By Doug Dixon
The Portland Upside
July 2009
The Portland Upside
July 2009
In 1975 I was a young salesman working for a factory on the northwest side of Portland, the gritty industrial district next to the rail yard and close to the docks. This was the part of town where the heavy lifting was done, a community made up of old warehouses containing a myriad of manufacturing and distribution companies. Trucks raced up and down the narrow streets, large machines banged away, and sparks flew in open buildings where burly men carved up steel. Each morning I got out of my car and walked to the entrance of our plant listening to a symphony of industrial racket that I always found exhilarating. It made me feel alive and part of something big.
My office faced north with an unglamorous view of the empty lot next door.
Most days I would sit behind my desk pitching agriculture bags over the phone to packing houses and feed mills around the country. I clinched many a deal with the muffled noise of a large printing press thumping away on the other side of the wall. And for lack of anything better to look at while I did my job, I stared out my window at the vacant lot.
Typically not much happened around the little piece of unattended ground. Periodically a cat or rodent would briefly make an appearance then quickly disappear into the blackberry patch. On windy days trash would blow into the prickly island with little hopes of getting picked up. There were also many freight trains that chugged by each day stopping often to load and unload cargo.
My office may not have been uptown with a view but at least it was a start.
Then one dark winter morning it all changed. As I sat at my desk I noticed something sizable moving in the vines. At first it startled me because I couldn’t fathom what weighty animal could be moving about in that dense briar patch. But as it grew lighter it became clear that the beast was actually a man. He appeared to be somewhat stocky and sporting a scraggly beard. I assumed he had attached himself to one of the freight trains that had arrived in the night.
Each day I sat captivated, watching the new tenant toil away at his subtle construction project With his long dark coat and floppy hat, he blended in so well with his surroundings. In time it became apparent he was using his knife to cut away the vines to make a sort of hidden nest to stay in. He eventually pieced together enough discarded plywood and scrap plastic to call it an actual shelter. It was obvious by his lack of wasted movements that he was a seasoned nomad, quite adept at setting up temporary housing.
Upon rising each morning he would slip out of his lair and cautiously urinate near the back of the property. Then with his possessions in hand he would head for downtown. I assumed his daily trek was to fill his belly with free food at the Rescue Mission, that he naturally lived off the scraps of others, the charity of many a “do-gooder”, as my father would have called them.
Who knows where he may have come from. Perhaps it was Seattle or maybe back east. But no matter where his origin, he still resembled most of the numerous unkempt derelicts hanging out on Burnside Avenue. At the time, Portland was a well-known haven for transients and this unseemly fellow looked like he fit right in.
Up to that time, I had never really paid much attention to the sketchy-looking figures shuffling around the Mission waiting for the soup to be served. If I did have to walk through the Burnside area I did so briskly without making eye contact with the lost souls slumped in the doorways. Truthfully I didn’t really give them much thought. They just seemed like the normal décor of the bad side of a big city.
But due to my sudden voyeurism, I found myself pondering some deeper questions about my new associate with the rumpled appearance. For starters, how did this guy ever begin living as he did? Had his love affair with the bottle finally taken its toll? Or perhaps an affair of the heart had knocked this troubadour down. Then again, the reason for his decline may not have been all that juicy of a story. It could simply be that Old Man Grief put his hooks into him and refused to let go. Whatever the case, I assumed it had to be something traumatic that caused his downfall.
In contrast, like most young men I was consumed with thoughts about myself. How was I going to become successful? When would I meet the girl of my dreams? Or if nothing else, which disco could my buddies and I go to on Saturday to strut our stuff? The days were mostly dedicated to the pursuit of advancing my career. I nourished my brain on a stew of business books, biographies and motivational materials. It’s safe to say there was a fire growing in my belly and I was determined to fan it into a blaze. And under the direction of author Norman Vincent Peale, I wrote down my goals and always carried them with me. To me there was nothing finer than visualizing how great life was going to be when I had my own little empire some day.
