DEC. ’89-JA imesA Year!
1HENORTHWEST’SLARGEST SELECTIONOFANTIQUE EUROPEANPINEJUSTGREW.. STOP BY FOR THE WHOLEPICTURE PINEDESIGN 1 30 8 NW EVERETT STREET PORTLAND, OREGON 9 7 2 0 9 (5 0 3 ) 2 2 7 -3 3 6 8 1 1AM-6PM TUESDAY-FRIDAY 11AM-5PM SATURDAY CLOSED SUNDAY & MONDAY ANTIQUEIMPORTS HAPPY HOLIDAYS 2ND &EAST EURNSIDE 231-8926 • RECORDS TAPES CDS • 23RD &NWJOHNSON 248-1163 For a close-up look at today’s wildest topics, tune in Morning Edition, weekdays at 5 am, All . Things Considered at 4 pm, and Weekend Edition, starting at 7 am. They’re real eye-openers! PORTLAND/WILLAMETTE VALLEY/ SALEM............................................................................. 9I.5FM 550 AM OPB R A D I O
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VOL U NO. 1 S T A F F £^d itor/Pub lisher David Milholland Associate Editors Jim Blashfield, Peggy Lindquist, Walt Curtis, Paul Loeb, Lenny Dee Board of Advisors Alana Probst, Ken Margolis, Stan Amy, Theresa Marquez Contributing Artists Jim Blashfield, Sharon Bronzan, John Callahan, Jessica Dodge, Zak Margolis, Ricardo Pelaez Contributing Photographers American Indian Basketry—John M. Gogol, Walt Curtis and fellow travellers, Lynn De Weese-Parkinson, The Grabel Family Archive, Tom Heidlebaugh and friends Guest Designer Barbara Lamb Proofreader Walt Curtis Business Manager Rhonda Kennedy Advertising Representative Fiona Martin Typesetting Harrison Typesetting, Inc., 4M, Qualitype Camerawork/Cover Separations Toucan Scan Distribution Coyote Distributing, John Wanberg Thanks Robert Anderson, Alan Baily, Mark Baker, Linda Ballantine, John Bennett, Steve Bloch, C.T. Chew, Kathleen Cornett, DNAD, Foothill Broiler, Lee Emmett, Bill Foster, Ira Frankel, Martha Gies, Bob Jeniker, Craig Karp, Allan Kittell, KOPB, Corliss Lamont, John Laursen, Stephen Leflar, Deborah Levin, Marjie Lundell, Mimi Maduro, Lola Maria, Zak Margolis, Melissa Marsland, Enrico Martignoni, Tony DeMicoli, Alice & Del Milholland, Kevin Mulligan, The Multnomah County Library, Larry Needham, Oregon Historical Society, John Platt, Mary Reinard, Linda Shirley, Norman Solomon, Missy Stewart, Tom Taylor III, Joe & Charlotte Uris, John Wanberg, Lou & Rosa Weinstock, Lynn Youngbar, The Clinton SOOand many more who gave generously of their time. The Charter Group Artichoke Music, Avalon Antiques, Jim Blashfield, Bill Bowling, Breitenbush Community, B.J. Bullard & Paul Loeb, Cascadian Farm, Escential Oils, Gazelle, Hawthorne Auto Clinic, Harrison Typesetting, Inc., Hood River Brewing, Hunan, Julia’s, KBOO, KCMU-FM, Key Largo, La Paloma, Music Millenium, Nature’s fresh Northwest, Organically Grown Coop, Park Avenue Records, The Pastaworks, Pine Design, Rejuvenation House Parts, Springfield Creamery, Lynn & Paulette Wittwer, Zenith Supply. ON THE COVER Cover image: Home Plate. Sharon Bronzan of Portland, teaches printing and design at Portland Community College. She is represented by Maveety Gallery. This is a selfportrait. Clinton St. is published by CSQ—a project of Out of the-Ashes Press. Address: P.O. Box 3588 , Portland, OR 97208—(503) 222 -6039 . Unless otherwise noted, all contents copyright ©1989 Clinton St. Clinton St. NOW 6 TIMES A YEAR! Madwoman—Alice Evans 6 Where are those voices coming from, out in front or inside my head? Are we our sister’s keeper? At what price? Blue Hole in the Oregon 8 Cascades—Walt Curtis Just when the Poet sets his plans to see Crater Lake, some fool decides to drain it. Horny Campfire Girls, Native American lore and penny fiction. / Should Have Called Him 14 Daddy—Leanne Grabel Daddy wins a war, moves to Stockton, woos a Princess, and lives on to hear some final words from his daughter. Poem. TEN GOOD REASONS FOR CELEBRATING THE END OF THE '80S 7 We survived. Most of us. The human species and our • fellow lifeforms, outside the tropical rain forests. In the 44 years since Fat Boy swallowed Hiroshima, we’ve actually kept it together enough to avoid the truly ultimate solution. 2. The War o f the Grim Reaper, between Iran and Iraq, is over. The U.S. armed both sides along the way, as did so many civilized nations. When children become cannon fodder, even Allah’s will loses its appeal. 3. The Wall came tumbling down. Few symbols of arrogance have stood so high as the Berlin Wall. Now from the Baltic to the Adriatic, Soviet hegemony is suddenly kaputski. Yet more exciting, this change is being driven fromwithin. This makes plans for European economic union in ’92 far more complex, and the potential for a dynamic, interwoven world economy yet more promising. Gorbachev’s efforts to redress false Soviet history provides a valuable model for us as well. 4. The U.S. stayed out o f full-scale war in Central America. This seemed quite unlikely only 5 years ago, as the Reaganauts ran drugs, sold arms to archenemy Iran and generally acted the fool to maintain their Monroe Doctrine imperium. Too much blood continues to flow in El Salvador, Guatemala and Nicaragua. Our low-intensity-warfare strategy will prove bankrupt in the ’90s. seasoned pilot plans his escape. The Them, 1956—Martha Gies 17 Over the hum of the dishwasher, a Roger Margolis It ’s the sex thing again. Man wanting woman, finding it exceedingly hard to connect. Please pick up that phone. Crossing the Bridge of Poems—Tom Heidlebaugh A Bridge of fantastic proportions is forged between the Deep North and a Nation of Dreamers to the south. 20 Someone Else’s Moccasins— 30 Rich Wandschneider Craig Lesley’s River Song is fodder for a traveling reflection on changing cultures and writers who interpret them. Please pass the pozole. E D I T O R I A L 5. Deep ecology is here to stay. From the mountains to the prairies to the ocean depths, our planet is suddenly vulnerable. Awareness of chemical pollution, over-exploitation, global warming and dozens of human- caused forces is rising universally. People are putting themselves at risk for our fragile, one-of-a-kind Earth. Recycling, organic farming, and direct challenges to resource stripping have gained undeniable logic. This change is very recent, and despite the dire threat, very heartening. Let’s keep the pressure on. And celebrate Earth Day, 20 years old in early 1990. 