The Portland Tales

By Grant Keltner

The Portland Tales is the first book of short stories written by Grant Keltner. Both fictitious and non-fictitious in nature, tales of life growing up in Oregon. Some of the stories are funny, some are sad; some are stories of love and faith, some are stories of miracles, stories of friends and family. The book contains historical events with my family, some of the stories are of people that I've encountered through the years. Portland, Oregon is the centerpiece of many of the stories in this book. This collection includes short stories that were inspired from my recollections with events, fables and yarns that cover my upbringing here in the City of Roses. It's my intent to remember the times that meant the most to me and pass them down for others to enjoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728361376

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© 2020 Grant Keltner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/19/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-6138-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-6136-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-6137-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020908629

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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PORTLAND TALES

T he following collection of prose includes fictitious and non-fictitious short stories that were inspired by my recollections of events, stories and yarns that cover my upbringing while living here in Portland, Oregon. It’s my intent to remember the times that meant the most to me and pass them down for others to enjoy.

These stories are dedicated in memory to those who shared their lives with me (directly or indirectly), and in memory of those who helped shape these tales. I want to thank my friends and family for helping to create these stories, for their inspiration and their love.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     The House of Blue Lights

Chapter 2     The Kite

Chapter 3     The Columbus Day Storm

Chapter 4     The Forestry Building Fire of 1964

Chapter 5     Tough Tony Borne

Chapter 6     Dancing School

Chapter 7     The Portland Buckaroos

Chapter 8     Mean Mike

Chapter 9     Rick Sanders

Chapter 10   Ramblin’ Rod

Chapter 11   Ralph Patterson

Chapter 12   Cricket

Chapter 13   The Salmon Streeters

Chapter 14   Bud Clark

Chapter 15   The Nob Hill Bar and Grill

Chapter 16   The Staircases of Northwest Portland

Chapter 17   The Road to Freedom

Chapter 18   My Father, Mr. USA

Chapter 19   The Grace of my Mother

Chapter 20   Friendly House Christmas 2009

Chapter 21   Greg Dean

Chapter 22   Water Skiing

Chapter 23   My Grandmother

Chapter 24   The Whistle Blower

Chapter 25   The Pets

Chapter 26   Jim Magee and the Blustery Day

Chapter 27   His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama

Chapter 28   Small Town Girl

Chapter 29   Big John’s truck

Chapter 30   Big Ned the wood head

Chapter 31   A Yarn about a Feud

Chapter 32   Nasty Nell

Chapter 33   Slap Happy Sal the Horseshoe Gal

Chapter 34   A’ahhh, D’ahhh W’ahhh ???!!!

Chapter 35   Hutch

Chapter 36   Apple Brown Betty

Chapter 37   The Stick Fight

Chapter 38   The Smacks

Chapter 39   Life

Chapter 40   Tour of the Unknown Coast

Chapter 41   Mr. Giannini

Chapter 42   Pete the Black Crow

Chapter 43   The Stump

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CHAPTER 1

The House of Blue Lights

M y grandfather started to display his Christmas lights back in 1962. They illuminated his home in Vancouver, Washington like a beacon in the night. The entire neighborhood was ablaze with blue sparkles of light. He gave people a chance to see a visual extravaganza of over three-thousand outdoor lights covering almost every inch of his home.

The lights were placed on all of the bushes, shrubs, and trees on his property. They smothered the roof. The windows were framed with the lights. The walkways up to the house sparkled a bright path leading you up to the front door. The sidewalks that bordered the lot had long rows of blue that traced the outline of the front and side yards of his property.

My grandfather was a businessman in the area. Originally, he had decided to display the lights as a promotion for his company in the Oregonian newspaper.

He bought his home back in 1952, a large brick ranch on a corner lot located in the west section of Vancouver, Washington. I first remember the lights from when I was a four-year-old boy back in 1962. By that time, award after award had been given to my grandfather from state and local organizations for his light show. Two newspapers, The Oregonian and The Columbian, had written articles about the house of blue lights. Many organizations later asked my grandfather to stop competing, knowing he would win the events.

Cars lined up to see the lights, at times stretching six blocks long. Police had parked on the corner of Lincoln and West 43rd Street and on the corner of Lavina and West 43rd, helping to direct the traffic. It was a sight to see, lights all the same hue of midnight blue. The cars would crawl to a standstill. People would get out of their cars and stand in amazement.

