Washington Park

January 5, 2025

It’s just pre-dawn as I approach Jamieson Square on my way to breakfast at Lovejoy Bakery when there’s an explosive sound as the crows suddenly wake up. It’s so loud that it’s deafening, almost frightening walking through the park. I’m tempted to wait here with the camera for the moment when the first wave takes wing, but it’s too cold so I content myself with one shot and hustle on to the warmth of the nearby bakery.

I’ve been coming to Lovejoy Bakery for many years. Only two blocks from our condo, it was always my favorite breakfast venue in the neighborhood. I’ve gravitated to Caffe Umbria lately more out of convenience than preference because it is so much closer than to the apartments near the freeway we’ve been staying at in the past few years. And this time I’ve been choosing Umbria because it was a safer walk while I’ve been regaining my sight. It’s low traffic the whole way, with half of it on a pedestrianized stretch of 13th Avenue.

That’s no longer a consideration though, and I feel perfectly comfortable walking almost anywhere as long as I’m paying attention. And since our shoebox is almost exactly equidistant between the two, I decide this morning is the time to switch coffee venues for the rest of our stay.

I stare at the familiar bakery counter when I step in, and ask about one selection I don’t recognize and can’t pronounce. I get a clear, detailed description of a sugary, buttery concoction that’s not the savory treat I thought it might be so I immediately say I’d like an almond croissant, a twelve ounce cup of coffee for here, and a refill please. It’s my standard order.

The woman standing in line beside me has been overhearing the whole thing, and bursts out laughing as soon as I’ve placed my order. I’ll take the other one she says enthusiastically. It sounds delicious to her.

I take my order and sit down at my usual post that’s usually available because I typically arrive soon after it opens up at 7. I like it because it’s comfortable and I enjoy watching the scene at the long table that stretches out ahead of me.

And I get to work. I’m starting this morning with transcribing the entry for a very memorable day Rachael and I often think back on: the long day when we rode from Ronda to Grazalema and were chagrined near the end of the it to find our road disappear beneath a reservoir, one that apparently filled after the map we’re guided by went to print.

This exercise of transcribing this long-lost journal is even more rewarding than I’d hoped. Each day has been filled with details I’d forgotten about, with me having really only remembered such obvious highlights as the disappearing road and whatever other memories the photographs invoked. But those don’t reveal that I’m sick with an illness that’s bad enough that I’m afraid I’m getting strep throat; and that we took a layover day in Ronda not to look around but because we thought it might help me get my health back to take a day off; and that we’ve been biking up mountain passes on open, shadeless roads under bright, clear skies in the middle of a heat wave that tops out at 104 degrees. By the time we finally drag our ourselves up to Grazalema we aren’t just tired, we’re exhausted and wondering why we came here so early in the fall.

My post, when it’s available. Today I’ve gone back for seconds and returned with a ginger biscuit.

On the way back to the apartment I stop off at Elizabeth’s place to pick up tRachael’s new glasses that just arrived last night. Rachael’s about to try them on when I order her to freeze. I want to capture how well they match with the striped shirt she’s wearing.

That Rachael! Always dressed to perfection, always within her fan.

In what counts as a relatively vanilla day in comparison to most lately, I set off on a walk up through Washington Park, aiming for the MAX stop at the zoo where I’ll catch a ride back to town. Not a long walk, but one with some hills to test out my knees and legs on. And Rachael departs for a much longer one, north along the east bank of the Willamette to the Sellwood Bridge and back.

My walk begins with a traverse of the Alphabet District, heading toward the park entrance at 24th and Burnside near Zupan’s Market. Along the way I see a baked goods stand ahead, decide I’m deserving of a special treat this morning, and drop my selection into the rucksack to be enjoyed somewhere up ahead in the park.

Congregation Beth Israel, from Couch Park. The congregation was founded in 1858 while Oregon was still a territory, and built its first synagogue in 1859.

Why yes, I do believe I deserve a fresh-baked treat today.

I’m not far up into the park when I come to what looks like an excellent spot to sit down, enjoy my treat, and look around with the Canon loaded hoping a spotted towhee or house finch might happen by and get added to the list. There’s not even a crow to be seen though, and then I look around and see I’m sharing the bench with some child’s abandoned doll. In front of me is a likewise abandoned, tattered sachel - and beyond is the long walkway leading to the Holocaust Memorial. I sit there contemplating the scene, reflecting once again on the role of chance in life, and thinking back to A Real Pain that we just watched a few days ago.

The ideal venue for my treat break: a dry bench with a peaceful view.

An apricot almond tart. Perfect, just the sort of treat I favor.

It’s after I sit down that I realize I’m at the entrance of the Holocaust Memorial.

While I’m sitting there I receive an email from Elizabeth. I’ve reached a dead end looking for that newspaper photo of Shawn and I biking down State Street in Salem so many years ago. She’s emailing to express her regrets, but a minute later a second email comes through and as compensation I’ve now got a photo of the two of us together even much further back. Later I’ll paste it into that post where I first made reference to it, happy to have that one back at least. And if you don’t embarrass easily you’re invited to go sneak a quick peek.