6. Racial justice is on the table. We hear only one hand clapping, as the ’80s has no bragging record. Yes, South Africa is changing, as is Palestine. In the U.S., inner-city blacks are still languishing, and black children have again become scapegoats for the mercenary policies of men who run drugs themselves to finance dirty wars. Our nation’s disgraceful WWII-era treatment of U.S. citizens of Japanese descent was finally acknowledged. Only when we meet the challenge of truly providing liberty and justice for all can the U.S. experiment be deemed a success. 7. Sexual equality and gay rights can no longer be denied. The emergence of AIDS and the anti-abortion activists have unfortunately outshined the considerable developments of the ’80s. There will continue to be DEC. ’89-JAN. ’90 Historieta Negra— Ricardo Pelaez A hired killer seeks his only legitimate revenge. A new talent direct from Mexico, D.F. HEX ON EXXON— John Callahan Four from America's newest political cartoonist. Winter Baseball in Havana— 35. Lynn DeWeese-Parkinson “ Let’s play two” in the land where '50s baseball is still at home. Toss down some chicharrones and watch the sluggers bat .400. On the Road with Napalm Beach—Jan Celt Inside the Euro Rockhaus scene and dancing on top of the Berlin Wall. You should have been there. 38 ebb and flow, but these essential human rights will not return to the closet. Now it’s time for a little more sexual joy, whatever the configuration. 8. Children are on everyone’s agenda. At the tail end of a decade of neglect, we’re again realizing what a critical resource we’re responsible for. Our nation’s investment is far too small, to help each and every child realize a hopeful future. Another challenge being passed on to the ’90s. 9. Reagan stands naked before us, (as Bush soon will), exposed as a man who sold us out for the Yen of it, leaving the treasury door wide-open to sleazy financiers, defense industry plutocrats, and grafters of every tinhorn variety. Since we’ll be paying for his shoddy enterprise longer than any before it, let’s hoist a frothy cup of decade-ending cheer to his retirement. 10. We’re still laughing a t ourselves. The human predicament is little changed. Moliere’s Tartuffe brings us 17th century irony quite appropriate for our disappearing decade. Greed, arrogance, cupidity and venality have all survived down through the years. They burst into full flower in the ’80s. So what if the joke’s on us, we’re still yukking it up. D’ya hear the one about the corporate raider?. . . DM Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90 5
6 Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. '90
MADWOMAN B y A l i c e E v a n s I l l u s t r a t i o n b y J e s s i c a D o d g e w o m a n r id e s b y r h y h o u s e o n h e r b ic y c le . S h e h a s d a r k , c u r ly hair, n e a t l y t r im m e d a n d c le a n . H e r c lo th e s fit a n d lo o k a lm o s t new . S h e w e a r s a sm a l l b a c k p a c k a n d m o v e s w i th a d i r e c tn e s s t h a t m a k e s m e th in k s h e m ig h t b e g o in g to w o r k s o m e w h e r e . Yet t h a t is b e y o n d b e lie f . She would be quite pretty if she were not so obviously crazy. It’s because of what she says and the look on her face as she says it—“motherfucker, cocksucker, shithead.” She has expanded my vocabulary of filth. Hers is the language of dismemberment. I fear her because 1recognize the hatred in her face, in her voice. She’s a facet of my own psyche, one that awakens me in the night whenever I’m caught on a spike of hatred. When I’m out of sorts with myself, which happens more frequently than 1 care to admit. I hate almost everybody. Particular somebodies, people whom 1 love at other times. Also, anyone who has ever wronged me. There is a savageness to my hatred which frightens me. I wonder if it falls within the “normal” range. I hate and 1scream forth this hatred within my head. By an act of will, I prevent it from spilling forth to contaminate my loved ones. Recently, I’ve worked to bring this seething hatred into consciousness. The problem is what to do with it now' that it’s there. It wants to burst forth and go somewhere, do something. W ”n August, soon after I’d returned K from visiting relatives in the east, a difficult journey which left me drained and troubled. 1 heard kids screaming at each other in front of my house. It was early in the morning and I She must have ridden off soon after I lowered the shade, for the voices stopped. 1quickly called my husband at work to describe the scene. He said, genuinely, “Oh, that’s really sad." I hadn’t been thinking in terms of sadness. I’d been thinking of madness. She’s in her mid-thirties, 1would guess. I’m in my mid-thirties, too, but I don’t ride a bicycle, not any more. It’s not convenient when you have a child. A few years ago, 1did attach a kiddie seat to the back of my old ten-speed, but when 1put my daughter aboard and tried to ride, it felt really awkward. I was afraid I’d crash, and that her head would be crushed like that of my old lover, David, who never wore the helmet I’d given him, a device which doctors said would not have saved his life anyway. I’m cautious, very cautious, now that I have a child. I try to avoid dangerous situations. Last week, when 1 was out jogging, I heard a bicycle coming up behind me really slowly. When it finally did pass, 1 saw it was this woman. Icouldn’t help the sudden rush of blood that heated up my face. What did 1think she would do to me if she knew 1was on to her? For once she wasn’t screaming, she had on portable radio headphones. I imagined the sounds coming in from the radio drowned out those other voices, the demon ones. Probably her psychiatrist, or caseworker, recommended them. I hope she’s got someone to tend her. I’m haunted by this link I have to the crazy woman, my desire to help her and my fear of being infected by her madness. I have never been inhabited by demons, but they come at me from time to time. When 1 think about saving somebody else. I’m thinking about saving me. If there’s evil riding the streets, it’s just as much inside as outside. . 