be found at:
www.tsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2489&Itemid=2
Towns die for innumerable reasons. Whether changes in transit, the advent of the automobile, railroads or highways rerouted, or natural disasters, floods and fires. Chaos is another cause: Narrows, Oregon, was nearly eaten whole by jackrabbits until a bounty was placed on their ears; early Paisley never quite recovered from a failed payroll robbery that left one dead and the locals shaken. Swallowed by neighboring towns or cursed by events, others cede by choice, communal suicide, with residents agreeing to move on instead of further toil.
Maybe sadder are towns that don’t realize they’re dead, yet. Youth leaving for better opportunities elsewhere, generations erode until only old-timers sitting on sun-bleached porches remain. More abundant than ghost towns, dying towns receive few tourists; no one wants to view the terminal patient but the wake.
Central Oregon is an inhospitable landscape, making early migrant settlers some of the most stout in American memory. But the arid climate also preserves much of what they left behind – What Remains – on the high desert, hillsides and grasslands. Oregon is speckled with dozens of failed mining and/or forgotten towns, leaving us to wonder why a decrepit barn is so beautiful; have we learned from their mistakes?
Leaving Bend at pre-dawn before a mighty winter storm hits there are tumbleweeds blowing across Highway 97. How cliché – Going on a ghost town tour and Hollywood’s symbol of desolation is raking before our headlights. Our goal is to see such places not in spring or summer but winter, when settlers felt the full wrath of Central Oregon. A 100-mile northeastern swoop, weather permitting, we pass the silent Madras stock auction yards at first light.
Shaniko
This-ain't-tombstone...-The-shaniko-hotel-is-as-genuine-as-the-40-mph-winds.-Meanwhile,-a-portland-Doctor-has-bought-most-of-the-town.
Marked on maps as a “tourist ghost town” Shaniko is a shell of its former self, ravaged by fire and recently salvaged and partially preserved by a wealthy Portland doctor. Surrounded by windswept grasslands, the first signs that Shaniko is near are a placard for the 45th Parallel – the equidistant point between the North Pole and the equator – and fences for the R2 Ranch lining 97 north. Dr. Robert Pamplin, Jr., inheritor of a family denim manufacturing fortune, owns the R2 Ranch and the Portland Tribune newspaper. Self-described businessman, philanthropist, preservationist, farmer, minister and author, Dr. Pamplin started making investments in Shaniko a decade ago and now owns several of the town’s remaining buildings, most notably the wool barn.
Wool is what put Shaniko on the map. Established in 1900 with a population of 172 at the terminus of the Columbia Southern Railway, Shaniko became the center of the “Wool Capital of the World” (Central Oregon at least) with sales exceeding $3 million in 1903 and $5 million by 1905. Within a decade, however, Bend played a part in the demise of Shaniko, when the competing Oregon Trunk railroad was completed along the Deschutes River. Shaniko was the end of the line by 1911, and a fire that same year consumed most of the downtown. World War I opened inexpensive wool imports from Australia, and Shaniko was mostly silent by 1942. You will find no cemetery because the ground is too hard, which is fitting because Shaniko’s founders wouldn’t recognize the town today.
Reminiscent of Lago, the town Clint Eastwood exorcised in the movie High Plains Drifter, Shaniko has been revived as a tourist destination by Dr. Pamplin. False clapboard fronts and annual events (“Shaniko Days” are held every August) bring tourist dollars to town. One business owner who refused to be named estimated the population at 25, “except when the grandkids are visiting.” A decade ago his wife and sister were driving through, saw an old building needing fixing, so they stayed. Asked why people like to come to these towns, he groaned, “Beats the hell out of me.”
Me too, on a miserably chilly day with 40 mph winds and no other tourists in sight.
Yet this town’s former importance is obvious, and its structures impressive. And expensive – to maintain at least. When compared to pictures from Lambert Florin’s 1973 book Ghost Towns of the West, Shaniko gets more love than most. The Shaniko School was built in 1902 and its unusual octagonal steeple stands proud with a fresh coat of paint; the Shaniko Hotel is truly authentic while the Shaniko Wedding Chapel awaits an eloping couple.
Taking 218 towards Antelope it all became clear. Shaniko is in fact misnamed – it should have been Schernechau – and has been bought before. The tourist ghost town behind us actually brought the end to the once thriving stagecoach town before us.
Cross Hollows
A half-mile south of Shaniko stands two structures: A double-cupola barn and a single-room shack whose sole occupant is a rusty mattress. This is where Shaniko started, at the intersection of two gullies where people boarded stagecoaches to The Dalles and beyond. Cross Hollows was a prosperous community with a post office built by John and Elizabeth Ward, who were then bought out by German immigrant August Schernechau in 1874. The local Indians are said to have liked August but mispronounced his surname as “Shaniko.” With the departure of the postmaster in 1887, arrival of the railroad terminus and, ever essential, the discovery of water to the north, Cross Hollows was abandoned in favor of Shaniko.
Cross Hollows is an actual ghost town, population zero, exempting the dead badger someone slouched over a roadside stump. Other structures have crumbled, leaving only aged poplars as signs that more once stood here. Migrants often brought seeds to plant – lilacs and poplars – making circles of trees the sole evidence that this was once known as home.
Antelope
The dozen-mile stretch to Antelope on 218 is like Lombard Street in San Francisco: S-curves as it descends through Big Pine Hollow, along Sore Foot Creek, into the valley named in 1862 after the antelope that once grazed there. Here too is another town killed by Shaniko – Antelope had one of the earliest post offices in Central Oregon in 1871, supplying ranchers and writing regional religious and murderous history for well over a century. The sign outside town reads “Welcome to Historic Antelope, Pop. 37” but the 2000 census shows a population boom of 59 total residents (we saw only one).
