afraid to show himself. He still makes up his world as he goes along. My most treasured memory is of Clark dancing naked around a November morning fire, camped hunting elk in the Grande Ronde River canyon over in the northeast corner of Oregon. He’d just gotten up, and he ran out to the fire to warm up, utterly unabashed in his skin, big chest tapering toward the ankles, swinging his arms about and blowing frost. Father Christmas without the red longjohns. To tell the truth, I was stunned to learn Clark was willing to give up his sweet life to offer himself to politics. My image of Bud at his happiest is hosing maple leaves off the Goose parking lot, smiling in short pants, content in golden autumn. I’ve seen Bud as close as any but John Forsstrom, his best pal and business partner, or Sigrid, his symphony violinist, antique shop owner, tough-head wife. I remember Bud’s boyish, winning face from high school, when he and Joel and Frank were cheerleaders their junior year. He was in Hi-Y at Lincoln, the best club then. All the rich kids from Portland Heights belonged. Clark may have been the poor latch-key boy who had to stoke the apartment house boiler in the morning before he went off to school, but he hung around with the in-crowd once he got there. You'll already have read that he tried Vanport College and Oregon State briefly, then joined the Marines for the Korean War. Perhaps his being a jarhead but never having to kill anybody is important. On the tavern matches there’s always been a slogan about fighting with words, not fists, “...dedicated to extremes of opinion hoping that a liveable marriage will result. If physical violence is your nature either develop your verbal ability or leave.” Yet, I’ve seen Clark physically throw guys out of the place. Peacefulness and a temper vie in that chest. After the Marines he worked for a ship chandler, went to Reed for a couple of years, tried this, tried that, ran away from home once, got married, was an exterminator for an outfit called Doc Kilzum, worked as a waiter at Jerry’s Gables, started his own exterminator outfit (called it Aardvark). Finally he and Joanne opened the Spatenhaus. Right away the place picked up a fine city-wide clientele. Beards rubbing elbows and ideas with suit-and-briefcase types, thus creating the best graffiti in town, a lot of good-looking men and women flowing through and the regulars trolling for whatever interested them, sex or money, arguments or ideas. Bums and brahmin from all over Stumptown. When the city notified him they were turning his block into the Forecourt Fountain, Clark agonized for months over where to move. He asked everyone, consulted us like sages, then bought the joint he’d wanted in the first place, Ann’s Tavern up under Suicide Bridge in Goose Hollow, a somewhat overlooked clot of old houses and low rent just west of downtown, snuggled against the green mother hills, nuzzling the cleft of Tanner Creek Canyon. A little two-room shanty with a leaky roof—Clark and I spent a lot of rainy hours on that damn roof—and plenty of free parking. When he moved, his clientele moved with him. He lost no more than a good bartender would spill. He'd just gotten up, and he ran out to the fire to warm up, utterly unabashed in his skin, swinging his arms about and blowing frost. Father Christmas without the red longjohns. You want to know what kind of a guy Bud is? For years he’s been allowed to stay open until 2:30 but has chosen to close at 1:30 a.m., which seems to him a reasonable time for people to go home to bed. Closes the taps at 1, and givet. the people another half an hour to finish their drinks and go home. Sells beer and wine, never hard stuff. Lets the staff decide whether to stay open on major holidays. The staff are in a class by themselves. Each unique, attentive, utter'v your equal, well paid and willing to earn ;t. The worst you could say is that Clark is sometimes a trifle slow to recognize a bad apple. That is probably less important in a beer joint than a city government, but his old friend George Lee will take care of the nuts and bolts, and trust the ever- modest George to remain clear headed. At the tavern, Clark has always worked a shift or two a week. At city hall he’ll ride around in the squad cars and taste the cafeteria chow, he’ll know the janitor by name instead of just the lobbyist, and listen to whoever has something worth hearing. Did I mention that Clark is utterly honest? He uses, repairs and possesses a mountain of material goods, but doesn’t care a fig for them. If he has greed I’ve never seen it. Fundamentally, he wants to feed the people, offer them good nourishment and help them to be happy. That’s what running a pub is all about, after all. But Clark also has spent more than a decade doing meals on wheels every week. I watched him go into the seedy slum rooming houses across the street from my place, carrying plastic trays of steaming food up the narrow stairways and down the dark corridors, to feed the old and sick and lame. I knew some of the old men in those smoke-yelAffordable Cotton Clothing from Around the World Maternity Dresses Folk Art & LATIN AMERICAN IMPORTS SW Portland 246-3417 Hillsdale Shopping Center next to VVilson High School Gift Boxes scents.^ Total Bath, Beauty and Body Care We have nice gift boxes in several sizes for you to fill with items of your choosing, or with our special assortments of goodies from Uncommon Scents. 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