The Politics of Public Ventures

By John Cabeen Beatty

Two centuries after Lewis and Clark paddled down the Columbia Gorge so vividly pictured on the books cover, Jack Beattys memoir describes how young veterans of WW II moved into Oregons political life, revived the Democratic party, cooperated with young Republicans and forced legislative reapportionment. Months later Beatty defended the constitutional amendment from legal challenge. As counsel to the Democratic Party and later as a lawyer Jack dealt with Oregons two combustible Democratic senators, Wayne Morse and Richard L. Neuberger, then with Senator Maureen Neyberger elected to succeed her husband following his untimely death. Beatty suggested Sidney I. Lezak as Oregons U.S. Attorney to Congresswoman Edith Green. Lezaks appointment was famously blocked by Senator Maureen Neuberger for a year.
Practicing law, co-chairing Robert Kennedys Oregon campaign for the presidency, Beatty served six years on the Portland School Board leading that urban district through the difficult late sixties. Governor Tom McCall appointed him to the Circuit Court, Governor Robert Straub appointed him to his Task Force on Corrections which proposed major changes in criminal law. Chief Justice Denecke made Judge Beatty legislative spokesman for the Judicial Conference and vice chair of the Commission for the Judicial Branch in the great restructuring of Oregons courts in the 1980s.
Retiring from the court in 1985, Beatty served until 1990 as Vice Chair of the Criminal Justice Council under former Speaker Hardy Meyers in a massive reformation of Oregons criminal sentencing process. In 1996 Judge Beatty chared a Portland City Club study of the Oregon Initiative which proposed major limitations to that constitutional process.
A candid description of history in the making, this memoir is also a concise description of the role of judging and the complex problems of our criminal justice system.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781469108612

John Cabeen Beatty

Jack Beatty is a lawyer, senior judge, WW II artillery captain with a lifetime engagement in public affairs. An Oregonian, he lives in Portland's west hills writing novels and poetry on subjects ranging from Rome and Gaul to WW II, Iraq, torture and the Rule of Law.

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Copyright © 2010 by John Cabeen Beatty.

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Contents

PREFACE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1  The beginning:

Dunthorpe and Riverdale School

CHAPTER 2  Leavening the student body at Princeton

CHAPTER 3  Into the Air Corps and out to the Field Artillery

CHAPTER 4  A green lieutenant in a new division

CHAPTER 5  Final training and overseas

CHAPTER 6  Normandy and the battle for Cherbourg

CHAPTER 7  Turning the German flank

CHAPTER 8  North Wind, the German counter attack in Alsace

CHAPTER 9  Crossing the Rhine, Occupation

and home

CHAPTER 10  New York and Columbia Law School

CHAPTER 11  Portland, the practice of law and politics

CHAPTER 12  The Dusenbery office, Korea and the trial of William Culp

CHAPTER 13  Explorations, Meadow Lake, the City Club, and boating

CHAPTER 14  Reapportionment, The Neubergers and Mrs. Green,

CHAPTER 15  Roseburg explodes, the Portland School Board

CHAPTER 16  Voyages north, Viet Nam

and Robert Kennedy

CHAPTER 17  Taking the bench, and the Circuit Court

CHAPTER 18  The Governor’s Task Force and the Judicial Conference

CHAPTER 19  House Judiciary, the 1977 and 1979 Legislative Sessions

CHAPTER 20  The Commission on the Judicial Branch, and State funding

CHAPTER 21  The Prison Overcrowding Project, Leaving the bench,

CHAPTER 22  The Criminal Justice Council, and the Harrington Investigation

CHAPTER 23  The end of the road

APPENDIX A

APPENDIX B

APPENDIX C

Aeneas warned them, sitting in the sun,

Old soldiers all, their backs against the wall,

The residue of Greek and Roman wars.

"You! Yes, none of you have dreams to spare.

They are but passing triumph over Time

Whose knotted cords are slowly strangling you.

Yet while you live, you dream in present tense

Composited of past experience

And ripened into life within your skulls.

The rest is darkness known but to the gods."

They nodded, relicts of their ancient wars,

Just as we also nod, the detritus

Of recent wars. We dream much as he said.