Similar to Shaniko, the structures of Antelope are period and well maintained. The little church recalls the town’s early affluence, and recent upkeep, compared to photographs in Philip Varney’s 2005 book Ghost Towns of the Pacific Northwest. Meanwhile the decrepit jailhouse murmurs of murder. In 1885, Ed Gleason shot his business partner, Benjamin Pratt, dead, all due to rumors that Pratt had a crush on his wife. Gleason spent time in the jailhouse, and was later found justified of the killing.
A devastating fire in 1898 claimed most of the business district, and the establishment of Shaniko was fatal to Antelope. Still people were drawn here, including the founder of The Bend Bulletin, Max Luddemann, who married a local gal after building a chain of weekly newspapers, including the Madras Pioneer and the Ashwood Pioneer (based in another ghost town southeast of Antelope, of which little remains). Antelope's remoteness was only exacerbated when the state re-routed Hwy. 97 in 1917. But Antelope would be resurrected - rather divisively.
Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh arrived with thousands of devoted followers clad in red in 1981, and a cult-like commune was established outside Antelope. Their town soon renamed Rajneesh, Antelope looked more like Jonestown over the next four years, with charges ranging from food poisoning to embezzlement and immigration fraud. Rajneesh was ultimately deported. Facing an uncertain future, residents unincorporated the town and reverted to the original name of “Antelope” to avoid similar episodes. A plaque in town reads: “Dedicated to those of this community who throughout the Rajneesh invasion and occupation of 1981-1985 remained, resisted and remember...”
Curiously, Antelope’s future is again entrusted to a religious group; Rajneesh’s compound is now the Young Life church camp known as “Wild Horse Canyon.”
Onto Fossil
Route 218 passes padlocked grange halls and corporate ranches, revealing a political, commercial past and present. Crossing John Day River at Clarno offers optimism but barns stripped of sun-dried boards are all that eager eyes can see. Entering a fertile valley of crushed velvet green peaks and ancient fossils, seasonal recreational seekers seem the sole sign of life.
For $3 anyone may dig behind the Wheeler High School in Fossil. The only public fossil field in the United States, Fossil is selling itself. As it must: Established in 1876 as a post office and made the county seat of Wheeler County in 1899, Fossil is now drawing tourists with annual rodeos and a fledgling bluegrass festival. Locals only seem to smoke Marlboros and Kent menthols here: “We stock what people buy...” said the woman at the market. She’d just said a mouthful. Still supplied by the gravity water system installed in 1899, the 500 or so residents of Fossil seem resigned to remote relegation.
The weather has held out but dark clouds and winds are growing in the distance. To the east are other ghost towns, Lonerock and Hardman, but we must make our way back to Bend so we don’t find ourselves freezing overnight in structures proven deficient and abandoned long ago.
Richmond
School-anyone?--The-1874-Waldron-Schol-off-207-is-one-of-our-best-preserved-early-structures.
Like Antelope, Richmond was built to supply the surrounding ranchers in 1890. Located an eighth of a mile off route 207, equipped with a community center, school, church and several residences, Richmond sits in a serene valley that still invites. Yet the only visible resident was the loneliest black lab in the world. He followed us everywhere, attacking playfully, shooting mud with each assault and wag. There are newer homes, one a pseudo-rustic log cabin and another a redneck compound with a shotgun shack to the rear. Mercifully, only the dog welcomed us.
The church and school are both fenced, no trespassing allowed, perhaps because the pews of the church were removed and are now in the Fossil Museum; Richmond has suffered enough indignity. The community center is crumbling. A sampling of automobiles decomposes nearby. For such a splendid location – Iron Mountain in the distance – Richmond whispers a melancholy refrain. Century old echoes of a time when 450 people filled this little hamlet for the gathering of the Wheeler County Pioneers.
Now there’s only a lonely dog and posted structures. So we drove away like all the rest. The automobile undermined Richmond; young people refused to stay – the school that once taught 40 students closed in 1952 with one teacher for one student. Four miles south of Richmond on 207 is the 1874 Waldron School, easily the best-preserved structure so far on our journey, yet another school lacking students.
Mitchell and the Ochocos
207 to 26 and Mitchell: A town dying faster than Fossil. The 170 or so residents surely sense this, having suffered multiple floods (1904 and 1960) and fires (1896 and 1899) along Bridge Creek. Sometimes you must accept that you simply aren’t wanted.
A seasonal fishing and hunting town, Mitchell is for sale – A gray, frail building with a second-floor porch downtown is available for $69,000 “Price Reduced!” Leaving Mitchell, and only then seeing that town has crawled up the slope and wisely relocated at higher elevations to avoid flooding, we are heading for home, into the Ochocos and the face of the storm.
Our Remains
Oh, the Ochocos! Cabins and barns, in use or abandoned; route 26 is the only road to follow after eight hours and over two hundred miles of touring ghost towns. Wondering why we’re attracted to ghost towns, others’ failures, I now realize that we’ve missed the point.
They’re everywhere – Wherever we go, Americans especially, we leave messes. Buildings soon to be abandoned, we are conspicuous constructors: Our failed mines and forgotten structures are evidence of our itinerant earnestness.
Yet, only in ghost towns is this so vivid because of the void. Of people: At one time, in each of these empty places, it was admitted that all is lost. They left so now we return, to wander, to wonder. What if Cross Hollows had said no to Shaniko? Antelope become atheist? Richmond ignored the automobile and invited the Amish? Are Starbucks our new Grange Halls?
In this age of pre-assembled structures and planned obsolescence, what will remain? Are we as sturdy as those before? Or will we leave only ruins – piles of aluminum siding, sinkholes from septic tanks, toxic earth beneath engine blocks? Cracked concrete, our contribution, our legacy. What remains is who we are.
-30-
Sidebar:
“Who Shot Paulina?”
Image
The semi-permanent trailer that serves as the post office hardly inspires confidence in Antelope’s future, nor does it do justice to one of Central Oregon’s most famous figures – And killings.