1 j j f rn writing this out, in giving it form, 1 K am attempting to exorcise the im- age of this woman from my mind. Am 1 doing something too concrete, something that will vibrate out into the field of the collective unconscious and Im haunted by this link I have to the crazy woman, my desire to help her and my fear of being infected by her madness. When I think about saving somebody else, I’m thinking about saving me. If there’s evil riding the streets, it’s just as much inside as outside. S h e was standing a t my trashcan, holding the lid in her hand, spewing forth filth and hatred from a hole in her face. I was hearing more than one voice. Judging from her facial contortions, a whole bevy of demons inhabit her body simultaneously. was newly emerged from a dream state. I raised my living room shade and looked out upon—this woman. She was standing at my trash can, holding the lid in her hand, spewing forth filth and hatred from a hole in her face. She was alone, but I was hearing more than one voice. Judging from her facial contortions, a whole bevy of demons inhabit her body simultaneously. She didn't notice me watching her. I let the shade down again rather quickly, just so there would be no chance of an exchange of glances. I wasn't sure I’d be able to block her intense negative energy if her eyes locked into mine. 1was afraid she would enter me somehow— demons have no boundaries, after all, other than the ones we can individually build in consciousness and love. A lot of mornings, just as I step out the front door to drive my daughter to school, that woman goCs whizzihg by on her bicycle. I might catch a “cocksucker,” or an “I’m going to stab you in the eyeballs,” but she goes by too fast for me to ever get the full gist of what she’s saying. 1 wonder who she hates and why she hates them, but then, I doubt it’s a specific person. Most likely there's just one big amorphous blob of rapidly disappearing faces and forms, a parade of memories. Is there anyone who can help her? Is there anyone who can turn it off? I remember the movie The Exorcist, where Linda Blair is saved by a Catholic priest. But I’m no priest, and 1do recall that the exorcism of the devil in Linda Blair didn’t work out too well for the priest. draw her attention to me? All too soon, my fears are realized. I invited a friend’s daughter over to play with mine. When I open the door to the little girl’s knock, I see. in addition to my friend and her daughter, this crazy woman, staring at me, sitting on her bicycle in my driveway. 1 am agawk. After welcoming my guests, I quickly close the front door. I will not allow her to come in. My friends daughter informs me that she and her mother have just seen someone they know. “Oh,” I say, “Who?” I do not need to hear her answer, for I am already remembering the stories I’ve heard of the crazy aunt who lives in the woods and prostitutes herself. The paranoid schizophrenic who can’t live in- doors because she’s sure “they” can bug S her anywhere she goes. “Oh,” 1say, “your J2 Aunt Vernie.” There’s a crazy woman out riding the streets, and she is the sister-in-law of one g of my best friends. Q Writer Alice Evans lives in Eugene. This is her first story in Clinton St. Artist Jessica Dodge lives in Seattle and is a frequent contributor to Clinton St. Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. '90 7
or the last two years, my friends Jan and David had been planning a trip with me to Crater Lake. Finally, this August, we travelled there with other friends. The week prior, we were starry-eyed with anticipation. In my 48 years of Pacific Northwest living, I’d never seen Crater Lake! Joaquin Miller—Poet of the Sierras—raved about its beauty. Then there were the dire press accounts circulating about energy exploration nearby. Has the U.S. become such a third-rate nation that it must threaten its national treasures to crank out a few dollars? Natural legacies which belong to generations yet unborn! It seems the California Energy Company—innocuous name for trouble!— was poised to do exploratory deep drilling for geothermal energy right at the edge of the national park. Frankly, 1was worried! For five or six years I’ve been researching our neglected writers and poets and teaching an informal class in Northwest literature. Alfred Powers, one of the great bookmen of the Oregon country, was an influential writer, editor and educator. His monumental achievement is the History of Oregon Literature, published in 1935. At 800 pages, it’s a model for regional literature everywhere. Powers loved kids, teaching and history. He wrote a number of juveniles, including the classic, most deserving of being reprinted, Marooned in Crater Lake. At Mazama Camp, I read the lead story to my friends around the campfire, sparks flying up and mimicking the star- filled Southern Oregon night. It begins: In October, 1910, before George Washington’s profile had displaced the picture o f Benjamin Franklin on the one- cent stamps, Jim Turner bought a book o f this denomination a t Medford, Oregon, securing only twenty-four o f the green rectangles for twenty-five cents. But the protective book was well worth a penny when carrying stamps in a warm pocket. Through miscommunications, young Turner soon finds himself left in Crater Jan and Janey on the rim. Dec. 89-Jan. ’90 Lake’s caldera on the last day of tourist season. He’s stranded on the beach with no matches, only a lunch and a fishing pole. The launch has returned to shore and the lodge is being closed up for the winter. How soon will he die o f exposure? First View ur trip began on its own harried note. The mechanic doing a tune-up had left the air cleaner off David’s vintage ‘59 Chevy Bis- cayne. He was furious! We drove late on a Friday night for Eugene.