One morning I pulled the goal sheet out of my briefcase and took measurement of my progress. As my gaze drifted out the office window I found myself being pulled back to earth after seeing Mr. Floppy Hat getting rained on. He was curled up under his plastic covered shanty trying his best to stay dry. I began wondering what his goals were. Did he have any? I’m sure there must have been some time in his life when he dreamed of accomplishing great things. After all, most young men do. When he was 25 did he, too, believe a man could accomplish almost anything if he put his mind to it? Or instead, did his stubborn nature and habit of not cooperating prove right the Japanese adage: the nail that sticks up gets hammered. Perhaps life had hammered this rebel into the ground.
If I had been a less self-absorbed person at the time, I would have taken my new imagined friend some food and found out for myself what his story was. After all it wouldn’t have taken much effort to extend him a kindness. If I had, it probably would have done us both some good. But instead I did what most of us do when coming across the homeless. I kept my distance, content with my own assumptions about what had caused his dilemma.
The next day I followed my normal routine. I poured myself a cup of brew, and before starting work I glanced out the window and gave my usual mental good morning to Mr. Hat. But as I sipped my coffee and scanned the shanty I saw no inhabitants. The meticulously built nest looked somehow different, like it had been abandoned. I could only surmise that in the night he had hopped a train out of town.
Although I never actually met him, Mr. Floppy Hat’s brief stay in the City of Roses had a profound effect on me. His presence opened my mind to be more compassionate towards the homeless and also to take stock of my own life. After all, who was I to look down from my lofty position making judgments about someone who was struggling?
His situation also prompted me to question my own ability to handle real adversity. Up to that point in my life I had never experienced sorrow, nor had my metal been tested by overcoming major challenges. If I lost a child someday, faced financial ruin or took a man’s life as a soldier, would I be able to snap out of it? I, too, might find myself living a life unthinkable in my optimistic youth, huddling in some unsavory abode, viewing the world through the amber glass of a liquor bottle and just trying to hold on to my sanity.
I prayed that I would never have to find out.
_____
In 1980 Doug Dixon left what later would be referred to as the Pearl District and migrated to Boise, Idaho. In 1984, he and his wife Michelle started a container plant and ran it successfully until selling it in 2007. During their stewardship of Dixon Container they created a jobs program that gave graduates from the Boise Rescue Mission Rehabilitation Program and recent parolees a second chance. Doug remembers that experience as “one of the most gratifying things I’ve ever been involved in.”
Doug Dixon retired after 33 years in the packaging business. He has since turned his hand to writing short stories and is ready to publish his first book, “Tip’s From an Entrepreneur”.
My office faced north with an unglamorous view of the empty lot next door.
Most days I would sit behind my desk pitching agriculture bags over the phone to packing houses and feed mills around the country. I clinched many a deal with the muffled noise of a large printing press thumping away on the other side of the wall. And for lack of anything better to look at while I did my job, I stared out my window at the vacant lot.
Typically not much happened around the little piece of unattended ground. Periodically a cat or rodent would briefly make an appearance then quickly disappear into the blackberry patch. On windy days trash would blow into the prickly island with little hopes of getting picked up. There were also many freight trains that chugged by each day stopping often to load and unload cargo.
My office may not have been uptown with a view but at least it was a start.
Then one dark winter morning it all changed. As I sat at my desk I noticed something sizable moving in the vines. At first it startled me because I couldn’t fathom what weighty animal could be moving about in that dense briar patch. But as it grew lighter it became clear that the beast was actually a man. He appeared to be somewhat stocky and sporting a scraggly beard. I assumed he had attached himself to one of the freight trains that had arrived in the night.
Each day I sat captivated, watching the new tenant toil away at his subtle construction project With his long dark coat and floppy hat, he blended in so well with his surroundings. In time it became apparent he was using his knife to cut away the vines to make a sort of hidden nest to stay in. He eventually pieced together enough discarded plywood and scrap plastic to call it an actual shelter. It was obvious by his lack of wasted movements that he was a seasoned nomad, quite adept at setting up temporary housing.
Upon rising each morning he would slip out of his lair and cautiously urinate near the back of the property. Then with his possessions in hand he would head for downtown. I assumed his daily trek was to fill his belly with free food at the Rescue Mission, that he naturally lived off the scraps of others, the charity of many a “do-gooder”, as my father would have called them.