By April of 1867, Howard Maupin was enraged by the persistent theft of livestock. So Maupin, who ran a stagecoach line, rode out with rancher James Clark to Trout Creek. Finding stolen cattle, they shoot at several Indians. One was wounded in the hip and didn’t return fire. Accounts vary on whose shot found the mark, Maupin’s or Clark’s; neither knew the significance at the time. Still they scalped the indian and left the body where it lay. Unbeknownst to Maupin or Clark they had killed Chief Paulina. Howard Maupin would get the credit and was later named postmaster of Antelope. Streets and a town named in his honor memorialized the deed. Meanwhile, lakes, valleys and peaks throughout Central Oregon eulogize Chief Paulina.
The original story with illustrations may be found at:
www.tsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2489&Itemid=2
Towns die for innumerable reasons. Whether changes in transit, the advent of the automobile, railroads or highways rerouted, or natural disasters, floods and fires. Chaos is another cause: Narrows, Oregon, was nearly eaten whole by jackrabbits until a bounty was placed on their ears; early Paisley never quite recovered from a failed payroll robbery that left one dead and the locals shaken. Swallowed by neighboring towns or cursed by events, others cede by choice, communal suicide, with residents agreeing to move on instead of further toil.
Maybe sadder are towns that don’t realize they’re dead, yet. Youth leaving for better opportunities elsewhere, generations erode until only old-timers sitting on sun-bleached porches remain. More abundant than ghost towns, dying towns receive few tourists; no one wants to view the terminal patient but the wake.
Central Oregon is an inhospitable landscape, making early migrant settlers some of the most stout in American memory. But the arid climate also preserves much of what they left behind – What Remains – on the high desert, hillsides and grasslands. Oregon is speckled with dozens of failed mining and/or forgotten towns, leaving us to wonder why a decrepit barn is so beautiful; have we learned from their mistakes?
Leaving Bend at pre-dawn before a mighty winter storm hits there are tumbleweeds blowing across Highway 97. How cliché – Going on a ghost town tour and Hollywood’s symbol of desolation is raking before our headlights. Our goal is to see such places not in spring or summer but winter, when settlers felt the full wrath of Central Oregon. A 100-mile northeastern swoop, weather permitting, we pass the silent Madras stock auction yards at first light.
Shaniko
This-ain't-tombstone...-The-shaniko-hotel-is-as-genuine-as-the-40-mph-winds.-Meanwhile,-a-portland-Doctor-has-bought-most-of-the-town.
Marked on maps as a “tourist ghost town” Shaniko is a shell of its former self, ravaged by fire and recently salvaged and partially preserved by a wealthy Portland doctor. Surrounded by windswept grasslands, the first signs that Shaniko is near are a placard for the 45th Parallel – the equidistant point between the North Pole and the equator – and fences for the R2 Ranch lining 97 north. Dr. Robert Pamplin, Jr., inheritor of a family denim manufacturing fortune, owns the R2 Ranch and the Portland Tribune newspaper. Self-described businessman, philanthropist, preservationist, farmer, minister and author, Dr. Pamplin started making investments in Shaniko a decade ago and now owns several of the town’s remaining buildings, most notably the wool barn.
Wool is what put Shaniko on the map. Established in 1900 with a population of 172 at the terminus of the Columbia Southern Railway, Shaniko became the center of the “Wool Capital of the World” (Central Oregon at least) with sales exceeding $3 million in 1903 and $5 million by 1905. Within a decade, however, Bend played a part in the demise of Shaniko, when the competing Oregon Trunk railroad was completed along the Deschutes River. Shaniko was the end of the line by 1911, and a fire that same year consumed most of the downtown. World War I opened inexpensive wool imports from Australia, and Shaniko was mostly silent by 1942. You will find no cemetery because the ground is too hard, which is fitting because Shaniko’s founders wouldn’t recognize the town today.
Reminiscent of Lago, the town Clint Eastwood exorcised in the movie High Plains Drifter, Shaniko has been revived as a tourist destination by Dr. Pamplin. False clapboard fronts and annual events (“Shaniko Days” are held every August) bring tourist dollars to town. One business owner who refused to be named estimated the population at 25, “except when the grandkids are visiting.” A decade ago his wife and sister were driving through, saw an old building needing fixing, so they stayed. Asked why people like to come to these towns, he groaned, “Beats the hell out of me.”
Me too, on a miserably chilly day with 40 mph winds and no other tourists in sight.
Yet this town’s former importance is obvious, and its structures impressive. And expensive – to maintain at least. When compared to pictures from Lambert Florin’s 1973 book Ghost Towns of the West, Shaniko gets more love than most. The Shaniko School was built in 1902 and its unusual octagonal steeple stands proud with a fresh coat of paint; the Shaniko Hotel is truly authentic while the Shaniko Wedding Chapel awaits an eloping couple.
Taking 218 towards Antelope it all became clear. Shaniko is in fact misnamed – it should have been Schernechau – and has been bought before. The tourist ghost town behind us actually brought the end to the once thriving stagecoach town before us.
Cross Hollows
A half-mile south of Shaniko stands two structures: A double-cupola barn and a single-room shack whose sole occupant is a rusty mattress. This is where Shaniko started, at the intersection of two gullies where people boarded stagecoaches to The Dalles and beyond. Cross Hollows was a prosperous community with a post office built by John and Elizabeth Ward, who were then bought out by German immigrant August Schernechau in 1874. The local Indians are said to have liked August but mispronounced his surname as “Shaniko.” With the departure of the postmaster in 1887, arrival of the railroad terminus and, ever essential, the discovery of water to the north, Cross Hollows was abandoned in favor of Shaniko.
Cross Hollows is an actual ghost town, population zero, exempting the dead badger someone slouched over a roadside stump. Other structures have crumbled, leaving only aged poplars as signs that more once stood here. Migrants often brought seeds to plant – lilacs and poplars – making circles of trees the sole evidence that this was once known as home.
