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About St. Johns review. (Saint Johns, Or.) 1904-current | View Entire Issue (Dec. 25, 2015)
Page 8 * The St. Johns Review * #26 DEC. 25, 2015 Email: reviewnewspaper@gmail.com * Mail: PO Box 83068, Port. OR 97283 * Web: www.stjohnsreview.com * Phone: 503-283-5086 VFW Contest Winners VFW Peninsula PEP Post 1325 and District 3 held an Awards Dinner on December 15, 2015 to host winners of their essay contest. Certifi cates and monetary prizes were awarded to their Annual Voice of Democracy Contest for grades 9-12 and The Patriot’s Pen Contest for grades 6-8. First, second, and third place priz- es were awarded in both competitions at the Post and District Levels. First place winners will be forwarded to the State of Oregon competition. For more information, call Bruce Hall at 503-285-8468. Pictured here is: Ryaan Akmal--Stoller Middle, Jenesis Spires--Roosevelt High, Abigail Coo- per--Archbishop Howard, Command- er Hall, Jasmine Pham--Archbishop Howard, Clara Liebert--Da La Salle North, Levi Heiser--Clackamas Mid- dle College Continued from Page 3 “Walking with Ghosts” By Jim Speirs the Central Hotel, the blunt realiza- tion of the changing face of St. Johns made itself known to me. I was like an unseen spectator in a sci-fi movie as the panorama of the future unfold- ed in front of my eyes. The “for sale” sign seemed to take on a life of its own, and I found myself surrounded by ghosts. It occurred to me the fate of the Central Hotel represented far more than the closing of the business; it says to any and all who care to pon- der it, this signals the end of old St. Johns. Let me digress. Let’s go for a brief walk into the not-so-distant past, where the shadows of our commu- nity dwell. The Central Hotel can be a symbol of what was and stands in glaring contrast to what is coming. Many people remember when the “hotel” was Dad’s and if you go back far enough, you’ll recall what Dad’s was really like in its heyday. For those who have not read some of my articles in the Review, or don’t care to ponder it, here’s a brief bit of his- tory. I think this helps to get a feel for then and now. The notes won’t be long, but hopefully it will help to un- derstand where I’m headed. The community of St. Johns was bracketed by shipyard workers who plied their skill in Henry Kaiser’s war- time shipyards. Most of these thou- sands of workers were transplants from the east; Ozarks and Appala- chia in particular. They were housed in the various “Kaiser Towns” locat- ed throughout North Portland. These hastily built complexes were worlds unto themselves, some having their own banks, schools, grocery stores, and police departments. For the most part, the people were foreigners; they were different, they knew it and we knew it. They certainly weren’t bad, just very different. They were here to build ships and nothing more and their integration into the mainstream life of Oregon was never a serious consideration. Just as quickly as the war started, it came to an abrupt end; two atomic bombs insured uncondi- tional surrender. With the end of the war came the end of workers building ships. They had no jobs, no savings, and no place to go. It’s true, many took what they could and returned to their place of origin, however, many stayed in North Portland. The war insured that North Portland would have all the necessary facili- ties and equipment for the building and repairs of ships. As a result, the docks of Swan Island, Terminals Four and T-6 remained hubs of mar- itime industry. Depending on con- tracts, labor disputes and purchase orders, these locations hummed with workers day and night. None of the activity reached the frenzy of the wartime production, but it remained a thriving maritime related location, which supported thousands. Not surprisingly, many of these work- ers were men, (with women mostly in clerical positions because “Rosy the Riveter” was no longer needed,) who remained from the wartime in- dustry and continued to live in the crumbling “Kaiser Towns” in North Portland. The fi fties were economically good times for most of America. What we refer to as “suburbia” exploded as families grew with the proliferation of the “baby boomer” generation. In St. Johns, new housing blossomed and as the workers abandoned the de- caying Kaiser shacks, many moved into North Portland, where they re- mained close to work and in the com- pany of friends. St. Johns remained the proverbial “blue collar” community. We had jobs and we had a close-knit commu- nity and in actuality the area nearly became an extension of the remnants of the Kaiser era. Most of its residents made their living in the surrounding labor-intensive industries and made no bones about being different. After all, St. Johns was different. It was an out-of-the-way appendage of Port- land, and a community that was still fi ercely independent, (having been its own town twice before,) in spirit and mindset. St. Johns was not a des- tination point; it was a little known neighborhood and one that most of greater Portland looked upon as strange. Many St. Johns citizens nev- er traveled to downtown Portland; we stayed here, we shopped here, we partied here, we drank here, and we married here. Outsiders were not welcome and St. Johns soon gained a well-deserved reputation as a place where a non-resident could fi nd him- self in trouble fast. The number of bars that dotted Lom- bard was huge. Most have now dis- appeared; replaced by new yoga spas and craft/artisan stores. But there was a time when the juices of life fl owed like water in a fl ooded stream in St. Johns. On a given pay day in the surrounding ship yards, hundreds of men thirsty for liquor and fun poured into downtown St. Johns, making the Lombard strip look like a scene from an old town in a western cattle drive. Dad’s club was a location that would personify the old St. Johns that’s quickly dying in 2015. It was rough and it was wild, and it was hugely profi table. The owners knew exactly when surrounding workers would get paid. They also knew that often work- ers could not get to banks in time to cash their checks. So, the proprietors of Dad’s had thousands of dollars on hand to cash pay checks. This service came at a price, anywhere from two to four percent of the check went to a “check cashing” fee. Naturally, once the money was in the hands of the hard working (and very thirsty) men, more money was spent on booze, pool, gambling and prostitution. (The North Portland cops knew illegal gambling was going on, but a little “smile” money in their hands insured they’d turn a blind eye.) Bars up and down the block were fi lled with row- dy drunks and a person like the own- ers of Dad’s made money both legal- ly and illegally. It was a machine and it was old St. Johns. The stories that came from those days are fading with each trendy new bicycle retail and re- pair store. (Most people don’t know it, but the little known basement at Dad’s was a spot that has a storied reputation of its own. What went on there is the stuff of sordid legend.) There’s no time or space to paint a much larger picture. What’s nec- essary is to try and close your eyes and picture what St. Johns was once and contrast it to where it’s going. By profi ling Dad’s (the Central Ho- tel,) we can isolate a sliver of the old St. Johns and draw a mental image of Lombard when it had a much dif- ferent fl avor. Our past is what makes the area distinct and it’s what some in the community resent seeing fade. There’s no turning back, however, even the most progressive among us are often sorry to see the once un- usual and unique St. Johns begin to appear like a clone of Hawthorne or Mississippi. The march to this brave new world is not bad; it’s inevitable and must be somehow woven into the fabric of our past. We shouldn’t for- get where we came from. So, as I stand and look at the shut- tered Central Hotel, the ghosts from Dad’s secretly ooze from the build- ing. They dance and twirl as they rise to the street above. They look at me directly and open their hands, as if to say “see what you’ve done!” It’s Friday afternoon and once the loud voices coming from Dad’s could be heard for a half block. They mingled with shouts from other patrons at other bars all along Lombard. Now, silent walls echo a mournful tale of a colorful loss as they blend in with a fascinating future. I decide to go into Starbucks, but then an invisible spirit creeps up on me and makes me stop. “No”, I say to myself, this is St. Johns and I’m going to Slims’ and breathe a brief air of the past!