—"Chimpie”—a big, hairy, good- natured chef and mutual friend had joined us. Jan had gone ahead in a rental car with her close friend “Janey” Scott—the female vocalist in the successful a capella group The Bobs. She shared their recent Italian tape, not in U.S. release. Like a hip barbershop quartet, the group harmonizes, snaps fingers and claps rhythmically—no instruments whatsoever. On any such adventure, old friends and near strangers rub elbows and nervous systems. Quirks and foibles emerge. I’m a finicky sleeper. After an evening meal of bean burritos, tedious jokes about flatulence frayed my nerves. The ground was hard, and only our trip-ending soak at Cougar Hot Springs helped us realize our camaraderie and mutual sanity. We reached Crater Lake by way of Roseburg, where' we followed the Umpqua River east to Diamond Lake. It’s a straight . shot through the ranger’s booth and onto the rim highway. To my mind, the first turnout and viewpoint of the lake is the best. Everything I had anticipted. In bright sunlight, a few cumulus scattered above, Crater Lake was an electric-blue jewel. The sapphirecolored water was utterly depthless, distanceless. I he California Energy Company—innocuous name for trouble!—was poised to do exploratory deep drilling for geothermal energy right at the edge of the national park. Frankly, I was worried! Discovered in 1853 by a prospector Hillman—seeking The Lost Cabin Mine— he literally stumbled onto it. If his mule hadn’t stopped, he’d have plunged to his death! It’s tricky to gauge how far down it is from the grayish pumice rim to the water. Just as Miller describes: It lies 2000 feet underyour feet, and as it reflects its walls so perfectly that you cannot tell the wall from the reflection in the intensely blue water, you have a continuous and unbroken circular wall o f 24 miles to contemplate a t a glance. Yet so bright, yet so intensely blue is the lake that it seems to lift right in your face. I left the stone wall beside the highway and ran down the sandy point to a marvelous twisted white pine, onto a rock outcropping. It projected me right above the blue water, it seemed. David said I leaped and cavorted down the slope like a teenager. This is one bit of Pacific Northwest real estate I’ve pondered and imagined for years. One must see the Blue Jewel on the spot. Picture postcards don’t do it justice! We are a chain of consciousness, linking past to future, despite personal mortality. Staking my claim for a piece of Northwest literary history, I casually propped a copy of Marooned in Crater Lake in my hand, posing before the luminous blue of the caldera. Published by Power’s own Metropolitan Press in 1930, its indigo, decodecorated cover and delicate end papers limning an image of Crater Lake give the classic great “book values.” He began to shout a t the top o f his voice, but he was more than two miles from the boat landing, and the nearby walls caught and returned his calls in echoes. His imagination took a tragic direction. Maybe his aunt and uncle would never find him. The next summer, boats would pass by the little beach where he stood. The people in the boats would be startled by what they saw there. The world would know that a boy had been left to perish in that great abyss o f the Cascades. —Marooned Cleetwood Cove n 1888, William G. Steel built and christened a wooden boat from which to measure the depth of the lake.- The cove is named Cleetwood in its honor. Chimpie, stung by a yellowjacket, and sympathetic Janey went off to Mazama Camp, leaving three of us to hike the powdery pumice trail to the boat landing. At its iridescent emerald edge, the Park Service runs tourboats in the summertime. Off we roared, 25 passengers in a jet boat, warned to puke into a bucket, not over the side. The pert guide, in green nylon jacket, at first put me off with her outpouring of geological information. She pointed to every notch and node on the rim—Liao Rock, the Wineglass, the Devil’s Backbone, the Watchman. She kept quiet only when the boat sped forward. I finally warmed to her as we approached Wizard Island, off limits to us because a team of Oregon State University oceanographers were parking equipment there. Team leaders Collier and Dymond were exploring the bottom and testing subterranean water temperatures with a specially equipped submarine—Deep Rover. So far, they have found mysterious blue pools and warmer water. She informed us that if they could prove there was a subterranean thermal source to the lake, they’d be able to prevent the energy company from drilling. I applauded her eco- consciousness. She was extremely concerned that this scenic wonder might be harmed. The company is planning to drill within 5 miles of the lake itself. Will they pull the plug and drain Crater Lake? Is nothing sacred? The Bureau of Land Management should simply put a ban on the disturbing activity. Period. Without further ado. Cruising in the caldera made one giddy. Such an awesome landscape demands a small, pitiful human gesture. I halooed u p - several times—to a viewing platform on the rim. Our guide, in a participatory mode, suggested we do it in unison. We tried to get an echo to penetrate the formidable geologic palisade. As with Jim Turner, it did no good. Within the humongous caldera the human mind is humbled. What if Ma Nature should do her thing once again? The idea crosses your mind. If the boat capsizes, isn’t the snow- fed water too cold to swim ashore? Besides, the evil spirit in the lake would swallow one up. There is something eerie and unsettling about the blueness of Crater Lake.