A big star illuminated the center of the home. The lights inside the house had to be turned off at five o’clock sharp every night. Nothing was to interfere with the lights outside; my grandfather wanted the inside of the house to be pitch black. He had to have everything look perfect.

Electric candelabras glowed in every window inside of the house, with blue lights screwed into the sockets. Christmas hymns blared over loudspeakers strategically set in the rhododendrons. The songs could be heard from blocks away. Classical Christmas tunes drifted through the air; the music could be heard through the night.

A choir of angels was placed in the yard, accented by outdoor floodlights strapped to the trees surrounding them. A huge flocked noble fir stood in the front room. It was the centerpiece of the show. Spotlights placed on the floor projected shades of blue on the tree. It lit up the entire living room. Blue decorations were scattered on the tree and blue bulbs were placed in specific locations, along with strings of blue lights that wrapped themselves around the branches.

This undertaking took my grandfather’s hired hands close to two weeks to complete. I remember them spending hour upon hour each day, stringing out the long electric cords, checking the lights, making sure they all worked. Spare lights, electrical wiring, and decorations were jammed into the garage.

We’ll eat dinner in the basement! exclaimed my grandfather. That way we won’t have any indoor light interfere with the blue lights! I learned to eat dinner next to the downstairs fireplace. People would walk up and down the sidewalks surrounding the house, taking photographs of the sparkling lights. Families would come up to the front door and ring the doorbell to ask questions about the display.

Two nuns traveling from Sacramento, California to Vancouver, British Columbia knocked on my grandparents’ door at eleven thirty one cold winter night. They had heard about the house of blue lights and wanted to know if my grandfather could turn the lights on for them. He gladly turned the switches on, letting the power flow into each bulb. He even played the music over the loudspeakers. The nuns were amazed at the spectacle, as my grandmother made them cinnamon toast and cocoa in the kitchen.

My favorite memory of his light show was the night that snow fell in the winter of 1965. Close to eight inches fell that night. The lights beamed through the snow, illuminating the flakes and casting long, abstract, distorted shapes and shadows through the snow. It was surreal.

On Christmas Eve, family and friends would come over to celebrate. My grandmother would play Christmas music on the piano, food was served and kids ran through the house, excited to see what presents were awaiting them under the tree. My grandmother’s cat would disappear for days due to the frenzy.

The police would stop in to say hello. My grandmother would serve them coffee and cookies. It had to be the safest place in the neighborhood. The home was under a microscope for nearly three weeks each year. Local radio and television crews would report the event.

This ritual continued for several years to follow - this celebration of life, love, Christmas, and community. It was a beautiful sight. I have never seen anything close to this kind of outdoor display with lights and I doubt if I will ever see anything close to it in my lifetime.

My grandfather died of brain cancer when I was ten years old, the last year of the lights. To this day, I drive to his home, long since sold. I drift back to a time that will always be ingrained in my memory. Even though it’s been over forty years since the lights were burning bright, families still tell me of the special memories they had with the house of blue lights.

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CHAPTER 2

The Kite

M y grandfather died when I was ten. He loved me very much. I was born in 1958 and was the son he never had. He spoiled me as a kid. I came from a broken home at a young age and he made sure I was given most of the things that other kids had. He gave me bikes, trains, and a BB gun; he was very kind to me. I spent some memorable moments with him.

One of the most amazing moments that I had with him was when I was eight years old. It was 1966, a breezy March day. My grandpa used to take me along with him to visit places where he did business. He owned commercial buildings in Vancouver, Washington and a small farm located north of town. It was really fun meeting people who leased his buildings and tended to his land.

He had made most of his rounds that day, collecting rents and checking to see what condition his property was in. One of the last stops was a local general store. He had to get tools for a project that he was working on. We walked into the store, found his supplies and started to head out the door. Just before we walked out the door, I noticed a big kite on the wall. It was a heavy-duty kite, not made of paper or cloth. It was made of heavy plastic, lime green. It looked like it could handle almost any kind of wind. It was a great kite.

Grandpa, can I have a kite? I asked. He looked at me a minute, then looked outside and he smiled.

Okay Grant, I’ll buy you a kite, said my grandpa. I was so excited. I had never had a kite before and had never tried to fly one. He pulled one of the kites off the shelf and handed it to the clerk. We need string … we need lots of string, he said. My grandfather and I went down one of the aisles and found close to fifteen-hundred feet of heavy-duty string. He intended to make sure this kite touched the clouds.