PREFACE

This memoir is a series of recollections: growing up, military service, raising a family, practicing law, serving as a judge and engaging in a variety of public activities with interesting men and women. The details of personal life will interest only family. However, my recollection of public and professional matters and the men and women with whom I have had the good fortune to work on schools, courts and government may provide useful background and a picture of how some important changes came to pass.

I think of tackling public problems as public ventures, and the art by which we try do this as politics, hence the title. Politics at its best enables us to create and manage a civil society to the extent we are able to do so. In writing about these matters I have undoubtedly overlooked some men and women who should be credited and failed to reflect fully the role played by others. In any event, all I can claim is that these are my recollections of life, and events and some of the remarkable men and women with whom I have worked in the Twentieth Century.

John Cabeen Beatty, Jr.

September 1, 2009

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

William M. Frick, of Riverside, CT, a forward observer who served in both A and B Batteries of the 310th Field Artillery, reviewed the chapters dealing with the campaign in Northern France and Alsace. Robert Weiss, of Portland, OR, a forward observer in B Battery, 230th Field Artillery, reviewed the sections dealing with the campaigns in France and Germany.

Retired Chief Justice Edwin J. Peterson of the Oregon Supreme Court was good enough to review the sections dealing with the courts and the criminal justice system making a number of valuable suggestions.

Barnes H. Ellis, who chaired the Commission on the Judicial Branch, read the entire text making corrections and valuable suggestions.

Barbara Sepenuk volunteered to read and proofread the text making innumerable corrections and suggestions. I am solely responsible for any corrections that I failed to enter or introduced into my computer after the text left her accomplished hands.

In a different sense I am also indebted to the men and women whose names appear in the text as initiators, contributors and collaborators in the various adventures in law, public education and politics which I describe.

Finally, my thanks to my legal secretary and judicial assistant, Susan Rommel, and to the night law students at Lewis and Clark’s Northwestern College of Law who clerked for me during my service on the circuit court including Judge Anna J. Brown of the United States District Court for the District of Oregon. Their assistance and support made many of these legal, legislative and judicial ventures possible.

John Cabeen Beatty,

Daughters have I, they are three,

All rich in their variety,

And unlike Lear, I happily

Can keep my peace or loose my tongue

Quite unrestricted by these young,

And so with love I dedicate

This memoir of my earthly state

To these three daughters who deserve

Some recompense for their reserve.

Clarissa Jean Beatty

Barbara Shearer Meiers

Joan Shearer Baker

CHAPTER 1

The beginning:

Dunthorpe and Riverdale School

My father, John C. Beatty, was born and raised in Ravenna, Ohio. On graduating from high school, he received an unexpected appointment to West Point. He graduated from the academy in 1911 and was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the regular army. My mother, Jean Morrison Beatty, was the daughter of Dr. Albert Alexander Morrison, a native of Scotland who came to Portland from Brooklyn, New York in 1898 to became the rector of Trinity Church, a position he then held for thirty years. My grandmother, Caroline Conover Morrison, was a native of New Jersey.

Following graduation my father was posted to the 4th Field Artillery Regiment, then located at Vancouver Barracks, Washington. Shortly after his arrival he met my mother at a party in Portland. Following a prolonged courtship extending from 1912 to 1918, during which he served in the Philippines and other posts, they were married in June of the latter year. I was born on April 13, 1919 in Washington, D. C. where my father was stationed with the Ordinance Department at the close of World War I.

In 1920 my father was retired from the regular army for disability due to an injury to his ankle sustained in the Philippines in 1913. He brought his new family back to Portland where Jean had family and friends. He wanted to study law but could see no way to finance law school. He got a job as a salesman with the National City Company, an investment subsidiary wholly owned and controlled by the National City Bank. His job was to sell stock and bonds about which he knew nothing. With my mother’s help he made lists of friends and acquaintances upon whom he could call, and then he made those calls. It was a difficult transition for him. He was not a natural salesman. But with grim determination he went to work.

