Dispatches from The Oregon Territory, 1838-1853

“The Douglas Fir is a Most Noble member of its family, and in the pristine landscape of The Oregon Territory it frequently arises to heights of 200-feet or more. Its Cone is distinctive, its hardiness is impressive, and its huge numbers are an awesome site to beholde.”

--Naturalist John Babbit’s Journals, 1853

“The skye here is of a predominantly grey pallor during much of the Year, but even in the depths of Wynter the low clouds will occasionally part, revealing Noble Mount Hood on the Eastern horizon and providing a Welcome Respite, however brief, of purest blue whych cheers the souls of the populace, both Christian and Pagan alike.”
--Rebekah Quailthwort Diary Entry, 1847

“The notion of High Culture existing so far away from such centers as Boston and Philadelphia may indeed strike you as Most Strange, Dearest Sister, yet in Truth we have among our hardy band here two most competent Pianists – although, alas, only one poore instrument – and quite an Assemblage of Trained Voices.”
--Letter from Margaret Bramble, 1844

“It is a land, yes, of trappers and timber and fisher-men, but yet I believe it also to be most friendly to the pursuits of the simple business man -- such as you know full well myself to be.”
--Letter from Leonard Mandelbaum, 1850

“I have yearned for my dear Cousins most desperately this past year, and now, with Susannah and Beatrice’s arrival in California just months away -- and their subsequent journey to Oregon to follow in the Spring to come -- we give great thanks for the Courage & Skille of the bold leaders of their expedition, George and Jacob Donner.”
--Letter from Kimberly Allenson, 1846

The Last Thing I Saw When I Left Her

The last thing I saw when I left was her cat in the bedroom window.

I remember very little about the long subway ride out to a friend’s place where I stayed for a few days.

And weeks later it was still depressing to look back at the empty bed in my new apartment each morning.

Then about a month ago I spotted her on the street as I was heading home from work.

I followed her for several blocks, but then slowed down and let the city gradually swallow her up.

Since then I’ve tried harder to keep busy, taking long bike rides with my Aunt Dorene, for instance.

I’ve been to a few art show openings with friends.

I’ve also been going through shoeboxes full of old family pictures that my mom left behind.

And I got my own damn cat.

Where Are You, Alice?

Alice was very pleased with herself last Tuesday.

Boy, that didn't last long.

By Friday she was back in good spirits.

And she even did an impromptu dance just before dinner.

The next day she showed me her new performance-art piece, which I found strangely moving.

But that evening she got a look in her eyes that I knew meant trouble.

I haven't heard anything from her in several days now, and the diagram she left behind hasn't been much help.

I only hope she hasn't fallen in with that cubist crowd again.

Displaced in Portland

Glenda took this picture of me soon after we arrived in Oregon. We’d spent two years working in canneries and bars in Alaska, making a whole lot of money that we then went through in about three months.

At the end of it all we came to rest in Portland, where we rented a tiny apartment downtown.

We didn’t stay together long after that. I think we’d tended to be more tolerant of each other’s shortcomings up until then -- first in Seward when we were working long hours and living in a sort of communal arrangement with a small group of people …

… and then traveling around the country seeing friends and having a great time.

The breakup was amiable enough compared to what I’ve experienced in the past, although in the end she did get the dog.

And then less than two years later there I was a guest at her wedding, laughing with her mother and flirting with her sister.

I was fully prepared to dislike her new husband, but we’ve actually become pretty good friends. He even lent me $100 the other day.

And I like Oregon more than any place I’ve ever lived -- not only the mountains and forests but the people I run into in bookstores and bars and on the bus. “Isn’t this interesting?” a complete stranger said to me at the park the other day. “Look at how this ant is holding onto this bit of leaf.”

Anyway, now that Glenda and Robert have a baby we’ll probably drift apart more and more -- there being even less room for an ex-boyfriend around.

Just before she had the child, though, I slept on their couch one evening (after my then-girlfriend locked me out for the night), and Glenda’s face was the first thing I saw when I came to in the morning, hovering over me. She’d come to tell me she was driving Robert to work. And for a moment I felt completely displaced, neither in Alaska nor in Oregon, neither a boyfriend nor an ex-boyfriend, with the dog -- our dog -- curled up right there on the floor.

Perhaps I should go stay with my relatives in Texas for a while.

Certain Eerie, Nervous Feelings

During intermission at a concert the other night I found myself standing just a few feet away from three well-known European cellists. It was noisy in the lobby, but as I concentrated on trying to make out what the three were discussing I realized they were talking about whether to stay for the rest of the concert or go out for burgers.

The experience reminded me of some researchers I interviewed recently about their work in digital speech processing. They’d just developed an algorithm that did a particularly good job of filtering out wind noise and other environmental sounds when people spoke on the phone in the car.

I’ve interviewed a lot of researchers over the years -- physicians and microbiologists and computer scientists and many others. And yet knowing that all these smart people are out there devising all sorts of beneficial things hasn’t diminished the frequency of certain eerie, nervous feelings I have.

Intimations that something horrible is about to happen at any moment.

I’m able to escape these feelings for brief periods when out with friends.

Or for those few moments when I’m struck by something unexpectedly lovely -- like the unaffected way one woman lightly holds another woman’s arm on the street.

Thoughts of people I’ve known can have a similar effect -- especially the recollection of a particular moment we spent together. That instant in line at the art museum, for example, when Roxie glanced to one side.

But just as suddenly I can also be struck by another sort of recollection -- an older kid, say, telling me there’s a poison so deadly that even a quantity the size of a lettuce seed can kill you in a matter of seconds.

Then I feel like a small, vulnerable child wishing someone would let her inside so she could find a cool, dark place to hide.

And then you gently remind me that it’s my turn.

My Father, Who Died Last Fall

I went to a party the other night where I met a lot of interesting people.



Things got a little out of control as the evening progressed, though, which was due in part, perhaps, to the band's rather unrestrained renditions of polka tunes.


Soon people who’d only just met were behaving in strange and unusual ways.



Eventually I happened down a series of corridors that led to a room decorated as a cantina, where the proprietress suggested an alternate explanation for the evening's goings-on.


I wandered outdoors shortly afterward just as a woman was walking by, and when one end of her scarf whipped up into the air I was suddenly struck by how cold it had gotten.

Remembering my jacket, I returned inside and found that although I’d been gone only a few minutes, Nancy the coat-check girl now had very few coats left besides mine and hers. While I looked for a dollar or two to put in her tip jar, we struck up a conversation in the way complete strangers sometimes do.
She told me about a friend of hers who had just returned from Rome, where he swore he had briefly and unac- countably levitated in front of St. Peter’s.


Then I told her about my friend Erica, who had just returned from a research expedition to British Columbia where she had identified a previously unknown lichen.


During most of the long train ride home the guy across the aisle from me slept soundly.


Back at my apartment I found that my mother had mailed me an old picture of my father, who died last fall. I was struck by how much my father at that age resembled my next-door neighbor Warren, and I made a mental note to show Warren the picture in the morning.