We paid the clerk, went out to his truck and we drove home. The first thing we did when we got there was run into his shop located in the garage. We put the kite together and even made a great tail that we attached to the end of the kite. It looked perfect. He pulled the string out and wound it around a wooden dowel. It took several minutes before he had the entire string in place. He attached the string to the back of the kite. Everything was ready to go.

My grandpa’s home was located on a corner lot. His side yard was big, big enough to run into the wind and launch the kite. He held onto the spool that contained the string. He handed me the kite and pointed toward the end of the yard.

Take the kite and run into the wind, ordered my grandfather. Let go of the kite near the end of the yard. I’ll hold onto the spool! I was so excited! I could hear my heart beating; it was great! The wind was perfect and the sky was clear. It was a great day to fly a kite.

I started to run as fast as I could with the kite. I ran into the wind. I could hear it making noise, rustling as I ran. I kept running until I reached the end of the yard, I let go of the kite and off it flew. It twirled in the air, took a dip or two, and shot up like a rocket. The wind carried it straight up… twenty feet, thirty feet, forty feet, and one hundred feet. The string kept flying off the handle. It started to climb higher and higher in the sky.

I couldn’t believe how the kite handled. My grandpa was like a little kid, he was laughing so hard. The next-door neighbor came running across the street to lend a hand. I ran around my grandfather screaming and laughing at the sight.

The string kept going out, carrying the kite toward the sky. Eventually the string stopped. We had reached the end of the string, fifteen-hundred feet. My grandfather couldn’t believe the kite had specked out. It was a tiny dot in the sky. You couldn’t even see it.

Cars began to stop in the street to watch. Neighbors stood on their lawns to watch the kite. It was wonderful.

My grandpa’s home was close to the flight paths that most small planes would take to land at Pearson Airfield in Vancouver. A small plane appeared near the small speck in the sky. It started to circle around the kite! We looked at each other in amazement.

Shortly after the plane appeared, a police car pulled up. The officer got out of his car, looked at my grandfather and asked, What are you doing?

We’re flying a kite! exclaimed my grandfather. Everybody laughed. The plane kept circling the kite. My grandma came running out of the house. She was beside herself.

Pearson Airfield is on the phone! she screamed. They want you to bring the kite down this minute! They’re worried that the kite could cause problems to the planes!

The officer in charge received a call over the car radio. Tell that gentleman that we need to have him take his kite down this instant! Grandpa started to reel in the kite. It took close to forty-five minutes for it to make it down to the small crowd that had gathered. Everybody cheered, people laughed. My grandmother stood on the porch and smiled.

It was great. My grandpa had always gone out of his way to make me happy. The kite hung in the garage, over the workbench. It stayed there for years. I don’t think we ever flew it again, but it always reminded the family of the day we touched the clouds with our hands.

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CHAPTER 3

The Columbus Day Storm

I t was Thursday, October 11, 1962. I was four years old. It was an exciting time for Portland, Oregon. The annual football game between the University of Oregon and the University of Washington was scheduled to be played at Portland’s Civic Stadium. My mother was an alumnus of the University of Washington and she had planned to go to the game with friends from Seattle. Kickoff was Saturday afternoon.

When mom got off work that night, she picked me up at the Montessori school that I attended and drove me over to her parents’ house in Vancouver. I was going to spend the night and the weekend with my grandparents. My mother had a 1962 Volkswagen back then. It was a great car and it got her around to almost every place she needed to go.

We arrived at my grandparents’. Mom dropped me off and headed back to Portland. She often would leave me with my grandparents. I loved the attention they gave me. The next day was Friday, October 12, 1962, Columbus Day. It was fairly clear, a typical fall day. Nothing indicated that we were heading for anything unusual with the weather.

Mom worked with Pan American Airlines at the time. That afternoon my mother’s office phone started to ring. The first call came in from Medford, Oregon. There’s a terrible storm going through Medford. It’s headed your way Shirley! shouted my mother’s friend over the phone. My mother didn’t pay much attention to his call. She thought he was joking.

When she received the second phone call from a friend in Roseburg, she began to worry. Shirley we’re in the middle of a terrible storm! exclaimed the voice at the other end of the phone.

