I am part of the damned liberal media, always asking questions

I’ve spent nearly 40 years listening to people talk about the liberal media. That’s what journalists do; we listen and observe, then we ask questions and listen and observe some more.

I remember many years ago, the paper I worked for ran a homophobic rant by an editor.

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The story of race and crime unfolds in our new book.

A few days later, I was taking phone calls from readers during Call the Editor night. I answered one call and immediately recognized the voice of a man who complained constantly about the paper’s liberal bias, nearly always without examples (once he said something along the lines of “if you’re too dumb to see it, then that’s the problem”).

But in this particular call, he mentioned the homophobic column, so I thought that maybe he was about to thank us for not being liberal 100 percent of the time. Boy, was I wrong.

He lit into me about how this was an all-time low. “How so?” I asked. “Why do you glorify those people?” he demanded. I read back to him some of the column, which said that while the writer was willing to “tolerate” homosexuals, he would not accept them, and basically that they should all shut up and go away. I asked him how that “glorified” gay people.

“Why do we even have to know that those people exist?” he demanded, hanging up the phone before I had a chance to respond. My response would have been in the form of another question, but I never got the chance to ask it.

Damned liberal media. Always asking questions.

A child’s view of the world, now forever buried under Hagg Lake

In 1973, Forest Dale School was about to close.

That’s putting it politely. A more accurate summary would be that it was about to be inundated by change, buried beneath the water of a reservoir, which today we know as Henry Hagg Lake.

A few intrepid journalists, including Clyde Keller, captured the loss of the Forest Dale community and the pioneer families who farmed the land. One of my favorite photos from Clyde’s collection is this one of Felix McCullough, on his trusty old tractor, making the most of his final seasons of farming.

But with all due respect to Clyde, my favorite memoir of the time is this little book, compiled by the teachers and students of Forest Dale School in 1973.

Click this link, 1973 In Remembrance of Forest Dale School, to be transported back to a more innocent time.

A tale of three asses

I woke up Sunday morning with a case of shingles. Shingles sucks, so I went to urgent care and got a prescription for acyclovir. I filled the prescription and was unlocking my car door at the pharmacy when I noticed a little, scruffy, three-legged dog looking up at me, with what appeared to be a smile on his face, with his head tilted, and with his stubby tail wagging.

Miniature donkeys making my day.

Miniature donkeys making my day.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” the woman with the little, scruffy, three-legged dog, said.

Of course there’s no reason ever to apologize for a happy, scruffy, three-legged dog; there is no more perfect organism in the universe. There is less reason still when the scruffy little mutt is bringing joy to someone’s day.

Anyway, I don’t have a picture of that scruffy little mutt, but I do have this picture of two miniature donkeys from three years ago.

I took this picture on a hot, windy day. I was volunteering as a fire department Public Information Officer that day, at a time by which I had become disillusioned with the department I was representing. Continue reading

The color of justice: When free enterprise becomes a crime

The following is an excerpt from Law and Order at the end of The Oregon Trail, Copyright 2015 by Ken and Kris Bilderback:

Book cover

The story of race and crime unfolds in our new book.

Under ordinary circumstances, there were not enough local pickers to harvest the area’s strawberry crop, so farmers routinely hired immigrant labor to fill the shortage. In the case of Oregon berry growers, that meant that Japanese farmers often had to rely on Filipino pickers to gather their crop.

After the Filipino workers arrived in the Spring of 1932, the weather turned cold and it appeared that there could be a small crop and a labor surplus. White farmers and laborers demanded that the Filipinos be sent home, and threatened violence. Washington County Sheriff John Connell visited the farms in Banks and Hillside and urged calm. “As a consequence,” a Page 1 story in the April 22, 1932, Oregonian said, “the white element promised to go home and sleep on it.” Continue reading

Remembering some forgotten WWII heroes

The following is an excerpt from Creek With No Name by Ken and Kris Bilderback. All rights reserved.

By the time Pearl Harbor was attacked, many of Gaston’s Japanese-Americans were Sansei, or second-generation American-born citizens, and some of them were among the first to enlist in the American war effort. The eldest son of the Hashimoto family was one of the first in line, Marge recalls, and went off to fight against the Japanese Army in the Far East. Unfortunately, this all-American young man had the constitution of someone raised in the moderate climate of Oregon, not in the jungles of the Far East, and he died in service to his country, succumbing to one of the tropical diseases that proved to be as deadly as the bullets of Japanese army rifles. Gaston’s Peter and Jim Furukawa also were among the first patriots to enlist, and they were lucky enough to survive fighting for the country they loved.