Who knows where he may have come from. Perhaps it was Seattle or maybe back east. But no matter where his origin, he still resembled most of the numerous unkempt derelicts hanging out on Burnside Avenue. At the time, Portland was a well-known haven for transients and this unseemly fellow looked like he fit right in.
Up to that time, I had never really paid much attention to the sketchy-looking figures shuffling around the Mission waiting for the soup to be served. If I did have to walk through the Burnside area I did so briskly without making eye contact with the lost souls slumped in the doorways. Truthfully I didn’t really give them much thought. They just seemed like the normal décor of the bad side of a big city.
But due to my sudden voyeurism, I found myself pondering some deeper questions about my new associate with the rumpled appearance. For starters, how did this guy ever begin living as he did? Had his love affair with the bottle finally taken its toll? Or perhaps an affair of the heart had knocked this troubadour down. Then again, the reason for his decline may not have been all that juicy of a story. It could simply be that Old Man Grief put his hooks into him and refused to let go. Whatever the case, I assumed it had to be something traumatic that caused his downfall.
In contrast, like most young men I was consumed with thoughts about myself. How was I going to become successful? When would I meet the girl of my dreams? Or if nothing else, which disco could my buddies and I go to on Saturday to strut our stuff? The days were mostly dedicated to the pursuit of advancing my career. I nourished my brain on a stew of business books, biographies and motivational materials. It’s safe to say there was a fire growing in my belly and I was determined to fan it into a blaze. And under the direction of author Norman Vincent Peale, I wrote down my goals and always carried them with me. To me there was nothing finer than visualizing how great life was going to be when I had my own little empire some day.
One morning I pulled the goal sheet out of my briefcase and took measurement of my progress. As my gaze drifted out the office window I found myself being pulled back to earth after seeing Mr. Floppy Hat getting rained on. He was curled up under his plastic covered shanty trying his best to stay dry. I began wondering what his goals were. Did he have any? I’m sure there must have been some time in his life when he dreamed of accomplishing great things. After all, most young men do. When he was 25 did he, too, believe a man could accomplish almost anything if he put his mind to it? Or instead, did his stubborn nature and habit of not cooperating prove right the Japanese adage: the nail that sticks up gets hammered. Perhaps life had hammered this rebel into the ground.
If I had been a less self-absorbed person at the time, I would have taken my new imagined friend some food and found out for myself what his story was. After all it wouldn’t have taken much effort to extend him a kindness. If I had, it probably would have done us both some good. But instead I did what most of us do when coming across the homeless. I kept my distance, content with my own assumptions about what had caused his dilemma.
The next day I followed my normal routine. I poured myself a cup of brew, and before starting work I glanced out the window and gave my usual mental good morning to Mr. Hat. But as I sipped my coffee and scanned the shanty I saw no inhabitants. The meticulously built nest looked somehow different, like it had been abandoned. I could only surmise that in the night he had hopped a train out of town.
Although I never actually met him, Mr. Floppy Hat’s brief stay in the City of Roses had a profound effect on me. His presence opened my mind to be more compassionate towards the homeless and also to take stock of my own life. After all, who was I to look down from my lofty position making judgments about someone who was struggling?
His situation also prompted me to question my own ability to handle real adversity. Up to that point in my life I had never experienced sorrow, nor had my metal been tested by overcoming major challenges. If I lost a child someday, faced financial ruin or took a man’s life as a soldier, would I be able to snap out of it? I, too, might find myself living a life unthinkable in my optimistic youth, huddling in some unsavory abode, viewing the world through the amber glass of a liquor bottle and just trying to hold on to my sanity.
I prayed that I would never have to find out.
_____
In 1980 Doug Dixon left what later would be referred to as the Pearl District and migrated to Boise, Idaho. In 1984, he and his wife Michelle started a container plant and ran it successfully until selling it in 2007. During their stewardship of Dixon Container they created a jobs program that gave graduates from the Boise Rescue Mission Rehabilitation Program and recent parolees a second chance. Doug remembers that experience as “one of the most gratifying things I’ve ever been involved in.”
Doug Dixon retired after 33 years in the packaging business. He has since turned his hand to writing short stories and is ready to publish his first book, “Tip’s From an Entrepreneur”.
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