Antelope
The dozen-mile stretch to Antelope on 218 is like Lombard Street in San Francisco: S-curves as it descends through Big Pine Hollow, along Sore Foot Creek, into the valley named in 1862 after the antelope that once grazed there. Here too is another town killed by Shaniko – Antelope had one of the earliest post offices in Central Oregon in 1871, supplying ranchers and writing regional religious and murderous history for well over a century. The sign outside town reads “Welcome to Historic Antelope, Pop. 37” but the 2000 census shows a population boom of 59 total residents (we saw only one).
Similar to Shaniko, the structures of Antelope are period and well maintained. The little church recalls the town’s early affluence, and recent upkeep, compared to photographs in Philip Varney’s 2005 book Ghost Towns of the Pacific Northwest. Meanwhile the decrepit jailhouse murmurs of murder. In 1885, Ed Gleason shot his business partner, Benjamin Pratt, dead, all due to rumors that Pratt had a crush on his wife. Gleason spent time in the jailhouse, and was later found justified of the killing.
A devastating fire in 1898 claimed most of the business district, and the establishment of Shaniko was fatal to Antelope. Still people were drawn here, including the founder of The Bend Bulletin, Max Luddemann, who married a local gal after building a chain of weekly newspapers, including the Madras Pioneer and the Ashwood Pioneer (based in another ghost town southeast of Antelope, of which little remains). Antelope's remoteness was only exacerbated when the state re-routed Hwy. 97 in 1917. But Antelope would be resurrected - rather divisively.
Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh arrived with thousands of devoted followers clad in red in 1981, and a cult-like commune was established outside Antelope. Their town soon renamed Rajneesh, Antelope looked more like Jonestown over the next four years, with charges ranging from food poisoning to embezzlement and immigration fraud. Rajneesh was ultimately deported. Facing an uncertain future, residents unincorporated the town and reverted to the original name of “Antelope” to avoid similar episodes. A plaque in town reads: “Dedicated to those of this community who throughout the Rajneesh invasion and occupation of 1981-1985 remained, resisted and remember...”
Curiously, Antelope’s future is again entrusted to a religious group; Rajneesh’s compound is now the Young Life church camp known as “Wild Horse Canyon.”
Onto Fossil
Route 218 passes padlocked grange halls and corporate ranches, revealing a political, commercial past and present. Crossing John Day River at Clarno offers optimism but barns stripped of sun-dried boards are all that eager eyes can see. Entering a fertile valley of crushed velvet green peaks and ancient fossils, seasonal recreational seekers seem the sole sign of life.
For $3 anyone may dig behind the Wheeler High School in Fossil. The only public fossil field in the United States, Fossil is selling itself. As it must: Established in 1876 as a post office and made the county seat of Wheeler County in 1899, Fossil is now drawing tourists with annual rodeos and a fledgling bluegrass festival. Locals only seem to smoke Marlboros and Kent menthols here: “We stock what people buy...” said the woman at the market. She’d just said a mouthful. Still supplied by the gravity water system installed in 1899, the 500 or so residents of Fossil seem resigned to remote relegation.
The weather has held out but dark clouds and winds are growing in the distance. To the east are other ghost towns, Lonerock and Hardman, but we must make our way back to Bend so we don’t find ourselves freezing overnight in structures proven deficient and abandoned long ago.
Richmond
School-anyone?--The-1874-Waldron-Schol-off-207-is-one-of-our-best-preserved-early-structures.
Like Antelope, Richmond was built to supply the surrounding ranchers in 1890. Located an eighth of a mile off route 207, equipped with a community center, school, church and several residences, Richmond sits in a serene valley that still invites. Yet the only visible resident was the loneliest black lab in the world. He followed us everywhere, attacking playfully, shooting mud with each assault and wag. There are newer homes, one a pseudo-rustic log cabin and another a redneck compound with a shotgun shack to the rear. Mercifully, only the dog welcomed us.
The church and school are both fenced, no trespassing allowed, perhaps because the pews of the church were removed and are now in the Fossil Museum; Richmond has suffered enough indignity. The community center is crumbling. A sampling of automobiles decomposes nearby. For such a splendid location – Iron Mountain in the distance – Richmond whispers a melancholy refrain. Century old echoes of a time when 450 people filled this little hamlet for the gathering of the Wheeler County Pioneers.
Now there’s only a lonely dog and posted structures. So we drove away like all the rest. The automobile undermined Richmond; young people refused to stay – the school that once taught 40 students closed in 1952 with one teacher for one student. Four miles south of Richmond on 207 is the 1874 Waldron School, easily the best-preserved structure so far on our journey, yet another school lacking students.
Mitchell and the Ochocos
207 to 26 and Mitchell: A town dying faster than Fossil. The 170 or so residents surely sense this, having suffered multiple floods (1904 and 1960) and fires (1896 and 1899) along Bridge Creek. Sometimes you must accept that you simply aren’t wanted.
A seasonal fishing and hunting town, Mitchell is for sale – A gray, frail building with a second-floor porch downtown is available for $69,000 “Price Reduced!” Leaving Mitchell, and only then seeing that town has crawled up the slope and wisely relocated at higher elevations to avoid flooding, we are heading for home, into the Ochocos and the face of the storm.
Our Remains
Oh, the Ochocos! Cabins and barns, in use or abandoned; route 26 is the only road to follow after eight hours and over two hundred miles of touring ghost towns. Wondering why we’re attracted to ghost towns, others’ failures, I now realize that we’ve missed the point.
They’re everywhere – Wherever we go, Americans especially, we leave messes. Buildings soon to be abandoned, we are conspicuous constructors: Our failed mines and forgotten structures are evidence of our itinerant earnestness.
Yet, only in ghost towns is this so vivid because of the void. Of people: At one time, in each of these empty places, it was admitted that all is lost. They left so now we return, to wander, to wonder. What if Cross Hollows had said no to Shaniko? Antelope become atheist? Richmond ignored the automobile and invited the Amish? Are Starbucks our new Grange Halls?