I’m not giving up yet though, so I send an email to Shawn to see if he’s got a copy of it; and less than three minutes later a response comes with the hoped for attachment. Shawn is such an interesting man, surprisingly competent and skilled in so many ways different from myself.

State Street, Salem, sometime in probably 1975 or 1976. Some interesting details here: toe clips, a rubber band around my right leg to keep clearance from the chain, a handlebar bag. Blue jeans, and likely a Pendleton because mom started keeping me supplied in them long ago. No helmet or kid’s bike seat fifty years ago, of course.

Later in the evening there’s a second email from Elizabeth and two more gifts come in. The subject line is Elizabeth Street in Bremerton, at the house where we lived when I was born and until our divorcee mom got remarried to one of her Arthur Murray dance students and they moved east as soon as her young sailor was discharged from the navy.

Mom, Elizabeth and me. It looks like I’m not yet one yet so this must be in 1947. Elizabeth’s three years old, and mom’s about twenty.

My first wheels, on Christmas Day 1949 when I’ve just turned three. My first outing goes poorly when I immediately steer my new trike into the Christmas tree.

It’s really wonderful to find these old photos again. I make a mental note to add them to my CB profile page before I lose them again. And then I get back on my feet and continue walking. Next up is the nearby rose garden, where I’m hoping I might see a small bird here or there. No birds - in fact in the entire walk I see exactly one crow - but I do find a few bits of color amongst the roses that lasted into the new year.

Approaching the rose garden. Not much color remains this late in the season.

Leaving the rose garden, with the Japanese Garden straight ahead.

Leaving the rose garden, I climb the steep, slightly muddy connector trail that snakes up the east side of the Japanese a garden to connect to the Wildwood Trail. As I climb I reflect on another long ago time when I first visited the Japanese garden, a participant in my first Go tournament. And I decide I should come back up here with the camera someday for a real look around the garden with, a place I’ve almost never visited. I think Rachael and I only came here once together, probably twenty years ago when we were getting in the mood for our upcoming tour of Japan.

The Wildwood Trail is a lovely place, and as I walk I reflect on the Olmsted Family that helped preserve this wonderful resource to the city as they did for so many other cities around the country. It’s an easily walkable trail as it weaves through the conifers and ferns, but I’m traveling very slowly today because my shin splints - on my right leg especially - are killing me. I’m really slowed down, stopping often to stretch and take a photo of some shapely tree in the arboretum, until I hear the thwack of arrows hitting their targets. When I come to the archery range I stop and sit on a bench for about ten minutes to give my legs a proper break.

Respectable, given his age and apparent lack of experience. It looks like this could even be his initial lesson. It reminds me that I became a pretty accomplished archer from the year when Elizabeth lived in Bremerton with my grandma and Uncle Harry in 5th grade. I spent many hours at target practice on the berm overlooking the narrows behind their house, aiming a yellow bow Harry built himself at a bullseye target nailed to a tree.

I sit there watching the arrows fly and hoping a towhee will hop by, but of course none does. As I sit I’m debating with myself over whether to limp the remaining half mile to the MAX station or call Uber for a lift from right here. The half mile sounds manageable, but I’m less sure about adding on the walk through Old Town from the train station. But then I remember this is the Blue Line to Gresham, not the Yellow Line to the Expo Center. I can get off by Director’s Park and catch the streetcar to the neighborhood instead.

As I approach the MAX station there’s another flashback of times past. For a number of years Rachael and I would take the streetcar and then the MAX up to the Oregon Zoo in the afternoon to attend sundown concerts on the lawn, one of us typically getting up there an hour or two early and taking a place in line to get in early while the best seating areas were still available. Typically that would be me, and I’d wait in line with the others on a lawn chair and then rush in, secure a place with my blanket, and then go grab a beer and sit in the shade somewhere watching the crowd assemble while I waited for Rachael to arrive and join me. Then we’d take the MAX home again at the end of the concert, walking out in a crowd during the encore number, listening to the music slowly fade away in the distance. We’d get on the MAX loaded down with our blankets, lawn chairs, reading and picnic materials, and warm clothing. Some of those were really wonderful evenings with concerts we’d love to reexperience - a young Brandi Carlisle, Bonny Raitt, Shawn Colvin, John Hiatt come to mind.

As I drop to the station and then take the elevator down a few hundred feet to where the route had been tunneled through the ridge I intended to take a photo of the train approaching at the end of the long platform, which in the past would have been jammed with other concert-goers burdened down with gear just like ourselves. That doesn’t happen though because the train is already in station, and typically the next one might not be for a half hour or so. I rush as much as the shin splints allow, and the door closes behind me within ten seconds of my boarding. I haven’t even gotten to a seat yet and have to grab a bar to keep my balance as the train accelerates.

Fifteen minutes later it’s exactly the same scenario. I deboard downtown and across the street the northbound streetcar sits, its doors still open but just waiting for the light to change. I make another limping dash, jaywalking against the red light, and again get on just as the train lurches into motion. A lucky end to a fine but nearly normal day, one that saves me the better part of an hour.

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