Together with my Aunt Margaret and Uncle Tom Sharp, my parents rented a house owned by Helen Ladd Corbett on lower Military Road, four miles south of Portland. This large, white frame house had a broad covered porch which ran around the west and north side. The foundations of the porch and the house itself were screened by gray lattice. In one of my earliest impressions, when I was perhaps two years old, I recall sitting under an apple tree in the yard with Pauline, our German maid. Wearing a white starched apron, she was peeling long spirals of apple skin and feeding me slices of apple. The lawn was broad and sloped down to overgrown shrubbery and a house where Judge Gilbert and his family lived. The Gilberts raised ducks and gave us duck eggs from time to time.

I recall crawling under the legs of the mahogany dining room table which originally belonged to my Aunt Margaret Sharp. I remember a cat hiding under the porch and refusing to come out, perhaps frightened by our terrier Spot. The Peter Kerr girls, Ann and Jane, lived in what is now called the Bishop’s Close at the end of Military Lane. They walked past our house daily on their way to and from Riverdale School. One day they carried to our door the body of Spot who had been struck by an automobile and killed. Faber Lewis, a boy three or four years older than I, lived in a large brick house across the street. Faber contracted infantile paralysis several years later and lost the use of his arm. I remember my mother speaking of this sadly.

My mother took me on daily walks through the Kerr gardens to a winding gravel path which ran through dark and mysterious places with ferns and trees down to Riverwood, a hundred or more feet below. The Kerrs had a small swimming pool and several fish ponds with gold fish. Another path ran more directly from our house down the hill to the Red Train stop in Riverwood, and from my mother’s bedroom window we could look directly down the path. The winter I was two and a half, I remember my father coming home after dark. We heard the whistle of the Red Train down the hill from us, then the screech of brakes as it came to a stop. A few minutes later, my father would come whistling up the path. While we waited for him, if the stars were out, my mother would repeat Twinkle, twinkle, little star to me.

I only remember riding once on the Red Train, although I must have been taken on it more often than that. I had to urinate and my mother held me up to the small hand basin and insisted that I use it rather than the toilet. I did, but I thought this was an awful thing to do. Other than these episodes, my early impressions are of warmth emerging from darkness, arms about me, my mother reading or telling stories and nursery rhymes. She is a constant presence. My father comes and goes. His mustache tickles. His suits are wool and scratchy.

A local artist, Lucy Ramberg had previously done a lovely pastel portrait of my mother which hung in the Trinity Rectory where my grandparents then lived. When I was about two, she did another of my mother and myself. All I remember of the business is being taken to a dark building and put into an alcove raised above the floor. I hated whatever was going on and cried. Some sixty years later, Mrs. Ramberg’s son, who was cataloguing his mother’s work, called on me to arrange a view of the pastel now over our mantelpiece and the oil now in Jean Beatty’s house.

*

One day my father came home with a 1921 Buick roadster, the family’s first automobile. He called it our car, and I considered that I was a part owner and felt enormous pride of ownership. I remember driving with my father into Portland to Union Station to meet Major Rucker, a friend who had served with him in the Philippines. The silver cup in which I drank my milk was a gift from Major Rucker, so I was told. I stood on the front seat of the Buick between the two of them as we drove home along the long stretch of Macadam Road which looked then very much as it does now, with the forested hill to the west and the fringe of tall firs to the east lining the bank of the Willamette River.

The first Christmas I remember was in 1922. There was a large Christmas tree in the living room and under it was a round circle of track with a small brown electric engine. My mother told me many years later that my father spent half the night trying to get it to run. Auntie Marg and Uncle Tom Sharp eventually left us and took an apartment in the Bell Court on Trinity Place. The Corbett house had a detached barn, originally designed for a carriage, in which the Buick was stabled. On the side nearest the house was a high brick walled rose garden which I longed to enter but which for some reason was always kept locked.

The Corbett house is gone. The property, several acres in extent, was divided after the Second World War, and three or four houses were built upon it. All I remember of the interior is a narrow back stairway, a large front hall, a broad main stairway to the second story with a landing and reversed second flight of stairs. Auntie Marg’s room was on the west side, my mother and father’s bedroom lay on the east side. I have no recollection of my own room.

My Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Donald Green lived in Garthwick, a recently developed gated community between Sellwood and Waverly Country Club, across the Willamette River. One winter day my mother took me in the Buick Roadster and drove down Macadam Road to the Sellwood Ferry which operated at the site of the present Sellwood Bridge. It was a frosty morning. The ferry was in the middle of the river, and my mother drove on to the sloping plank landing, the first car to await the ferry. The planks were covered with ice and the car began sliding toward the water. My mother opened the car door intending to throw me out before the car slid into the river. Fortunately, the tires finally caught and stopped the slide. Three quarters of a century later I found an Oregon Historical Society photograph of the ferry taken from the same angle as we had approached it on that frosty morning.

*

During our last year in the Corbett house, the state built a new section of highway 99 W, which crossed Military Road a short distance above the Corbett house and ran up to the top of the cliff overlooking the Willamette and bordering Dunthorpe. The new section bypassed the original route, now called Breyman Avenue, which curved and twisted sharply up the hill, then ran south past Riverdale School, then angled back to the cliff at the intersection with Greenwood Road. At the same time my mother and father were building a house on a one acre site at the southwest corner of the intersection of Greenwood Road and the Pacific Highway. We moved in before anything in the way of landscaping had been accomplished. The house was surrounded with mud and the flotsam and jetsam of construction. For a time we reached the front door by walking on planks.

Dunthorpe then was largely undeveloped. The roads had been platted and probably paved before the First War, but there were only five or six houses by 1922. At the top of Greenwood Road lived the Elliot Corbetts, the Tony Ladds, and the Harry Corbetts. Below the Harry Corbett property, on the west slope of the hill, was the farm of Old Mr. Tatfer, as we called him. South of our house and next door to us, the Anderson family built a house a year or two later, and a quarter mile south on Edgecliff road was the Conover family whose son Townsend was about my age and came to play with me. Mr. Conover had a model T Ford which he had to crank to start in the morning. We could hear it sputter and backfire when he got ignition.

Riverwood, Riverdale and Palatine Hill had been settled to some extent prior to World War I, but Dunthorpe was still covered with second growth fir already seventy or eighty years old. The big old growth had been logged in the 1870’s and 1880’s, some burned to provide charcoal for the iron smelter in Oswego. The woods were spotted with the remains of old charcoal pits. Our own property still had several old growth stumps six feet in diameter rising six to eight feet above ground with steps chopped into the trunks for buckboards on which men stood to handle the saw for the first cut. Generally, such stumps were split with dynamite, then burned, and the remains were finally dragged out by a team of horses.

Old Shopper, a husky old man with a walrus mustache, blue overalls, and a dirty broad brimmed hat, did much of the clearing work after we had moved in. Each morning he came with his team of horses up from Oswego using a wagon track through the Tryon Creek woods rather than the highway. I got my finger pinched poking a tall mole trap on the Isaac’s property just to the west of us, and Mr. Shopper laughed unsympathetically, saying that would teach me not to fool with mole traps.

In those early years the neighborhood was a fascinating place for small boys. Basements were dug by horse drawn scoops. Rocks were blasted. Cement was mixed for the foundations, and then the carpenters went to work. We tagged around the workmen, hauling off pieces of scrap wood to use in building shacks. We watched the lathers and the shinglers who worked with their mouths full of nails, swiftly swinging the hammer with one hand as the other hand delivered a nail for the precise stroke. The smell of a house being built was a mixture of newly turned earth, drying concrete and plaster, fir boards, and cedar shingles. On week-ends we climbed through these houses until the doors were installed, and we were locked out. These were nearly all large houses with no uniform style but a generally pleasing aspect which is still evident to the extent the overgrown hedges permit observation. Nearly all were two stories high and designed with back stairs and quarters for at least one servant.

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The Tryon forest extended from Edgecliff and Iron Mountain Roads all the way down to Tryon Creek and up its south bank to the margin of old Oswego Village. The woods were traversed by Shopper’s wagon road which came out near the Tryon Creek highway bridge at the outskirts of Oswego. The Tryon woods were also crossed by a number of trails. The timber, as I have said, consisted largely of fir but with occasional patches of cedar and a growth of alder along the creek. In several small meadows grew purple lupine, wild honeysuckle, camas, daisies, wild rose, and clumps of wild iris. The forest floor was covered with trillium, johnny-jump-up and violet. Tryon Creek was said to have no fish, but one day my Uncle Tom Sharp, who could catch fish anywhere, disproved this truth by catching a ten inch trout. The creek also had lots of crawfish, but my mother did not consider them suitable for family consumption.