Blue Oregon, Cascades. By Walt Curtis Photos by Fellow Travellers The poet in front of his Blue Hole. After our boat ride, I felt haunted by the magnificence of being so close to it. Close, hell! David leapt in and swam in the chilly, choppy water at Cleetwood Cove. No sissy, I followed! And was surprised by the bouyancy of the water. It was blue bubblebath, wafting and billowing my boney body. The Place o f Death id early Native Americans commit human sacrifices at Crater Lake? To appease the volcanic forces? Archaeological evidence shows Indians’ lives were interrupted by Mazama’s explosive end about 6,840 years ago. What atavistic IMazama emptied its volcanic chamber of more than 32 cubic miles of fiery magma, then collapsed in upon itself. Pleasant green canyons were turned into valleys of 10,000 smokes. and bloody racial memories are garbled in the Klamath-Modoc myths of Liao and Skell? Liao was the malevolent god of the underworld and the hero Skell was forced to do battle with him. Luckily, Skell’s ripped- out heart was returned to him. Regaining his strength, he tossed the pieces of Liao from high rocks to crawdads below. The head, landing last, became Wizard Island! At least, this surviving version appears in Blue Enchantment, The Story of Crater Lake, by Wayland Dunham. Sounds a bit romanticized. Perhaps local Indians fed whites the b.s. they wanted to hear! Carrol Howe, in Ancient Tribes o f Klamath County, claims Crater Lake was taboo to the Klamaths. Yet this same author was told by a chief of the tribal council that as a boy, h e ‘and a friend swam in the lake! Practically speaking, Crater Lake offered no game or fish. Only since white settlement have trout been planted in the lake. An excellent scientific description of Mt. Mazama’s demise is Stephan Harris’ Fire and Ice (The Cascade Volcanoes). The Mt. Adams-sized peak, 12,000 ft. high, ejected incredible amounts of gas-filled pumice. It emptied its volcanic chamber of more than 32 cubic miles of fiery magma, then collapsed in upon itself. Pyroclastic flows stretched 40 miles to Diamond Lake and far down Rogue River. Pleasant green canyons were turned into valleys of 10,000 smokes. A dust-smeared brave must have asked, “Why has Mother Earth disembowelled herself? Has the world ended?” Harris speculates that something else will occur at this place of death. Its postcaldera activity isn’t finished. Perhaps Wizard Island will blaze into new life, spitting clots of red-hot lava. The lake may fill and divide in two. Campfire Stories as Janey Scott ever in the Campfire Girls? Or i ) W Jan? Janey manifested i V w a self-reliance, if not downright indepen- dence! She refused i my help in setting up her one-person green nylon, jigsaw puzzle of a tent. Politely saying, “I want to learn to do it myself, in case I’m stuck someplace in the dark and alone.” Other damning evidence: both gals had a fondness for “snicks”—a sickeningly sweet combination of Hershey bar, Graham cracker and marshmallow. I was wood-gatherer and fire-starter at Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90 9
our main camp, called Mazama. Ten miles from Crater Lake, it adjoined the Annie Creek Canyon and nature trail. Glaciers had gouged it out, pyroclastic flows and fumaroles had sprouted grotesque spires. Now it was a wildlife sanctuary, named in honor of Annie Gaines, the first white woman to visit the area. For dinner Chimpie prepared his infamous burritos, between slugs of vodka. We yakked. Sharing our boating experience. Dark settled in. As the enamel orange coffee pot kept warm on the grate, sparks shot upward. I stoked the fire. Tribal peoples for Four of five voyagers, at the rim. countless millenia before the Ice Age have gathered in tight- knit circles allowing fire to ignite imaginations. Wafting aromatic wood smoke is both an irritant and an intoxicant. Janey started it off, demanding “stories.” She put pressure first on David and then on me. He elaborated upon my prospector themes, as Chimpie and Jan chimed in facetious questions! Spontaneously, I spoke of the lost Blue Wash Basin mine. Snaggle- .tooth Jackson trying to bushwhack Jim Browning at Spoof Creek. Convincingly, David told of a poor Yugoslav family who visited Crater Lake to obtain its magical water in clay pots. The .monster in the lake was very angry. He had black eyes, a huge mouth with red teeth. He almost grabbed one of the sons, but the father jammed a broken pot down the monster's'' throat. After begging to have the pot extracted, he gave them the healing elixir. When they reached shore, dad turned to look at son. The boy glared back with coal- black eyes and red teeth! Don't ask me why? Chills ran up and down our spines. I appreciated Janey’s enthusiasm for our mythmaking! She was a good sport. . . and unashamedly showed us her tatoo—a multicolored cornucopia extending S h e unashamedly showed us her tatoo— a multi- colored cornucopia extending outward from the pubic regions. A Campfire Girl wouldn’t do something ho rny like that, would she? outward from the pubic regions. A Campfire Girl wouldn’t do something horny like that, would she? Escape From Crater Lake hat about Powers’ hero? 1dare not reveal the secrets of his adventure. He used his wits and one good idea from Ben Franklin to pull him through. I’m hoping the book will soon be republished for all of us to share. (See list of Northwest classics!) Alfred Powers died at 96, after a long and successful life. Although he identified his major work with Oregon, I feel certain Powers would have embraced the concept of a regional literature. One which would encompass the Pacific slope—from British Columbia to Northern California. The entire region was called the Oregon Territory at one time and he chose to be buried at Lyle, Washington, iij the Balch Cemetery near Frederic Homer Balch who wrote The Bridge of the Gods. The titles of Powers’ 18 books are chiseled into granite on his gravestone. Having experienced the magic of his special place, we drove northward to seek solace for our bones, aching from several nights on hard ground. When we parked the car at Cougar Reservoir, we were eager for a good hot soak in a paradisical situation. I’ve been to a number of hot springs— Bagby, Breitenbush, Austin—Cougar Hot Springs on Ryder Creek was no less idyllic, except for the burned-out people. In the small green canyon, logs tumbled across it, four pools of descending temperature gracefully stairstep downward. Naked children played in the lower one, mothers nursed babies. Toward the top, near the origins of the hot springs, a hollowed out