I finally made it to Seattle. Sixty-three days and 8433 miles around the US. I'm happy to be here. I'm always grateful and blessed to be around my sons, Alan and Aaron. They are my home - and it makes it all the better that they share the same house. Sunday is their mother Sara's birthday here. I've arrived at the right time.
I spent Tuesday, my last night on the road, in the Poor House.
McMenamin's Edgefield Resort in Troutdale, just east of Portland, Oregon, was actually the Multnomah County Poor Farm, built in 1911, and converted into a trendy resort in the early 90’s. (you can read the history below)
My mother loved this place - I think because she related to those who were disadvantaged, and thought she’d probably end up dying in the poor house. But as good fortune had it, that didn’t happen. The Kansas farm girl from the great American Depression, who left home alone at sixteen and made a better life for herself, ended her days in a modern hospital, with a couple million in the bank. She had a pretty good life. She raised good children (7)
By the time I got to Edgefield, late Tuesday afternoon, I was bushed. I just wanted to relax in the hot tub spa. I asked the gal at the desk about a room.
“We have a single king for $90 a night.”
“$90?” (my budget was around $60) “OK.” I wasn’t protesting. “I’m too tired to go anywhere else. Anyway, I’ve been looking forward to the spa.”
“Why don’t you stay in the hostel?" she offered. "It’s only $30 and you can use the spa and all the facilities. There’s twelve bunks in the room and only one other guy staying there. He goes to sleep at 8:00. I’ll give you the bunk on the opposite side of the room. You probably won’t even notice him.”
“Why not?” I’d spent so many nights sleeping in the back of a SUV; one night in a bunk house for $30 wouldn’t be a problem.
All the walls and doors are filled with murals
His name was Dallas. He was a good looking 52 year-old man from Bend, Oregon - lying on his bunk, wondering whether or not he was going to die from pancreatic cancer. They had removed the tumor, he said he was cancer free, and, for reasons I couldn’t understand, they were now pumping his body with chemotherapy. He felt as though the chemo was now killing him. He got up and told me more of the story - moved over and sat by the window. "I'm not sure why I have to go through this." When I told him they were apparently just after his money, he slammed his fist on the table and screamed, “I knew it!” We moved the conversation over to the Power House (pictured below) - and shared a drink - me an IPA and he - double shots of straight Vodka.
This was once the laundry room - now its a restaurant/pub
I loved the ambiance of Bend, Oregon. He didn’t like the town. He said the economy was an illusion, illustrated by the fact that he had to sell his $500,000 home for $300,000 - in order to pay for his cancer treatments. This man has a very high IQ (he said 175 - they say over 140 is genius) and a photographic memory. Not a normal person. He talked about all the things he wanted to do in life - he had books to write and so on - if it wasn’t for the cancer. He told me the story of his father, who owned Chateau Ste. Michelle winery and flew single engine airplanes. When Dallas was ten years old he watched his father, sister and two best friends come in for a landing. Right in front of him the plane rose up and then crashed. They all died. His father was wise enough to leave a will. On this 55th birthday Dallas will inherit something like 7 million dollars. He sat there at the table across from me, doubting he will live that long. 52 is way too young to die.
I really liked this man. In the morning he was hunched over and didn't look good at all. He told me he was scared; he was obviously in pain. I offered to drive him to the hospital, but he felt he had a least enough strength to drive himself. He was proud. We went down and sat on the front porch of the poor house and talked about cancer. He seemed so lonely, and I struggled with how drawn in I wanted to be. We were just strangers who shared a bunk room. Or were we? How responsibly am I for my brother, any brother, in pain? If we are truly one - would I leave myself there in misery? It was time for me to return home to Seattle, and I was willing to drive him to the hospital, which he turned down.I felt all I could do was bolster his life urge over his death urge. I suggested that he stop feeding his cancer with sugar. I told him that smoking marijuana was a much better way to alleviate the pain than vodka. He didn't like the thought of getting high. He had no idea that cancer cells thrives on a diet of sugar (most doctors don't) - even vodka.
“Why don’t they tell us these things?” He almost whined.
“The doctors and hospitals are like cancer," I offered. "They thrive on your money. You’re their sugar.”
"Oh shit."