As Dunthorpe grew, much of the timber was retained by those who built their homes, and the Tryon Creek woods remained inviolate until after World War II when they were threatened with logging and development. In the face of this threat, Borden and Lou Beck, to their everlasting credit, led a successful campaign to create Tryon Creek State Park, which now covers the greater part of the forested area.

*

The summer I was three, we spent a month in a cottage at Long Beach, Washington. We drove down the lower Columbia River Highway in the roadster with Spot in a fruit crate strapped to the running board. I cried when it rained en route because Spot in his crate was getting wet. At Astoria we drove on board the ferry, which crossed the Columbia estuary to Megler on the Washington side. From there we drove to Seaview, one of the settlements on the Long Beach peninsula. A narrow gage steam railroad also ran from Megler to Oysterville which lay on the Willapa Bay side of the peninsula.

One memorable day my father sent me to walk the railroad tracks to the store to buy a newspaper. Clutching the nickel in my hand, I trudged up the tracks, bought the paper and returned to our cottage triumphant. I should note that the train only ran twice a day at a fixed time so the tracks were as safe a route as could be found.

Another day, my father, wearing his gray and black West Point sweater built a log arch on the beach and photographed me and another boy on it. Once we walked south on the beach to the rocks below Cape Disappointment and I retain a picture of us there. It was common in those days to drive an automobile on the hard wet sand of the beach. We took the roadster down on the beach on one occasion and ran into soft sand. Someone, either my mother or father, murmured, Quicksand! and I sensed panic. Wheels spinning we made it back to hard sand.

The year I was four, I came down with whooping cough and did not recover quickly. I had trouble keeping food down except for bananas. My mother took me up to a small hotel or boarding house in Hood River for several weeks to experience the fresh air and sunshine which was then thought to be more beneficial than the climate of Portland. I remember my mother pointing out the fish wheels which operated at the apex of nets and scooped up salmon by the hundreds, so she said.

When I was five we spent the summer with the Hartwells at their cabin at Neakahnee. To get there we drove down the road to Tillamook, then took a corduroy or plank road for many miles across the flood plain to reach Neakahnee. Tory Hartwell was a year younger than I, but she was allowed to chew gum. I prevailed in my demand to chew gum also, Beemans I think it was. I promptly got my first wad of gum stuck in my throat. As I choked my mother picked me up by the heels and shook me. The gum came out, and I chewed no more gum that summer.

A children’s author named Harper was staying at the Neakahnee Hotel, a gray shingled structure, a small version of the Gearhart Hotel as I remember it. I believe either my Aunt Margaret or Mrs. Hartwell steered Tory and me into Mr. Harper’s hands. He read sections of his draft of The Mushroom Boy to determine our reaction. My reaction was essentially negative, though many children loved it. I was more interested in the stories my mother told of ships being driven ashore against Neakahnie Mountain, and of the legend of Spanish gold buried under some rock nearby. The Mushroom Boy was subsequently published, and Mr. Harper was good enough to mail an autographed copy to me.

My mother read to me a great deal in the years before I went to school. When I was three or four my parents bought a six volume set of books called My Bookhouse which contained illustrated stories and poems, graduated in complexity from preschool nursery rhymes to excerpts from the classics in volume VI. Many years later when I needed the model of a dragon to carve a figurehead for our boat, I retrieved the set from my daughter, and sure enough, there was a splendid illustration of a dragon being assaulted by Saint George on the front cover of one volume.

My sister Caroline, whom we have always called Pug, was born on August 15, 1923. Miss Blake, a tiny but formidable Scottish lady, was engaged to care for me while my mother was in the hospital. Miss Blake was a private nurse whose clients included the Corbetts and others in the neighborhood. She took no nonsense from small fry. I expected trouble from her and got it when I deliberately locked myself in the bathroom off the kitchen after being specifically instructed not to do this.

The day Pug was born Auntie Marg drove into the circular driveway of our house and shouted up to Miss Blake and me at an upstairs window, It’s a girl!. Pug was the first girl born in the Morrison, Green, and Beatty families after five boys in succession, and there was great excitement.