In this age of pre-assembled structures and planned obsolescence, what will remain? Are we as sturdy as those before? Or will we leave only ruins – piles of aluminum siding, sinkholes from septic tanks, toxic earth beneath engine blocks? Cracked concrete, our contribution, our legacy. What remains is who we are.
-30-
Sidebar:
“Who Shot Paulina?”
Image
The semi-permanent trailer that serves as the post office hardly inspires confidence in Antelope’s future, nor does it do justice to one of Central Oregon’s most famous figures – And killings.
By April of 1867, Howard Maupin was enraged by the persistent theft of livestock. So Maupin, who ran a stagecoach line, rode out with rancher James Clark to Trout Creek. Finding stolen cattle, they shoot at several Indians. One was wounded in the hip and didn’t return fire. Accounts vary on whose shot found the mark, Maupin’s or Clark’s; neither knew the significance at the time. Still they scalped the indian and left the body where it lay. Unbeknownst to Maupin or Clark they had killed Chief Paulina. Howard Maupin would get the credit and was later named postmaster of Antelope. Streets and a town named in his honor memorialized the deed. Meanwhile, lakes, valleys and peaks throughout Central Oregon eulogize Chief Paulina.
Living Art: On the street with Bend's best unsung artist
An ode to my good friend Francisco Christich, this was the most personal piece I've ever been assigned. He's talented, intelligent, and forced to clean bathrooms of a bar...
For the original illustrated story visit:
www.tsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=3112&Itemid=2
We met at the Westside Tavern last December, a stool between us and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on the TV. Pointing to the screen he sighed, “The downturn of society...” I, however, considered John Travolta a sign of the Apocalypse, underscored by his contribution to Hairspray. Two beers and all of Francisco’s money later, now seated side by side, we both agreed that the tipping point of America was Ronald Reagan.
Francisco Christich: the name of a friar or cult leader. Or an artist, nine-ball guru, father and friend. Francisco, the most modest human being I met in my nine months in Central Oregon. A song; the antidote to gloating galleries and braggart collectors, trust-fund artist managers – We both knew we’d spend much time together after that night at the Westside. Yet neither could have guessed how rotten it would end.
His entry to Bend was apt. It was a choice between here or Sante Fe; “When the car broke down that kind of made the solution clear.” That was 30 years ago. Francisco will be 62 in September and shows every second on this Earth. A scar under his gray hay hair from a car crash 20 years since (of windshields he offers, “They’re hard – they win, you lose.”), ashy marks like cuffs around his wrists (“Some pigmentosis...” he explains, then jokes, “Actually I got those storming the cliffs of Normandy.”) and a silky white beard Santa would wear if evicted from the North Pole. An American mutt, Francisco’s father was Mexican and Slavic while his mother was Native American and French, “As far as I know.” Raised in East LA, it was his mother who sat him down at an easel when he was four and told him to paint.
Fifteen hundred works later, Francisco Christich is a famously unknown artist. Some of his paintings hang on private walls (mine included, bearing his sublime “Cosmic Junkyard”), 500 are in storage while the other 1,000 “just slipped away.” Of the three total murals in Taos, New Mexico, he painted two. In Bend his works are scattered across town, the most recent being outside the Wall Street Bar – three panels depicting a ghost town along Smith Rock, Klondike Kate, and a tall two-section piece showing the flow of the Deschutes. The images are striking, more so because Francisco hardly had any paint, “Green, blue, had to steal some red – It was fun, challenging to use exactly what I had.”
He’s being charitable today. The last time I saw Francisco he wasn’t so merry, rather bitter. A room for rent has made all the difference. Francisco’s been homeless for the past few months, hopping between couches and empty buildings. “You can only stay in a place so long, you gotta keep moving...” Nearly arrested on the westside for squatting weeks ago, he overheard a conversation between the building’s owner and leaser and knew then the jig was up. Onto another place, this is nothing new; “I lived on the street in the ‘90s.”
To know Francisco, look into his eyes. Talk to him. Buy him a beer for the effort; honor. The miracle of this man is his undeniable aura, however dire the situation or dour his spirit. For an artist to watch the rise of Bend as an artistic city, and to be ignored throughout, he has every right to feel slighted. But it runs deeper, and why Francisco deserves recognition – Because he seeks none. Instead of jealousy or angst he takes a long-view, ever the outsider, “I saw in the local arts magazine all the people at Art Walk smiling, drinking wine. That looks like fun.”
Francisco doesn’t do shows. He had one in Tacoma and describes it as “a lesson in futility.” He’s shy at first then affable and gregarious after proving you’re a “real human being” – I had a ping pong party in January and, of the nearly 20 contestants, Francisco was the only one who didn’t play. But he was the one person everyone remembered, with some offering him a room if he’s ever in Portland.
I was renting Val and Tyler Winterholler’s home in Tumalo at the time. Val’s an artist too, a painter with a sense for scratching a seemingly finished piece to reveal its true soul. Inexplicably she started painting pods nearly two years ago, until realizing she was pregnant with a daughter, Tessa – a subliminal if not eerie signal. Alas, their house was soon for sale so I moved an alley away, into an overpriced shack with bad vibes. I couldn’t create, winter wouldn’t go away, and I wasn’t the only one struggling.
Francisco had lost his studio apartment in the Broadway Courts, unable to afford $450 a month, and his landlords refusing to take art in lieu of rent. “Nice people, sorry I lost it.” Back to hopping couches, again, and his constitution worsening – wheezing and tearing, allergic to the dog in the house. It’s hard to bitch when bumming a bed, but Francisco obviously needed help. So I took him in, offering a spare bedroom with visions of an artistic commune: Me writing, him painting, quitting late afternoon to molt minds.