log trickled cold water. Adjacent was a small cave with green mud. Beside it, nicely carved on a flat stone was a cougar’s face. A naked longhair totally coated in green mud darted me schizophrenic looks and stayed in one spot muttering. He told' David, “I wish Icould dig back into the earth and find the source of this green mud! It’s really good for your skin.” A woman recognized him and bummed a cigarette. The center of attention was a calm fat man drinking 16- oz. cans of Old English ale. A 25-year-old woman, staggering like a zombie, stark naked, stumbled toward me up the path as I was leaving. A wicked scar zigzagged down her leg. The esthetics were getting to me. Human beings are making a mess of the natural world—right here in the Pacific Northwest. What would the transcenden- talist Henry David Thoreau do if he were alive today? Chain himself to a Forest Service gate? Handcuff himself to an energy drilling rig? Sabotage 20-mile-long drift nets strip-mining the fisheries of the Pacific? He’s the one who warned us: “InWildness is the Preservation of the World.” Early in the summer, friends and I walked into Opal Creek to witness old- growth Douglas firs which calmly and nobly stand in the shadow of loggers’ chainsaws. A hiker said there was a grove of Western red cedars, 700-years-old, threatened beyond the creek. Our society in Western America is less than 200-years-old and showing bpd signs of wear. Consumerist societies all over the world are gobbling irreplaceable resources higgledy-piggledy, Holland’s Books Used and Rare Reasonable Prices 11 -6 , Monday - Saturday 527 SID 12th, Portland (503 )224 -4242 GROOVY GIFTIES VISIT BOTH O f OUR STORES 616 SOUTHWEST PARK * ( 5 0 3 ) 2 7 4 - 1 7 4 1 • CLACKAMAS PROMENADE * ( 5 0 3 ) 6 5 3 - 2 6 3 0 * PO R T LA N D , O REGON Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90 Celebrating their 25th year of sharing traditional Irish music in this special Christmas Show. “Especially Impressive ”-N. Y. Times Thurs. December 7,8:00 p.m. ARLENE SCHNITZER CONCERT HALL r .<W Bl'.AVKRTON•GRESHAM.GATEWAY P A A A r n t /K K f t r m iu im -UIHIM n UAW ----- --------------“ ________E.SALEM -MILLPLUS 2 2 4 - 8 4 9 9 HAZELMIX | Tickets also available at PCPA box office 248-4496 For information: 274-1422
with no thought of future needs, esthetic or otherwise. Is Maya, illusion, leading the human race to Liao’s fate? The Blueness of It All W! hy does the blueness of Crater Lake remain in my imagination months later? The poem I tried to write, surging around in the jet boat, began by describing a blue hole. There is a feeling of hollowness, emptiness, elusiveness to it and its color. Scientists state that in the color spectrum blue and purple light rays have the shortest wave lengths but penetrate and diffuse the deepest. As the longer light waves fade out, the blue ones refract back to the surface through incredibly clear water. If a cup were dipped in it, the water brought to thirsty lips transparent. I think what body of water would be shockingly preturbs you about a big like this is its constant mutability—the wind and the patterns of light shift barely perceptibly yet surely every brief space of time. Crater Lake manifests subtle changes like those of human consciousness itself. The mind can’t keep Consumerist societies all over the world are gobbling irreplaceable resources higgledy- piggledy, with no thought of future needs, esthetic or otherwise. Is Maya, illusion, leading the human race to Liao’s fate? a r t & han dm a de p a p e rw o rk s PAPERMAKING ♦ PRINTMAKING * BOOK ARTS classes / supplies / custom papers I art WINTER ’90 CLASS SCHEDULE In cooperation with PSU/Continuing Education Jan 5- 6 & 19-20: Papermaking Applied I: ^ Traditional Process East & West Jan 12-13 & 26-27: Papermaking Applied II: Successful Methods Home/School/Studio Feb 2- 3 & 16-17: Papermaking Applied II: Paper Jewelry (Instructor: JOANN GILLES) Feb 9-10 & 23-24: Papermaking Applied II: Containers/Contents Mar 9-10: Papermaking/Book Arts I: Handmade Paper in Early Books &Incunabula (Saturday field trips to Rare Book Room, Multnomah County Library, Main Branch; and others TBA) , MARKLYNE offers slide talks, demonstrations, and hands-on workshops on papermaking,. printmaking, and the book arts, both in-studio or at your facility, for conferences, meetings, or groups. Call 281-5450 __________for registration & information__________ 4460SE15th and Holgate Rear en trance of Carpet C ity b u ild in g up with it! Only in the morning is it calm. That’s the time of day a Hindoo guru would immerse himself—merging with its spiritual blue essence. Finally, blue is the color of sadness, hinting of eternity. And what’s that if not death? When you look up, that same evanescence reflects back into your eyes from the azure sky. Water mirrors blue sky, and we’re caught in the cosmos in between. The space probe Voyager notes from beyond Neptune one lone blue dot in our part of the galaxy. Lonesome blue planet earth. Fie on energy drillers and economic speculators! Their greed corrosively eats holes in every part of the irreparable, mystic biosphere. We journeyed to experience a grand bit of unspoiled, primeval beauty—Crater Lake— and found it on the verge of despoliation. Walt Curtis, a native Northwesterner, has written for Clinton St. since its 1979 inception. His most recent story was a portrait of Poet Hazel Hall. Welcome back Clinton Street Quarterly. We've missed your wit, your words, your wide worldly perspective. From the folks at Red & Black Books 432 - 15th Ave. E. Seattle (206) 322-READ M-Th 10-8 ~ Fri & Sat 10-10 - Sun 12-8 Curtis Recommends A Dozen Great Northwest Books 1. Far Corner, A Personal View o f the Pacific Northwest by Stewart Holbrook. Debunking and delighting, the Portland historian writes of the Wobblies, Erickson’s Saloon, Aurora Colony, logging, and the myths and symbols of our special region of the U.S. Comstock paperback. Also recommended: Holy O ld Mackinaw . 2. Paul Bunyan by James Stevens. In a literary manner, Stevens popularized the mythical logger of American folklore (Alfred Knopf, 1925). He co-authored “Status Rerun,” a manifesto on the deplorable state of Northwest letters, with his close friend H.L. Davis. Comstock paperback. 3. The Egg A n d I by Betty MacDonald. Life on a Puget Sound chicken ranch. Ma and Pa Kettle are their closest neighbors. Cougar Hot Springs—a less-than idyllic finale. GREAT BOOKS ARE SITTING IN T H E C A TB IR D SEAT ! PORTLAND’S BEST AUTHORS ARE SITTING IN THE CATBIRD SEAT Make this an Oregon Holiday Season with Books by These and Other Wonderful Oregon Writers GVTBIRD 913 BPOADW.M. PODTLWD.OP.97205 2225817 This book is still a bestseller! A housewife’s eye-view of geoducks and other curiosities peculiar to our landscape, including the people. Harper and Row paperback. 