The summer following we went to Gearhart, staying in the old frame hotel called Mrs. Schroeder’s, which then stood in the meadows below the dunes. Our maid, Margie Berrith, came with us to look after Pug and myself. The beach when I was a youngster was not an exciting place. True, I could play in the sand and in the water, but the water was always freezing cold. The wind constantly blew sand in my eyes, and I got terribly sunburned, particularly my lips and ankles.

My father made a practice of telling Pug a bedtime story every night. After he had finished the story, he would tuck Pug in and say good night. Invariably, a few minutes later Pug would call in a hopeful voice, I want a drink of water, which she usually got until my father realized that this was purely a device to delay bedtime.

One summer day my mother left the house, taking Pug with her to a tea party. As she was driving up Palatine Hill Road, past the Henry Wagner house, the right hand door of the Buick came open and out went Pug. No seat belts or infant car seats in those days. The road had been freshly oiled, and when my frantic mother got the car stopped and picked her baby out of the ditch, Pug’s first words were, Bump baby, bump. I was playing on the back porch when my mother came racing home to call the doctor. She and the baby both had on white dresses and both were covered with black oil. Pug was undamaged save for scratches, but my mother was understandably shaken by the incident.

*

Before I started school my principal playmates were Townsend Conover, Ginny Sherwood, and on several occasions, Billy Wessinger. Ginny’s father, Arthur Sherwood, was the brother of the playwright, Robert E. Sherwood. The Sherwood family moved back east before we started school. These play occasions were arranged by mothers because the houses were too far apart for four and five year olds to visit on their own. We were thrown into each other’s company and left alone to make to make a go of it. My first contact with Billy Wessinger led to an argument about whose father could beat up the other’s father. Neither Mr. Wessinger nor my father had any aggressive instincts, but we certainly did. Billy had a large collection of lead soldiers, imported from Germany, I believe, and these were of great interest to me.

On one occasion Rosina Corbett was brought down to play with me at a time I was required to wear what was called a G string, a cloth wrapped around my bottom. The point of it was to expose me to the beneficial rays of the sun and fresh air. I hated it and was fearfully embarrassed by it. I have no idea what Rosina thought. I don’t even remember whether she was similarly clothed.

We started climbing trees at an early age, and I remember climbing a fir on the property next door and being unable to figure out a way to get down. My mother called my father at the office. He arrived home, stood at the foot of the tree and said in a fierce voice,

You come down that tree this minute!

Surprised and frightened out of my paralysis, I scrambled down. He marched me home saying,

Don’t climb a tree without first figuring out how you’re going to get down.

*

Our groceries came from Oswego or from farms out in the Tualatin Valley south and west of Oswego. At first groceries arrived on an old flat bed truck with vegetables and fruits arranged on racks. The truck pulled into the driveway. My mother would go out, look the cargo over and purchase what she wished. Fancy groceries came from the Sealy Dresser store on Park Street in downtown Portland. Meat she always bought from the butcher in Oswego, and until my dying day I will hear my mother on the telephone insisting that meat must be well hung.

Ice was delivered regularly by the iceman who carried chunks from his truck using his ice tongs and placing the ice in our icebox which was located in the laundry. When the iceman came in sight, we begged and were usually given scraps of ice to suck. I think it was not until the late twenties that we bought a refrigerator. By that time Rogers Brothers in Oswego provided most groceries and staples. Rogers had a delivery truck driven by Stanley, a lanky chap whose face was covered with freckles and moles. Stanley enjoyed company, and many days after school I rode with him as he pursued his delivery route through Dunthorpe.

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Milk came first from the Riverview Dairy, and later from the Fulton Park Dairy which was located on open pasture, the present site of Wilson High School in Hillsdale. Hillsdale then consisted of the dairy and Lynch’s food stand on Capitol Highway. Our family often went driving Sunday afternoons. If we came by Lynch’s on our way home my father would buy white Bermuda onions, which were sliced, covered with oil and eaten for Sunday night supper. Sundays also meant Sunday school at the Trinity Parish House. The classes were taught by Mrs. Hartwell, Auntie Marg Sharp and several other ladies. Sunday School was never very interesting despite their earnest efforts. While we were at Sunday school my mother and father and other parents attended the eleven o’clock church service conducted by my grandfather. After the service we drove home to Sunday dinner which took place at one o’clock, usually with a roast chicken. Sunday supper was supposed to be a light meal, crackers and milk, or milk toast.