Gentle, passive, introspective, Francisco is a flower child with caveats. Speaking of his generation he gets sentimental, “We’ve been through peaks and valleys, and now we’re in a valley... The Sixties were quite energetic, dynamic, the age of assassinations, LSD. There are two hippie generations, one on TV and the other real. I think that story’s never been told, the revolution. We bought a bag of goods, a picture of a picture of a picture.”
It’s such introspection and modesty – Francisco’s inability and/or unwillingness to go out and sell himself – that has limited his success, as he readily admits, “I’m always open to offers but offers are few and far between... If you don’t compete it’s a little tougher.”
Instead of competing and promoting, Francisco creates. He paints, incessantly, two or three projects at a time. Early inspirations being Gauguin, Cezanne, Dali, Picasso (“The beginning of the end of art – The traditionalists hated those guys”) now his art emerges from his mind, “I suppose dreams, and Native America, to keep it alive.”
Francisco slowly recovered but was ever sensitive to my smoke (cigarette at least), buying us groceries with his food stamps, seeking inspiration. It lasted hardly three weeks. That house is cursed and I simply had to leave, find another spot. Our farewell was in the form of a yell, “See ya, Francisco!” mopping the floors of our failed commune as he pushed his bike with a busted front rim away.
I found a house with a dog to sit but he wasn’t so lucky. That’s when Francisco became homeless, again, mostly my fault but the misguided guilt trip that ensued was equally shared. We saw each other but seldom spoke. For a time I considered contacting his son Eli, a writer and graphic artist in Portland, or daughter Hesper Moon, the mother of Francisco’s two grandchildren, and asking them to come and fetch their father. He was in bad shape, mentally and physically. But I know Francisco; his character refutes aid – Even when totally broke I never saw him beg. Subtle nods and blank stares became our greetings and goodbyes. Both bitter, our brief moment of bliss ending so badly, I set to writing as Francisco sought a spot to sleep that night.
Exacerbating the silent tension was the lack of any response from my literary agent. I’d set myself up, see, and dragged Francisco along, dreams and dreads included. “A Strange September Song” is the novel Francisco wrote years ago in a single month. “Like a gift dictated to me. 99.5% the way it was,” is the way he describes the story, the process. About a reckoning between pool hustlers, “A Strange September Song” is based on Francisco’s past life as a nine-ball player.
Not a hustler or shark, rather an itinerant pro since graduating Palo Alto High School in 1964, Francisco’s fame-claim is beating the #9 player in the world when he took Billy Johnson for $35 in San Diego. His “biggest score” was here, pocketing $3,500 total in Bend in the early 1980s, playing $700 a game. And then there’s that Boise bar full of farmers betting. He entered and decided, “It’s not a good idea to hustle a farmer. So I announced myself...” Later, each farmer shook his hand as Francisco left with $500 in winnings. The circuit can be unkind, though, hustlers wear out their welcome quickly: A good friend of Francisco’s, Jesse James (his actual name), took a girlfriend down south, through Oklahoma, “and he never made it out.” Only the girlfriend returned, and wouldn’t speak of what happened to Jesse James.
Francisco doesn’t play much pool anymore. He wins when he does, but fading eyesight and lackluster local competition make it a tedious task. Having been around the best for decades he says of Bend, “It’s like watching Tiger Woods, then going and playing miniature golf.”
“A Strange September Song” is a damn good read if you ask me. But my agent wouldn’t know – I sent her the first few chapters and there’s been no response, yet. This irked Francisco, more so when on the street with no address to receive even a rejection letter. It irked me too, but for other reasons. I had a novel of my own to finish and at last living in a fertile house – If my agent can’t be bothered to read a novel from a friend, will she bother to sell mine? This is when Francisco gets prickly, bringing up the topic of his novel and my agent’s unresponsiveness – Blunt as it may be, I couldn’t be bothered; I’d given Francisco a place to stay, however briefly, and now I had bigger worries.
The bitterness only grew. Especially when I told Francisco I was house- and dog-sitting for Midda and David Kinker on Delaware. Midda is a gem, the nurse I’ll need someday soon, while David is an artist. And competition for Francisco, a fellow muralist, despite the fact he refuses to compete. David is his opposite. A working artist, well-known and in demand, not shy to offer his services for pay, trade (receiving enough coffee for an Army from Strictly Organic to paint an ivy pergola above the self-service area) and at times gratis at public events – “Balloons Over Bend” and the Country Fair.
However inverse, when asked which local artists he respects, Francisco affords, “There’s a lady in Sisters, and I like most of David Kinker’s work.”
And then there’s the new breed, the “corporate muralists” – those who offer to do work for “free” while including product- and logo-placement in pieces. “Undermining the art world,” groans Francisco, “One comes by and offers to do it for free, while a working artist should be charging $20,000.”
Having lived with three artists by now – Val Winterholler, Francisco, and now David Kinker – I’d seen the full spectrum of arts in Bend. But not Francisco for a time, weeks without a glimpse; only by visiting the Wall Street Bar at dawn is that assured.
For money Francisco cleans the Wall Street every morning, his latest mural on the wall outside as he mops and readies the lavatories for another ruckus. “It’s amazing the amount of shit that’s left at the Wall Street – I found a joker’s hat last week, and a used extra large [maxi-pad] lying on the floor... That was nice. It’s amazing what people will do under the influence of alcohol. The nicest people too, absolutely Jekyll and Hyde, but also lots of Hydes and Hydes, it just makes it worse.”
Our final meeting meant closure for both of us. I was on a plane the next week back to New York and he’d just found a room to rent. The bitterness had faded, helped by his new home and several beers. And our conversation, the interview for this article requested by the publisher of The Source (the most consistent patron of Francisco’s work over the years), offered us an excuse to reunite. Never enemies – even as our relationship became strained under the weight of expectation and disappointment – perhaps it’s our shared experience that makes us true friends. Since first meeting at the Westside last December and agreeing that Reagan was the “downturn of society,” living and failing together, then meeting again in mid-July, it’s good to be with an old friend.