I hope Dallas does stay in touch with me. He is a colorful person, with an important story to tell. There was sweetness in his voice as he spoke on the phone with his 73 year-old mother, a lively woman who walks around Palm Springs with her neighbor Magic Johnson. Even in pain he looks for opportunities to give - like from his box in the back of his Mercedes - collector Barbie dolls he gives away to make women happy, even that morning. The world is always blessed by the lives of colorful people like Dallas from Bend, Oregon.
I know that cancer isn’t a happy subject to write about - but it's certainly a part of being genuine and real. I'm not just an innocent fool - I'm aware and knowledgable. My mother and lots of others I was close to died of cancer, and I've spent quite a bit of time doing my homework. There exists a whole lot of mis-information - ignorance - surrounding the conventional medical approach to the treatment and cure of cancer. When I left Dallas I said to him, “Google ‘Alive and Well,’ and read the testimonials of people who beat terminal cancel by simply eliminating sugar from their diet. Once you have the information you'll use it or not. It will then be a question of how important it is for you to continue living.”
Traveling around the United States has fortified my ‘life urge.” I want to see more, write more, visit more people, make more friends - love more. Maybe one day I will meet a woman, a lover companion, who will share these adventures with me - even though, and maybe because of the fact that I’m a silly old fool. But that isn’t as important as my learning to truly love myself - love my life and the wonders of all existence. It appears to me that I will enjoy it all more - being alive - then being dead. So what does it take to keep on living?
I will be working on the answer to that question for the rest of my long life, so help me God.
These blogs will continue. I have more stories to tell, and if you are still interested, I'd love to keep sharing them to you. Below is the story of Edgefield.
With continuing love and blessings,
David Dakan Allison
At Edgefield, during its seven-decade run as a poor farm, a remarkable array of personalities congregated under its roof: sea captains, captains of industry, school teachers, ministers, musicians, loggers, nurses, home builders, homemakers, former slaves and slave owners. There were Germans, Italians, Japanese, Chinese, Native Americans, African Americans; Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, and Buddhist. Frankie of "Frankie and Johnny" notoriety was there. The nephew of celebrated Confederate General Stonewall Jackson surpassed age 100 while at Edgefield. The one common thread among them was, at one time (and perhaps others) in their lives, each needed a "leg up."
Many of the residents, or inmates as they originally were called, supplied the labor for the 300+-acre farm. Overseen by a succession of well-seasoned, college-educated farm supervisors, Edgefield was a model of agricultural efficiency and production. The fruit, vegetables, dairy, hogs, and poultry raised on property was sufficient for feeding the population at the poor farm, as well as the county hospital and jail. Many years, surplus quantities were canned and sold on the open market.
Perhaps the greatest challenge for the farm supervisor was maintaining an adequate and capable labor force. Field "workers" were constantly coming and going and of course none were hired for their farming expertise. Outside labor gangs were periodically contracted-farm students, prisoners, prisoners of war, even some of Oregon's first Braceros (migrant workers from Mexico)¬-to supplement the on-site force.
The Great Depression was one notable period when the labor supply was not an issue. In the early 1930s, when so many people needed "legs up," Edgefield's population swelled to over 600, nearly double its normal number. Closets were converted and residents put three or more to a room in an ongoing effort to accommodate the great demand. The poor farm's basement quickly emerged as a veritable bazaar made up of booths operated by the legions of unemployed craftsmen and artisans living upstairs. The pool of talent and services available in those basement booths drew faithful patronage from Portland customers.
In the 1940s, when World War II put Americans back to work, Edgefield's population shrank considerably, and those who remained were many Depression-era residents who had number of residents who had reached an advanced age or state of incapacity to prevent their departures. To better suit these needs, in the Post War years, Edgefield took on more of a role of a nursing home and rehabilitation center, though the farm operation continued through the 1960s.
In the 1970s, Edgefield saw fewer incoming patients as private nursing homes and in-home care became more accessible with the rise of Welfare and Medicaid. A shrinking population and a complex of aging buildings in need of daunting repairs forced the decision to close the old poor farm. In April 1982, the last patients were relocated and the place was locked up, though not too securely.
For the remainder of the 1980s, the elements and vandals¬-mostly bored teenagers¬-wreaked havoc on the property. Burst pipes sent water everywhere, windows were broken, every surface was spray painted with graffiti, and everything not bolted down was stolen. The place that for decades had been a refuge for thousands of needy souls was now a liability to the county. Arrangements to demolish the building were put in place.