*

When I was six I was given my first bicycle. I thought I would never be able to ride it but managed to learn after a number of spills. There were no training wheels in those days. Traffic was light in those years and many of us rode our bikes to school. Those who did not, walked. We had no kindergarten so school started when we were six years old. Riverdale at that time had four closed in and two open air classrooms—roof only. Not surprisingly, in the Oregon climate open air classrooms were not a success and were used only in clement weather. So generally there were two grades to a classroom. Within a year of my starting school, the open air rooms were enclosed, and a north wing with two other classrooms was added. Riverdale was a small school. During my days as a student the school population hovered around 125 pupils, an average of 16 to a class.

Mrs. Hartwell not only taught Sunday School at Trinity but on occasion acted as impresario of dramatic productions at Riverdale. When I was in the second or third grade she had us doing an eighteenth century minuet. The boys had to wear cotton wigs and Mrs. Hartwell liberally applied library paste to our skulls around the edges to hold those wigs in place. That minuet is indelibly pasted into my memory.

I still remember the names and faces of all my grade school teachers, which is more than I can say for those I had in high school, college or law school. Miss Brown, a soft spoken and gentle lady with a large nose, taught the first grade. Mrs. Collette, an ample, businesslike woman taught the second grade. Miss Nelson had the third grade. Mrs. Herrenkohl taught the fourth grade. Mrs. Hollingworth taught the fifth grade and Mrs. McElveny (Miss New) the sixth. Miss Dean taught the seventh, and the principal, Miss Eva Campbell, taught the eighth grade. Mrs. Byron Beattie, the French wife of the printer, taught us French. All of them ran a tight ship.

Miss Campbell was a spare New England type and ran the school with an iron hand. She took no nonsense from the students, her teachers, parents, or the school board. She began as a teacher in 1917 and was appointed principal in 1928. Under her jurisdiction Riverdale became an excellent elementary school. Miss Campbell became difficult to deal with in her final years as principal and was finally retired by the board in 1953 over her objection. She and Mrs. Herrenkohl lived together in retirement, sharing an apartment in the Vista St. Claire. Miss Campbell was thought by some to have destroyed all the school records, including records of the school board, at the time of her retirement. At least none were found. When Helen Bledsoe wrote the centennial book, Riverdale School 1888-1988, the story of Riverdale in the early days had to be pieced together from material supplied by parents and former students.

No provision was made for teacher retirement in those years, so a number of district parents and former pupils passed the hat to create a fund for Miss Campbell’s support. As a Riverdale graduate and practicing lawyer, I was asked to make informal arrangements to handle the account. In this role I saw Miss Campbell and Mrs. Herrenkohl on a number of occasions. Those gimlet eyes still bored into me, but I really found her largely gentled by age.

Riverdale School was more like an extended family in those days. The eighth graders were gods, the first graders babies, and one’s station in the pecking order was determined first by grade and then within grade in so far as the boys were concerned by some indefinable combination of physical and personal characteristics. We walked to school or rode our bikes. The boys all carried pocket knives, and in rainy weather played real estate. This game was conducted on bare patches of slick clay on which we drew large circles divided into pie shaped shares. The game was to flip your knife into another’s share. If your blade stuck you acquired the slice next to your own property. The goal was to acquire property and to drive your adversaries out of the game by slicing up their share until it was too small to fit their shod foot within it. I never heard of anyone threatening another student with a knife.

From Riverdale school south, Breyman Avenue was built on fill over a swampy area which filled with water on either side of the road during the winter. A drainage ditch carried the bulk of the water to the east and over a rocky escarpment twenty feet above the Pacific Highway creating a modest waterfall. Before the drainage ditch was dug the area had been a large shallow lake on which, according to my mother, my grandfather and his friends shot duck in the early days of the century. The surface in my time was broken up with shrubs and small trees which had grown after the lake was largely drained. The waterfall was visible from the highway below it and always attracted my attention. When I was twelve or thirteen Pug and I dammed the drainage ditch above the waterfall, recreating a portion of lake behind it. Several days later the dam carried away causing a mud slide over the fall onto the Pacific Highway which in turn brought a highway crew to clear it. Prudently, Pug and I said nothing of our involvement.