To see Francisco smile... To hear him mention “A Matter of Urgency” – his next book which, despite its title, “will take me 35 years to write. It’s a commitment to write and I become obsessive about projects.”
To be graced by his aura: artist, author, nine-ball guru, father and friend.
Survivor: “I have a love-hate relationship with Bend. There is a thriving culture in Bend. Socially it seems only bars; we sold the nightlife but they’ll get out of it. Businesses coming and going. Cookie cutter restaurants in a kit.”
Take a swig my dear friend.
“Buddhists say life is suffering. But it is grand. The universe is a trip, this endless sky.”
Smile.
He sketched me after the interview. Made me appear leaner, more serious, better than I ever could be. So we shook hands and parted ways, no more words needed.
For the original illustrated story visit:
www.tsweekly.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=3112&Itemid=2
We met at the Westside Tavern last December, a stool between us and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on the TV. Pointing to the screen he sighed, “The downturn of society...” I, however, considered John Travolta a sign of the Apocalypse, underscored by his contribution to Hairspray. Two beers and all of Francisco’s money later, now seated side by side, we both agreed that the tipping point of America was Ronald Reagan.
Francisco Christich: the name of a friar or cult leader. Or an artist, nine-ball guru, father and friend. Francisco, the most modest human being I met in my nine months in Central Oregon. A song; the antidote to gloating galleries and braggart collectors, trust-fund artist managers – We both knew we’d spend much time together after that night at the Westside. Yet neither could have guessed how rotten it would end.
His entry to Bend was apt. It was a choice between here or Sante Fe; “When the car broke down that kind of made the solution clear.” That was 30 years ago. Francisco will be 62 in September and shows every second on this Earth. A scar under his gray hay hair from a car crash 20 years since (of windshields he offers, “They’re hard – they win, you lose.”), ashy marks like cuffs around his wrists (“Some pigmentosis...” he explains, then jokes, “Actually I got those storming the cliffs of Normandy.”) and a silky white beard Santa would wear if evicted from the North Pole. An American mutt, Francisco’s father was Mexican and Slavic while his mother was Native American and French, “As far as I know.” Raised in East LA, it was his mother who sat him down at an easel when he was four and told him to paint.
Fifteen hundred works later, Francisco Christich is a famously unknown artist. Some of his paintings hang on private walls (mine included, bearing his sublime “Cosmic Junkyard”), 500 are in storage while the other 1,000 “just slipped away.” Of the three total murals in Taos, New Mexico, he painted two. In Bend his works are scattered across town, the most recent being outside the Wall Street Bar – three panels depicting a ghost town along Smith Rock, Klondike Kate, and a tall two-section piece showing the flow of the Deschutes. The images are striking, more so because Francisco hardly had any paint, “Green, blue, had to steal some red – It was fun, challenging to use exactly what I had.”
He’s being charitable today. The last time I saw Francisco he wasn’t so merry, rather bitter. A room for rent has made all the difference. Francisco’s been homeless for the past few months, hopping between couches and empty buildings. “You can only stay in a place so long, you gotta keep moving...” Nearly arrested on the westside for squatting weeks ago, he overheard a conversation between the building’s owner and leaser and knew then the jig was up. Onto another place, this is nothing new; “I lived on the street in the ‘90s.”
To know Francisco, look into his eyes. Talk to him. Buy him a beer for the effort; honor. The miracle of this man is his undeniable aura, however dire the situation or dour his spirit. For an artist to watch the rise of Bend as an artistic city, and to be ignored throughout, he has every right to feel slighted. But it runs deeper, and why Francisco deserves recognition – Because he seeks none. Instead of jealousy or angst he takes a long-view, ever the outsider, “I saw in the local arts magazine all the people at Art Walk smiling, drinking wine. That looks like fun.”
Francisco doesn’t do shows. He had one in Tacoma and describes it as “a lesson in futility.” He’s shy at first then affable and gregarious after proving you’re a “real human being” – I had a ping pong party in January and, of the nearly 20 contestants, Francisco was the only one who didn’t play. But he was the one person everyone remembered, with some offering him a room if he’s ever in Portland.
I was renting Val and Tyler Winterholler’s home in Tumalo at the time. Val’s an artist too, a painter with a sense for scratching a seemingly finished piece to reveal its true soul. Inexplicably she started painting pods nearly two years ago, until realizing she was pregnant with a daughter, Tessa – a subliminal if not eerie signal. Alas, their house was soon for sale so I moved an alley away, into an overpriced shack with bad vibes. I couldn’t create, winter wouldn’t go away, and I wasn’t the only one struggling.
Francisco had lost his studio apartment in the Broadway Courts, unable to afford $450 a month, and his landlords refusing to take art in lieu of rent. “Nice people, sorry I lost it.” Back to hopping couches, again, and his constitution worsening – wheezing and tearing, allergic to the dog in the house. It’s hard to bitch when bumming a bed, but Francisco obviously needed help. So I took him in, offering a spare bedroom with visions of an artistic commune: Me writing, him painting, quitting late afternoon to molt minds.
Gentle, passive, introspective, Francisco is a flower child with caveats. Speaking of his generation he gets sentimental, “We’ve been through peaks and valleys, and now we’re in a valley... The Sixties were quite energetic, dynamic, the age of assassinations, LSD. There are two hippie generations, one on TV and the other real. I think that story’s never been told, the revolution. We bought a bag of goods, a picture of a picture of a picture.”
It’s such introspection and modesty – Francisco’s inability and/or unwillingness to go out and sell himself – that has limited his success, as he readily admits, “I’m always open to offers but offers are few and far between... If you don’t compete it’s a little tougher.”
Instead of competing and promoting, Francisco creates. He paints, incessantly, two or three projects at a time. Early inspirations being Gauguin, Cezanne, Dali, Picasso (“The beginning of the end of art – The traditionalists hated those guys”) now his art emerges from his mind, “I suppose dreams, and Native America, to keep it alive.”