Suddenly one of her fellow employees yelled, Look out the window! The clouds were a dark mustard color and they were moving fast! The manager at her office ordered everyone to leave as quickly as possible. She ran down the street to her car; glass was flying everywhere. She got home as soon as she could. By that time, the wind had reached one hundred miles an hour.

I had been playing in my grandmother’s yard most of the day. My grandma was listening to the local weather forecast over the radio and when the wind started to pick up, my grandma looked concerned. Grant, get in the house. Time for dinner! demanded my grandmother.

I came running in. It was close to five o’clock. About halfway through dinner, the neighbor kids from across the street tried to walk up the sidewalk along the west side of my grandparents’ house. The wind was blowing from the north. They were walking with great difficulty, just trying to get up the street. Their bodies leaned into the wind as they plodded through the storm. They waved at us as we sat at the kitchen table. We waved back and laughed.

This looks like a bad storm! my grandma exclaimed. Within a few minutes, shingles started to fly through the air and dirt whipped up forming small clouds along the street. Leaves rushed by the kitchen window.

My grandpa got up from the table. I’m going to close the garage door and make sure everything is locked tight. This looks like it’s going to be rough. He went out the back door and down the path that led to the garage door. His hat flew off his head and he ran through the yard trying to snatch it up. He rushed into the garage to make sure everything was turned off and shut tight. He hustled back inside.

My grandma turned on her radio and located the local news. Storm warnings for the Portland and Vancouver area. Heavy winds expected throughout the night! reported the newscaster. You could hear the alarm in his voice.

I ran to the couch in the living room. It had a picture-perfect view of the north side of the house. Tree limbs started to fly through the air and debris bounced off the windows. The sky was getting darker by the minute.

I’m going to call your mother Grant! exclaimed my grandma. I could tell she was worried. Thankfully, we reached my mother over the phone. She had made it home to her apartment in Northwest Portland.

A car rolled over in front of me on the Morrison Bridge! exclaimed my mother. It was luck that my mother had dropped me off at my grandparents’ the night before.

All of a sudden, the lights in the house went out and the streetlights went black. I couldn’t see the neighbor’s kitchen lights and the winds really started to gust. We could hear tree limbs breaking. Loud crashing of metal and glass filled the air. Transformers popped and crackled as the fuses blew out. The sounds outside reminded me of big kettledrums throbbing in the night.

My grandma looked at my grandpa. Let’s get downstairs! she shouted. I could tell she was concerned. Grandma was from Iowa, raised on a farm. She had experienced tornadoes as a little girl. She knew that in a storm like this, it was best to head for the basement or storm cellar. My grandparents had a huge basement with a brick fireplace. There was a big upright piano along with a large couch, chairs, tables, and plenty of room to sleep through the storm.

By this time, it was close to eight o’clock. We had lost all power, lost reception with the radio and had no hot water. My grandpa had plenty of flashlights and a lot of candles. We built a fire in the fireplace. You could hear the wind make eerie sounds as it traveled down the chimney. It took longer than usual to light the fire in the fireplace.

I was scared. I started to cry and Grandma calmed me down. She made sure we would have everything we needed to make it through the night. The wind raged outside. We knew we were in for a long night. The house was rocking in the wind.

My grandma made a good spot for me on the couch and covered me up with a blanket. She started to sing lullabies as I drifted off to sleep. Sha la la … sha la la la … Sha la la la … la la la …, her voice soothed my worry.

My grandma’s cat, Herkimer, found a good spot alongside me to warm himself. It was almost ten o’clock. The storm didn’t sound like it was going to end anytime soon and I fell asleep. Grandpa stayed up most of the night. Grandma dozed off and on. I can remember waking up once or twice listening as the wind shook the house, rattling the windows, tugging at the roof. The fire in the fireplace glowed and illuminated my grandpa as he sat next to the fireplace trying to read a newspaper. I fell back asleep. The storm carried on through the night. It didn’t stop until well into the next morning.

I woke up around six o’clock in the morning. Grandma was up in the kitchen. I rushed off the couch and ran upstairs to see what kind of damage the storm had left behind. My grandpa was out in front of the house, talking with neighbors. He waved to me as I looked out the living room window.

It was a beautiful morning, clear as could be. The sun was bright, dew was on the lawn and debris was everywhere. The house across the street had a tree that had flown through the roof. Tree limbs were in our yard and power lines were down in the backyard. A car parked across the street had its windows blown out. Shrubs were huddled up against the north side of my grandpa’s house. The neighborhood was in shambles.