In grammar school my principal playmates were Douglas Barnes, whose family lived on the northwest corner of Greenwood and Edgecliff Roads, Scot Redfield, who lived a bit farther up Greenwood, Lambert Snow, who lived down in Riverdale, Stephen Babson, who lived on Military Road and Gilbert Shepherd who lived in Glenmorrie, south of Oswego. In our younger years we played frequently on our property building elaborate systems of mud roads and villages on which we operated tiny lead automobiles and trucks. We engaged in imaginary occupations, selling gasoline, building bridges, charging tolls. By stages the games grew to involve tricycles and wagons, and the use of play money which we issued, banked, and invested in imaginary enterprises.

As we grew older we constructed autos with wagon wheels which we steered by means of a wheel attached to a broomstick around which we wound cords leading to a front axle pivoted at the center. I finally constructed a monster, a bus which held a half dozen kids, and on which we careened down Greenwood Road. Fortunately for us, its life was short because of the difficulty pushing it back up the hill.

By the time we were ten or twelve we seldom walked anywhere. The bicycle was our universal mode of transportation. Cops and robbers replaced Still Water Still and the game extended all through the Dunthorpe road net. The game was frequently complicated by dogs. Everyone had a dog, and everyone was followed by a dog. When disputes occurred and resulted in a fight, the dogs invariably joined in on behalf of their respective masters. The Babsons had a large bulldog named Bingo. The Bynons, who lived on Breyman Avenue, had a large German shepherd which liked to pull down passing cyclists by seizing their trouser legs. Dr. Frank Mount and his family had a German shepherd which sampled a piece of me on several occasions. The Henry Wessingers had a black German shepherd named Caesar who appeared threatening but was actually quite harmless. The Harry Corbetts had a German shepherd which was thought by everyone to be fierce, though I never had a run in with him nor heard of anyone who had.

My dog was Russler, a mixture of collie and shepherd. He originally belonged to a girl who lived in Ewawee on the river below us. She walked past our house on her way to Riverdale School, often accompanied by Russler. Russler gradually transferred his allegiance to the Beattys when his mistress graduated. Russler was a purely outdoor dog with a very thick coat. He preferred to sleep on the door mat in the front door vestibule, although he had a king size dog house in front of the kitchen. My mother fed him a mix of table scraps fortified by chunks of meat and other morsels which she cooked for him. Once a year she gave Russler a bath in the front yard using laundry soap and the hose. Occasionally in the dead of night Russ would bark, a long series of slow woofs. After fifteen or twenty minutes I would hear Mrs. John Banks, across the street to the north of us, throw up a window and call out in her clipped South African British voice: Russla! Shut-up! This rarely proved effective, but I think it helped Banksie relieve her irritation.

Mrs. Banks had her own dog problem. Whereas Russler and the other neighborhood dogs roamed the neighborhood, the Banks dogs, shaggy white terriers, were confined within a picket fence which entirely surrounded the several acres of their property. The Banks dogs longed to escape and seized every opportunity to do so. This meant that all deliveries to the Banks, milk, groceries, ice, cleaners and so forth, had to be carefully orchestrated to avoid releasing a dog or two. The system failed with some regularity. The dogs escaped to freedom, and Mrs. Banks panicked until they were safely corralled again.

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In the mid 1920s my family belonged to Waverly Country Club. In that club’s unheated swimming pool I was delivered into the iron hands of the swimming instructor, a woman qualified to train candidates for the Gestapo. The water was always icy cold, the instructor unforgiving, and within minutes I turned blue with cold. I learned to freeze but not to swim. Finally, my mother gave it up as a bad job. In the late 1920s the Lake Oswego Country Club was organized, and my father was one of the original members. The club had an enclosed swimming area on Oswego Lake which was much warmer than Bull Run water from the tap. There I did learn to swim, although never well. I did not float, and swimming was a struggle to keep my nose above the water. My mother regularly drove a car full of children down to the lake on summer afternoons and sat in a chair knitting while we splashed around the pool.

Glenmorrie, where Gilbert Shepherd lived, was a mile beyond Oswego. Gibby