Francisco slowly recovered but was ever sensitive to my smoke (cigarette at least), buying us groceries with his food stamps, seeking inspiration. It lasted hardly three weeks. That house is cursed and I simply had to leave, find another spot. Our farewell was in the form of a yell, “See ya, Francisco!” mopping the floors of our failed commune as he pushed his bike with a busted front rim away.
I found a house with a dog to sit but he wasn’t so lucky. That’s when Francisco became homeless, again, mostly my fault but the misguided guilt trip that ensued was equally shared. We saw each other but seldom spoke. For a time I considered contacting his son Eli, a writer and graphic artist in Portland, or daughter Hesper Moon, the mother of Francisco’s two grandchildren, and asking them to come and fetch their father. He was in bad shape, mentally and physically. But I know Francisco; his character refutes aid – Even when totally broke I never saw him beg. Subtle nods and blank stares became our greetings and goodbyes. Both bitter, our brief moment of bliss ending so badly, I set to writing as Francisco sought a spot to sleep that night.
Exacerbating the silent tension was the lack of any response from my literary agent. I’d set myself up, see, and dragged Francisco along, dreams and dreads included. “A Strange September Song” is the novel Francisco wrote years ago in a single month. “Like a gift dictated to me. 99.5% the way it was,” is the way he describes the story, the process. About a reckoning between pool hustlers, “A Strange September Song” is based on Francisco’s past life as a nine-ball player.
Not a hustler or shark, rather an itinerant pro since graduating Palo Alto High School in 1964, Francisco’s fame-claim is beating the #9 player in the world when he took Billy Johnson for $35 in San Diego. His “biggest score” was here, pocketing $3,500 total in Bend in the early 1980s, playing $700 a game. And then there’s that Boise bar full of farmers betting. He entered and decided, “It’s not a good idea to hustle a farmer. So I announced myself...” Later, each farmer shook his hand as Francisco left with $500 in winnings. The circuit can be unkind, though, hustlers wear out their welcome quickly: A good friend of Francisco’s, Jesse James (his actual name), took a girlfriend down south, through Oklahoma, “and he never made it out.” Only the girlfriend returned, and wouldn’t speak of what happened to Jesse James.
Francisco doesn’t play much pool anymore. He wins when he does, but fading eyesight and lackluster local competition make it a tedious task. Having been around the best for decades he says of Bend, “It’s like watching Tiger Woods, then going and playing miniature golf.”
“A Strange September Song” is a damn good read if you ask me. But my agent wouldn’t know – I sent her the first few chapters and there’s been no response, yet. This irked Francisco, more so when on the street with no address to receive even a rejection letter. It irked me too, but for other reasons. I had a novel of my own to finish and at last living in a fertile house – If my agent can’t be bothered to read a novel from a friend, will she bother to sell mine? This is when Francisco gets prickly, bringing up the topic of his novel and my agent’s unresponsiveness – Blunt as it may be, I couldn’t be bothered; I’d given Francisco a place to stay, however briefly, and now I had bigger worries.
The bitterness only grew. Especially when I told Francisco I was house- and dog-sitting for Midda and David Kinker on Delaware. Midda is a gem, the nurse I’ll need someday soon, while David is an artist. And competition for Francisco, a fellow muralist, despite the fact he refuses to compete. David is his opposite. A working artist, well-known and in demand, not shy to offer his services for pay, trade (receiving enough coffee for an Army from Strictly Organic to paint an ivy pergola above the self-service area) and at times gratis at public events – “Balloons Over Bend” and the Country Fair.
However inverse, when asked which local artists he respects, Francisco affords, “There’s a lady in Sisters, and I like most of David Kinker’s work.”
And then there’s the new breed, the “corporate muralists” – those who offer to do work for “free” while including product- and logo-placement in pieces. “Undermining the art world,” groans Francisco, “One comes by and offers to do it for free, while a working artist should be charging $20,000.”
Having lived with three artists by now – Val Winterholler, Francisco, and now David Kinker – I’d seen the full spectrum of arts in Bend. But not Francisco for a time, weeks without a glimpse; only by visiting the Wall Street Bar at dawn is that assured.
For money Francisco cleans the Wall Street every morning, his latest mural on the wall outside as he mops and readies the lavatories for another ruckus. “It’s amazing the amount of shit that’s left at the Wall Street – I found a joker’s hat last week, and a used extra large [maxi-pad] lying on the floor... That was nice. It’s amazing what people will do under the influence of alcohol. The nicest people too, absolutely Jekyll and Hyde, but also lots of Hydes and Hydes, it just makes it worse.”
Our final meeting meant closure for both of us. I was on a plane the next week back to New York and he’d just found a room to rent. The bitterness had faded, helped by his new home and several beers. And our conversation, the interview for this article requested by the publisher of The Source (the most consistent patron of Francisco’s work over the years), offered us an excuse to reunite. Never enemies – even as our relationship became strained under the weight of expectation and disappointment – perhaps it’s our shared experience that makes us true friends. Since first meeting at the Westside last December and agreeing that Reagan was the “downturn of society,” living and failing together, then meeting again in mid-July, it’s good to be with an old friend.
To see Francisco smile... To hear him mention “A Matter of Urgency” – his next book which, despite its title, “will take me 35 years to write. It’s a commitment to write and I become obsessive about projects.”
To be graced by his aura: artist, author, nine-ball guru, father and friend.
Survivor: “I have a love-hate relationship with Bend. There is a thriving culture in Bend. Socially it seems only bars; we sold the nightlife but they’ll get out of it. Businesses coming and going. Cookie cutter restaurants in a kit.”
Take a swig my dear friend.
“Buddhists say life is suffering. But it is grand. The universe is a trip, this endless sky.”
Smile.
He sketched me after the interview. Made me appear leaner, more serious, better than I ever could be. So we shook hands and parted ways, no more words needed.
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