It would have happened, too, if it weren't for those pesky Troutdale Historical Society folks who decried such a move a "foul and unjust fate!" These courageous and resolute history-minded folks waged a five-year fight to save. Once victory was theirs, however, the bigger battle began: Who wants an old poor farm, anyway? A listing with a New York auction house prompted exactly no bids.
Enter brothers and Portland sons, Mike and Brian McMenamin. Amongst the ruins of Edgefield they saw a fabled gathering spot, a village populated by artists, artisans, gardeners, craftspeople, musicians, and folks from surrounding communities. The people holding the purse strings didn't see it.
General confusion reigned amongst the moneylenders. They felt Mike and Brian's proposal was a somewhat vague and decidedly different direction for the brothers, who to that point had opened a handful of neighborhood pubs in the Portland area. By 1990, though, the pair had developed a pretty good sense about the philosophy and verse of pubs, having opened their first in 1974.
On their journey of discovery, the brothers' definition and expectations of a pub broadened. At the absolute core is a welcoming gathering spot for people of all ages. It needn't depend on trendy décor; rather the people who have gathered and their conversations create the finest atmosphere (though, good music, good beer and good food often will enhance the experience). From this core, radiated such new rays as breweries, movie theaters, lodging rooms, artwork and history. But all this proved to be just a foundation for what a pub could be.
Braced with some experience, brimming with ideas and enthusiasm, and given a proverbial blank canvas with Edgefield, all that was needed was financing. The money finally came when two separate banks agreed to loan the brothers enough to accomplish the first stage. When (if?) that was completed, additional funding would be forthcoming. WaHoo!
First came the winery, in 1990. The following year saw the opening of a brewery, and the Power Station pub, movie theater and McMenamins first venture into lodging: eight rooms. Through word of mouth and minimal advertising, people started to come-despite the property's then remote location on a county road, 16 miles distant from the company's Portland customer base.
And the people came, the McMenamins' faithful, disciples of the then-raging Microbrew Revolution. They were curious about this big new adventure, tolerant of the tumble down condition of the rest of the property, and thirsty for a good brew!
This initial spurt of success allowed the adventure to continue: renovation of the main lodge into hotel rooms, specialty bars, a fine dining restaurant, and inventive event spaces. Also, wondrous gardens, artisans shops, concerts, big and small, and golf.
Every salvageable building, shed, and outbuilding of the old poor farm that could be found beneath the rampant wild blackberries was saved. The mechanics facility became a festive event space called Blackberry Hall. The root cellar-turned stable found new life as the Distillery and clubhouse for the golf course. The delousing shed was reborn as the Black Rabbit House bar. Even the poor farm incinerator got a creative transformation into the Little Red Shed, prototype of McMenamins' long line of small bars to follow.
A blending of art and history has become another of the property's attractions, another McMenamins' first that germinated at Edgefield. A team of more than a dozen artists was turned loose on the place, armed with tales and photos of the poor farm, its residents, and the surrounding area, with the directive to celebrate the rich past while doing away with the property's institutional feel. Now, it's hard to find a surface not enlivened by an artistic flourish and nod to the past.
McMenamins Edgefield continues its emergence as a pub of a most delightfully broadened definition, a village of artisans and publicans. The ever-evolving mélange of personalities, events, landscape and architecture makes for a truly extraordinary setting, inseparable from its poor farm past, and soon to be augmented by new lodging rooms in the 1962 county jail facility, and who knows, maybe a 360-degree bar in the old farm silo
Poorhouses were tax-supported residential institutions to which people were required to go if they could not support themselves. They were started as a method of providing a less expensive (to the taxpayers) alternative to what we would now days call "welfare" - what was called "outdoor relief" in those days. People requested help from the community Overseer of the Poor ( sometimes also called a Poor Master) - an elected town official. If the need was great or likely to be long-term, they were sent to the poorhouse instead of being given relief while they continued to live independently. Sometimes they were sent there even if they had not requested help from the Overseer of the Poor. That was usually done when they were found guilty of begging in public, etc.
[One misconception should be cleared up here; they were not technically "debtors' prisons." Someone could owe a great deal of money, but if they could still provide themselves with the necessities for remaining independent they might avoid the poorhouse.]