4. The S e lec ted Poem s O f H aze l Hall is the crippled seamstress' marvelous work. Beth Bentley introduces this only volume of HaH in print, which needs to be amplified. An early feminist, her distinguished poetry deserves natiopal recognition once again. She is as good as Emily Dickenson. Ahsahta Press, Boise State University. 5. The D is tan t Music by Harold Lenoir Davis. This chronicle of the Mulock family and their relationship to the land is Davis’ last novel. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1936, he wrote as well as anyone in the Pacific Northwest, including Ken Geek Love - Katherine Dunn River Song - Craig Lesley Quotidian II - Gudrun Cable Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot - John Callahan Fear of Fly Fishing - Jack Ohman OPEN 7 DAYS A WEEK 913 SW Broadway 222-5817 Hours: M - Th: 9:30 AM - 9:30 PM, Fri: 9:30 AM -11 PM. Sat: 10:00 AM -11:00 PM, Sun: 10:00 AM - 9:30 PM Clinton St. Dec. '89-Jan. ’90 11
Kesey. Comstock paperback. H.L. Davis’ Honey In The Horn has justly been compared with the writing of Faulkner and Twain. 6. The Conquest, or the True Story of the Lewis and Clark Expedition by Eva Emery Dye. Dye popularized the expedition, creating a memorable feminist heroine in Sacajawea. She is the Northwest’s finest historical novelist, readable, upbeat, well-researched. Her books should be brought back into print so school kids could have a sense of Northwest'history. The Oregon Trail and all of that! Go to the library to read her work. 7. Life Am ongst The Modocs: Unwritten History by Joaquin Miller. A 17-year-old Oregon boy went to live with the gold miners and Indians near Mt. Shasta. From his experience would come an American classic. Miller himself would become the archetype of the Western man, making Buffalo Bill jealous. Urion Press paperback. Curtis Recommends A Dozen Great Northwest Books 8. The Bridge o f the Gods by Frederic Homer Balch, is reminiscent of Nathaniel Hawthorne. The missionary Cecil Grey has been drawn to the Northwest by a vision of the bridge and a need to convert the natives to Christianity. Himself a melancholy preacher, Balch died tragically of TB at 29. Binford & Mort. 9. Heavenly D iscourse by Charles Erskine Scott Wood. Can you imagine someone’s life spanning the era from the days of Chief Joseph to the bombing of Pearl Harbor? Wood’s satirical sketches, disgracefully out of print, would rock conservative minds even today. Intelligent, classical, radical, libertarian, “Ces” Wood is the patriarch of Portland arts and letters. 10. Insurgent Mexico by John Reed, the Northwest’s most internationally acclaimed author! What do we gringos know of the history of Mexico, our closest neighbor? John Reed was there, riding with Pancho Villa in 1913. Raw, passionate, poetic, the great journalist gives us a visceral, unforgettable account. Penguin paperback. 11. S k id Road by Murray Morgan. The first skid road, loggers’ Valhalla or bowery was located in Seattle. Where the human and wood debris were dumped in the bay! Ox teams skidded logs to Yesler’s mill. Doc Maynard took over, and the red- light district became legendary. Comstock paperback. 12. The Singing Creek Where The Willows Grow by Ben Hoff. This rediscovered childhood diary and biography is a standard for the re-issuing of Northwest classics! Opal is the “flower child,” charismatic and schizophrenic, who captivated readers of the Atlantic Monthly in 1920. She grew up in a Cottage Grove lumber camp, and is still alive in a mental hospital in London. Fascinating story! Ticknor & Fields. Books Bought & Sold The Great Northwest Bookstore 1001 S.W. Tenth Ave. Portland, OR 97205 #(503)223-8098 Monday-Saturday 11-7 • Sunday 12-5 THE IMAGE GALLERY TRADITIONAL FOLK ART SHOW -Ceramics, tapestries, rugs, baskets, wooden animals, carved chests, sculpture from Guatemala, Mexico, Africa, New Guinea, Thailand - and RECENT WORK BY GALLERY ARTISTS. HOLIDAY HOURS M - S 10:30 - 6, FIRST THURSDAY to 9 SUNDAYS IN DECEMBER, 1 -4 1026 SWMorrison Portland, Or. 97205 (503)224-9629 let Beard's frame a unique gift for your holiday giving BEARD FRAME SHOPS DOWNTOWN ON BROADWAY (Between Washington & Alder) 228-2288 YOUR PRINTING DESIGN CALLIGRAPHY 77 4 0 SW CAPITOL HWY IN MULTNOMAH 246-1942 O.P.l.'s 1989/90 "Catalog of Peace" isfull of holiday items, cards, calendars, clothing, gifts, games and books forall your "peacetime" shopping needs. For a free copy, write: Oregon Peace Institute 921 S.W. Morrison Portland, Oregon 97205 or call (503)228-7422 Visit us in the Galleria, corner o f S.W. 9th & A lder, in down town Portland! WE'VE MOVED!! TO 3208 SE HAWTHORNE Portland 231-3726 WEEKDAYS 1 2 -7 WEEKENDS 10 -5 Closed Tuesdays 12 Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90
fabulous retro clothing tons of menswear coI lectible costume iewelru rhinestones old mexican silver vintage watches EDCOX STUDIO VIEWINGS BY APPOINTMENT FASHION GALLERY 447-9667 619 WESTERN AVE. FIFTH FLOOR ! 98104 SEATTLE MILO 1822 Southwest Madison Tuesday- Friday 12-6 pm Portland 97205 226-0760 Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90 13
I Should Have Called Him Daddy Grabel Family Archives » ** « ** Last week I lay down on my own daughter’s bed To write a birthday tribute to my father. Seventy-five he turned that day. Still proud and so defiant, yet With time as foe, he cannot win. The bane of all the Grabels: forced defeat. A clan of brain-thick Leos. Men who would be king. Cowboy-loving, Bronx-born Jew, my Father met a man from Stockton During World War II who said to Move to Stockton when it’s through. “The soil’s rich; the money flows In carrots, maize and Tomatoes.” So my father moved to Stockton. Met a pretty Stockton Jew. She said he courted her with watches Diamond-frosted. He said she was Thin and cool. A rise above the Girls back home: large-lipped and Loud-mouthed. Thighs and arms as Thick as stew. By Leanne Grabel Photos from the My father said my brain grew quickly. Though too short and female, I was Cunning. How he gloated. How he crowed about my prowess. Then he sniffed potential. Rubbed his stubbled chin and started Plotting when I’d barely reached age Two. My father’s winning combination. How I loved to please him Lapping up his meager praises. You should have seen him strolling Up and down the urban streets on Rare vacations spent in major cities By the bay. My father/posture-perfect In his charcoal felt fedora cocked with Perfect fifties slant upon his Giant pride-filled head. A tower looming to my left He let me grip his fleshy hand. His fingernails were buffed and shined. I thought he was an act of nature. Not a man. He had a voice like molten lava Rumbling inches from my ears. Hawthorne Auto Clinic,Inc. Mechan ica l se rv ice and repa ir of im po rt and domes tic cars and l ig h t t r u c k s F IAT and P eugeo t s p e c ia l is ts 4307 S.E. Haw thorne Portland, Oregon 97215 appointments 234-2119 The Adobe Rose Cafe H IN O V M IT E E - S ST Y Y O L U E T N O E W EX M P E ER X I I E C N A C N E F OOD MONDAY-THURSDAY 4 pm -9 pm FRIDA/ & SATURDAY 4 pm -1 0 pm 1634 SE Bybee Blvd. 235-9114 Mexican Beer & Wine • Special Drinks • Desserts 14 Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90