You stay inside! ordered Grandma. We didn’t have power, phone service, hot water or a newspaper. We couldn’t receive radio broadcasts and the television was out. The only way we could get news was through word-of-mouth from our neighbors. Reports started to trickle in. Winds had been reported at close to 110 miles an hour. Widespread damage had occurred to most of the Portland/Vancouver area. Power outages were reported and phone service was going to take days to repair. The governors of both Washington and Oregon had declared a state of emergency.

Many families lost everything. Roofs flew off homes, windows shattered and telephone poles crashed through homes. My grandpa tried to assess the damage to his home. Shingles were lost, drainpipes had disconnected off the sides of his house, gutters were torn from the roofline and a few shrubs were uprooted. A downed power line had fallen and draped itself over the hedge in the backyard.

Grandma started to pull eggs, bacon, and butter from the refrigerator. She grabbed a big black frying pan out of the kitchen cabinet and headed downstairs. My grandpa followed her with Herkimer at his side. Grandpa added wood to the fire; the fire had been burning all night long. We were going to cook breakfast in the fireplace, just like real cowboys!

She melted the butter in the pan, holding it over the fire. She threw bacon in and it started to sizzle. It smelled so good! She turned the bacon over a few times and soon it was well on its way to being crispy brown. Next, she tossed in the eggs, cooking them over easy, not letting them cook too long in the bacon grease.

We sat by the fire and talked about the storm. I figure it will take close to three or four weeks to get things back to normal, my grandpa said. The roads are blocked. Electrical lines are down. I’ve never seen such a storm! he added. We need to stay put and just ride this out. You could see the worry on his face.

We finished breakfast and went back upstairs. Several neighbors started to show up. Some of them looked in disbelief as they wound their way through the damage. A large group of people congregated on the street corner. My grandpa went out to discuss the situation. Does anybody need help? asked a neighbor. We need help, we don’t have a roof, we don’t have food! cried one poor soul.

Everybody pitched in to help those hit hardest by the storm. It was a true community undertaking. Flashlights were exchanged, candles were passed out and blankets found their way to those who needed them. Food was rounded up. Groups of men were organized to help cut through the destruction.

I stayed inside and watched as my grandma tried to get the radio to work. No luck. My grandpa came back inside the house. Two roofs are gone down the street. Power lines are down on at least three or four streets. he said.

My grandpa went outside and started to clean up the yard, raking shingles off the lawn and reattaching gutters. The awnings on the west side of the house had been blown off, some of them ripped apart. A truck started to make its way up the street, weaving through yards, trying to get through the maze of destruction. You could hear chainsaws as they cut through the trees that had fallen. It was going to take weeks to repair the damage.

That night we cooked dinner over the fire in the fireplace. Grandma was cooking hot dogs and beans. We ate like kings. She played the upright piano, singing songs as we ate. Candles glowed on the table. I remember wishing that we could always eat over a fire. I went to bed that night feeling comforted, knowing the storm had passed.

The next day, the local power companies showed up and tried to repair downed power lines. Insurance agents started knocking on the door, asking about damage, taking pictures and writing notes.

My grandpa decided that I could take a look at the damage that occurred in the neighborhood. Grandma threw a jacket on me and pulled a stocking cap over my head. I grabbed my grandpa’s hand and we walked out the back door. We crossed the street, stepping over and around the path of destruction the storm had caused. Trees were uprooted, limbs had punched holes in windows and shingles were everywhere. As we headed a few blocks down the street our mouths dropped as we looked at a house that didn’t have its roof attached. The roof was lying out on the street. Workers tried to saw through the roof, salvaging anything they could.

We reached the end of the street. The worst of the damage was caused by a tree that had fallen through a home located at the end of West Lavina. A huge oak had caved in the entire second story of the home. I couldn’t believe the severity and intensity of the storm.

We made our way back to my grandpa’s house. My grandma was in the living room playing with her portable radio. It was working! We started to receive news about the storm, the damage done and the lives that had been lost. It had been a deadly storm.

Grandpa went back out in the yard. Neighbors lent him a helping hand with the heavier chores. My grandma made dinner by the fireplace and my grandpa assisted with the cooking. A few neighbors who were low on food had dinner with us that night. Plans were made to help those less