Creek With No NameBut Gaston was more than just a center of Japanese culture. It also happened to be the center of “the Pacific Coast forest belt” that internment was meant to protect. While each of Gaston’s Japanese-Americans had a distinct personality to those who knew them here, whether it was for being an expert farmer, prolific athlete, troublemaker or just good friend, to most Americans they all just looked the same. They looked like potential terrorists embedded near the cherished Stimson Mill and the forests that fed the war effort.

The Oregonian editor,” Ellen Eisenberg wrote in the Oregon Historical Quarterly, “argued that it was impossible to separate the loyal from the disloyal and therefore all Japanese-Americans had to be ‘moved in the interest of national security.’” Soon Congress agreed and ordered the “evacuation” of anyone of Japanese descent, including almost a quarter of Gaston’s population. Eisenberg notes the Oregonian’s editorial board explored the treatment of Japanese-Americans and “compared it favorably to the treatment of ‘civilian enemy nationals’ by Nazi Germany.” Continue reading

Gaston Schools history, Part III: The little district that could

The Gaston Public School District doesn’t seem to have an official birthday, although the elementary and high school districts merged officially on May 31, 1968, offering a potential date.

The district’s obituary has been written several times (click here for earlier history), always prematurely. About all that is certain is that Gaston always has been, and continues to be, the little district that finds a way to survive.

In our last installment, Gaston had survived several votes that could have merged the district into Forest Grove; in fact some of the votes actually enlarged the Gaston district. But as the 1970s began, the Gaston school budget crisis persisted. Continue reading

That time a President died in Oregon … the tale of a psychic ghost

The following is an excerpt from Creek With No Name: How the West Was Won (and Lost) in Gaston, Oregon, Copyright 2011, Ken Bilderback. All rights reserved:

Creek With No NameLouis Rader was the subject of many stories in The Oregonian after his arrest, but the basis of his story is revealed in the cascading headlines on the very first article, which appeared on the doorsteps of Portlanders on the morning of June 27, 1923. The story involved a planned visit to Portland by President Warren G. Harding, and the main headline blared: “Farmer Threatens Life of President.” The first subhead elaborated on the evidence against him: “Rancher of Gaston Arrested for Writing Letter.”

On the surface, a letter threatening the life of a President about to visit the area sounds pretty damning. Upon closer inspection, however, the letter seems more a statement of confusion than confession. The letter was written to the Portland Chamber of Commerce and contains this threat, or possible threat: “Now friends this nice morning I have a hunch here it is President Harding will be called this month on a Fryday to a high court where he will give account to the above mention.” Continue reading

Give up? Not in Coach K’s gym.

This is an excerpt from Creek With No Name: How the West was Won (and Lost) in Gaston, Oregon, Copyright 2011, Ken Bilderback. All rights reserved.

In rural Oregon towns, high school sometimes seems like little more than a roadblock on the way to a job in the fields or forests. Knowing how to operate a chain saw or prime a pump can seem more important than knowing how to parse a sentence or figure a prime number.

But when the curriculum fails to hold a student’s attention, it’s often extracurricular activities that do the trick.

Sometimes it’s music. For many years John Harris taught band at Gaston High School. Students followed the baton in Harris’s hand in school and often after school as well, joining the volunteer fire department, where Harris volunteered for many years. When not fighting fires, Harris led the department’s band, which performed in parades and community events throughout western Oregon. Many of Harris’s protégés found their way on to college, while others devoted their lives to the fire service. Continue reading

The story of a fish, and a murder

Our saga of Howard Tong begins after he caught a fish at the Oregon Coast in 1939. It ends in murder in 1972. Along the way, it includes a tangled web of tragedy, lawsuits, mystery, and insanity.

Actually, let’s back up a few years and begin our story in 1931 at Oregon State University, where fraternity boy Howard Tong proposed to his college sweetheart, Gwendolyn Morgan. Within a year, they welcomed a daughter, Carolyn, joined a year later by another baby, Delores.

Howard and Gwen Tong, 1939.

Howard and Gwen Tong, 1939.

Howard’s teaching career blossomed despite the Great Depression, and by 1938 he was principal of the high school in Gaston, but life was not all rosy in the Tong house on Second Street, near the school. Public school teachers didn’t make much in small-town Oregon. With a salary of a little more than $1,000 a year, and with only about $500 in assets, the young family was burdened with $3,300 of debt, and filed for bankruptcy.

Bankruptcy would prove to be the least of the Tongs’ problems in 1938, however, as 5-year-old Delores died.

Howard got back on his feet quickly however, and in 1940 found a better-paying job elsewhere. Then, as World War II raged, Carolyn got a baby brother, John. Things once again looked bright for the Tongs, but then once again tragedy struck, as John died at just 8 months old. Continue reading