IV Ill 0 ^ ^ Our Natural Food Begins w ith Natural Farming P.O.Box 568, 311 Dillard St. Concrete, WA 98237 200 853-8175 Fax 853 8353 Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90 15 Po r tia , OR 221 - tm But once I turned eleven, 1was Reeling. I was wanting boyfriends. And I thought my brightness scared them. So I scuffed and draped it. How my Father reeled and cast our bindings Off. It was an act that ripped the Cords that gave the Form to my young Heart. He used to strip the rollers from my Scalp at dinner. How I cried each Night at dinner. How I cried. He’d Barely open up his mouth. His Thick red lips. Volcanic father. Fire spewing. Then I heard him whisper to my Mother that he loathed me. Loathed the Mess of life I’d made. It was a Temporary mess. A youthful Mess. I’d merely flailed and lost my Footing. But my Father had no mercy. So I told my mother she should Leave him several times. My mother Tried to calm me. She said that he Barked but did not bite. I begged to Differ. He was Teething on my Tissues. if. ■ M Now my father walks with canes. A veteran of a dozen slicings. How he loves recuperations. It’s his only proof that he has Strength to beat the Odds. To keep on Healing. Now my father walks with canes and I can’t hear his rueful plaihtives. . I know that he’s trying hard to Show me that he loves me. But my Ears are still offended. So I Make it hard. I guess it’s Paybacks. Still he nears his Brink of passing. And I’ll mourn him madly. I would Love to call him Daddy. Play Flirtatious daughter games and Stroke his cheek and hug and Kiss his pate. I Hope my heart soon Opens and starts Heeding its directives. I can Feel it bleeding Bursting vessels. I am really trying because All he really did was have no Comprehension of the female Sex. The verb: To touch. The phrase: With warmth. The adverb: Softly. My regret is That I never Called him Daddy So Happy birthday, Daddy. I Love You. Poet Leanne Grabel lives in Portland, where she s raising a daughter of her own. An award-winning author in Clinton St, her last work in our pages was the poem “I Tipped a Toddler.” (ACADIAN ^fARM
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She threw herself down, full-length across the driveway, just as his foot hit the accelerator. She lay there, billeted, awaiting him. He remembered night flying in the Philippines, before the War, coming in too far down the runway and jamming the brakes to make that old P-26 roll. He gunned the car. THEM, 1956 By Martha Gies He hadn’t changed out of his clothes. He sat in a leather recliner, his dress shirt glaring white in the floor lamp’s cone of light. He was wearing the clip-on bow tie which he considered irresistible to juries. The latest Sports Illustrated lay unopened on his lap. In front of him, the big television console was silenced. He looked at his wristwatch, then tongued the warm brandy, receiving the fumes in his eyes and nose. Above him, a child galloped the length of the hallway. From the kitchen he heard the sharp jangle of a silverware drawer, yanked open by her. She dropped the silverware, hot from the dishwasher, into the drawer and slammed it. She worked artichoke leaves past the disposal’s rubber petals with a sterling silver dinner fork. Water sprayed the gathered waist of her yellow dress. She twisted loose three ice cubes and plunked them into a lowball glass. She splashed bourbon to the top and rattled the glass, spilling it. She drank, trying to listen for a sound of him in the living room. She shoved plates, water beading off them, into the rack of the dishwasher. Turning, she saw him in the kitchen doorway, tapping a Camel out of a fresh pack, his eyes on the garage door. “Oh no you’re not, goddamit!" she said. His lighter flamed and snapped shut. She let fly a Revere Ware saucepan, in the direction of the doorway yet not precisely at him. He laughed and withdrew to the living room, positioning himself near the foyer. Under cover of the diswasher’s grind, he quietly opened the heavy front door and slipped outside. He cupped the cigarette,' shielding its tiny red glow, and tracked soundlessly beneath the high kitchen window to the rear of the house. He backed the big silver car out of the garage and onto the paved circular driveway, satisfied he’d outmaneuvered her. She thought she heard the car’s engine beyond the splash of the wash cycle, and raced through the living room, out the front door, and into the path of his Continental. She threw herself down, full- length across the driveway, just as his foot hit the accelerator. She lay there, billeted, awaiting him. He saw her lovely body bloom yellow in his headlights. He whipped the wheel to the right, jumping the half-moon of a curb, and rode out over the picturebook grass, holding steady toward the broad ditch beyond the irises. He remembered night flying in the Philippines, before the War, coming in too far down the runway and jamming the brakes to make that old P-26 roll. He gunned the car, jumped the ditch, and snapped the wheel once again, skidding sideways onto the county road. Her recklessness excited him. He flew along toward town, relishing his desire for her. ♦ Writer Martha Gies, again a Portland resident, lived for several years in Seattle. Her last story in Clinton St. was “Warming to the Freeze,” Summer, 1982. A real estate professional: one who orchestrates the transaction to meet the needs and objectives of the buyer and seller. Bridgetown Realty 1431 NE Weidler Portland, OR 97232 287-9370 — established 1979 — PINE STREET CHIROPRACTIC 205 S.W. PINE W DOWNTOWN F l 274-0144 Where the healing arts meet the fine arts Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90 17
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