photo by Fred Stickley
Why am I starting a blog highlighting the people and history of North Portland’s peninsula, interspersed with a myriad of thoughts as I walk the streets as a letter carrier in the Mocks Crest neighborhood? While possibly only of interest to friends and some neighbors, it is my way of honoring a community that I have come to love and now call home. Previously, I have lived in a dizzying progression of cities and towns, usually for no more than 3 years in any one place. Having now lived on Mocks Crest for over 15 years, and knowing that it will be my home for many years to come, it resonates that I also deliver the mail to my neighbors, see the children grow and the families create their homes. The planting of my own roots has given me a sense of community that previously has alluded me. And that feels grand.
A little about me:
Soon after being born in Birmingham, Alabama, I was moved, after each of my father’s promotions, to first Hagerstown, MD, then Eveleth, MN, Wilmington, DE, Sao Paolo, Brazil, Hibbing, MN, and again to Wilmington, DE where I graduated from high school. Becoming a so-called adult didn’t end the dislocation every few years, however. I headed off to participate in the Great Books Program at St. John’s College in Annapolis, MD and then to their Santa Fe campus. Somehow, the next logical step seemed to be to fly, rather foolishly, to Sydney, Australia with a one way ticket, $20 in my pocket, a guitar and a marriage doomed to fail. Fortunately, jumping out of a plane parachuted me into a 15 year career in the book industry (from a publisher’s sales rep in Melbourne to a National Sales manager back in the U.S. ten years later). I still have the guitar and I still can’t play it worth a damn.
Cue in: Midlife crisis and changing horses midstream; I headed to Philly, by way of Albuquerque, to obtain a culinary degree. While one of the hardest endeavors I’ve ever undertaken, it certainly remains one of my greatest achievements, giving me a solid grounding in the basics, bringing my lifelong love of cooking to a new level. I fully expected my subsequent move to Portland to work as a Banquet Chef to be a stepping stone to other faraway places; my intention was to chef in large hotels in various countries while learning local cuisine firsthand. The ultimate goal was to eventually settle somewhere and open a restaurant, or a B&B with weekend dinner service or, at the very least, a catering service that highlighted the harmonious and comforting foods from the cuisines of the world. So wait: why am I now a letter carrier?
The long story made short is that I received a phone call one sunny morning at 6 am, back in 1998, letting me know that my stepson, on his 21st birthday, had been shot (by a police officer) and was on the operating table, having already lost his pulse 6 times. He had done nothing wrong; and was solely a victim of an unwritten rule that allows a police officer to shoot to kill if a suspect gets within distance where the officer’s weapon can possibly be taken. My stepson was on his way home after working two jobs that day, and had stopped at a local bar to celebrate what was his 21st birthday. Its a sad tale but, suffice it to say, he is well and happy and working at the very hospital that saved his life. He is, however, a paraplegic. Medics later said that, had he not been rolled over and handcuffed as he lay in a pool of blood, he would be walking still.
Such a family event changes life plans, of course. World wide travel, and entertaining the riskiness of opening a restaurant, were no longer possible options. Buying a house, and outfitting it for a person in a wheelchair, along with having reliable employment with sufficient recompense, became the necessary goal. I had briefly worked for the post office between cooking jobs at one point, during a strike at UPS, and when I was offered a career position at the post office, I took it gladly. That was fifteen years ago.
It is not simply bills, letters, parcels and catalogs that a letter carrier delivers, its also a smile and a greeting. A few words that, added up over the years, are all part of what I call the “dangling conversation”. There is a trust that also develops over time. As I once overheard one mother saying to her child, “If you ever get lost, go to Mailman Steve. He knows where you live.” Older patrons living alone count on the delivery of mail, medicine and a smile almost as much as their Meals On Wheels. Many have said they could set their watch by me; getting their mail delivered accurately and safely at close to the same time each day is important to people, and they miss this routine if a substitute carrier is filling in on a regular carrier’s day off or on vacation. It is as much for seeing that familiar face that becomes a part of people’s daily lives. It resonates for me that I am an integral part of my community, the place which I call home.
Because it is home, I am also fascinated with the history of the North Portland peninsula, a world between two rivers, and its environs, from Scappose, Swan Island, Forest Park, Linnton, St Johns to Kenton and Albina. I seek the stories of people, both past and present, and this blog, therefore, relates some of that history. If you see me delivering the mail, these are some of the thoughts in this letter carrier’s head. I am also often whistling a tune and creating a recipe for dinner for friends and neighbors.