Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Bunko Kelly's Music Video


I needed to get this done so I could spend more time on my newest book (due in March). I still don't feel like publicizing the topic, since it is a little weird for me to show interest in such goings on.


So, I wanted a string band, or a jug band, or a skiffle band to help me along, but instead it did it myself. I didn't practice, I just did it, and recorded it--in spite of having shattered my wrist some time back, and severing my left rotator cuff a few months ago, and having not sung since my early forties. Now I will stop making excuses and cough up the details.

The new video: How the Flying Prince Got its Crew, has been uploaded and can now be viewed here:



 For those wishing to sing along, here are the lyrics:

The Ballad of the Flying Prince

Come gather round you Portland boys
And I will sing to you,
How that low down Bunko Kelly
Got the Flying Prince her crew.

The ship was moored at Ainsworth Dock
For six long weeks and more,
Loading sacks of golden wheat
For England's pleasant shore.

The time came for departure
One evening's rising tide,
The cargo was all battened down
The tug was alongside.

But the captain and the carpenter
Were the only souls aboard,
So they called in Bunko Kelly
Who they offered a reward.

Oh Bunko Kelly,
Oh Lord what shall we do?
The Flying Prince is set to sail
But I fear she has no crew.

So Kelly searched the waterfront
Top down and end to end,
For loggers, loafers, hoboes,
Or able-bodied men.

He searched the dives, he searched the dens,
Alcoves and alleys too,
But he could not find a single man
Who would sign aboard as crew.

He searched through Erickson's resort
Down on Burnside street,
T'was then he thought his luck was gone
And he might face defeat .

He went to the Snug Harbor
The last of the saloons,
Where his heart was chilled by an eerie sound
Like the warbling of the loons.

Oh Bunko Kelly,
Oh Lord what shall we do?
The Flying Prince is set to sail
But I fear she has no crew.

It seemed to come from somewhere near
Behind the basement door,
That belonged to Johnson and Son
Undertakers shop next door.

Then Bunko the shanghaier
Quaked and shook with fright,
As he traveled down the basement steps
He beheld a ghastly sight.

In the dark he nearly stepped upon
A corpse in death's dark throes,
Just then its bulging eyes turned white
And blood ran out its nose.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark,
Of that dank and loathsome den,
It filled with the writhing forms
Of dead and dying men.

Oh Bunko Kelly,
Oh Lord what shall we do?
The Flying Prince is set to sail
But I fear she has no crew.

The ghastly scene did tell a tale
Of foolishness and ruin,
Of men too dumb to realize
The Snug Harbor Saloon

Was the next door down, and this,
The undertaker's side,
Instead of gin they had imbibed
Straight up formaldehyde.

Two dozen men of middle age,
All winos to the core,
Lay writhing in the throes of death
Or dead upon the floor.

Bunko Kelly's eyes lit up
And off he went with haste,
To find some boys to help him keep
This chance from going to waste.

Oh Bunko Kelly,
Oh Lord what shall we do?
The Flying Prince is set to sail
But I fear she has no crew.

The livery stable boys hitched up
Some wagons for the task,
For what Bunko was paying them
No questions would be asked.

They wrapped the stiffs in canvas sheets
And carried them off thence,
To the waiting ship at Ainsworth Dock
The aforementioned Flying Prince.

When the captain saw our Bunko crimp,
Relieved and overjoyed,
Was he to see two dozen men,
Intent to be employed.

Though they were drunk and senseless,
Wrapped up like a cocoon,
As he supposed, from drinking at
The Snug Harbor Saloon.

Oh Bunko Kelly,
Oh Lord what shall we do?
The Flying Prince is set to sail
With a dead and dying crew.

The  boys stowed the men below
In the fo'castle and midship,
Then the captain loosed the ropes that tied
The vessel to the slip.

The steam tug Oklahama
Pushed the Flying Prince along,
Down the rivers to the sea
Suspecting nothing wrong.

Once in the wild Pacific surge
The tug whistled farewell,
And left the Flying Prince to lurch
Upon the bounding swell.

Some say she sails the oceans still
Her ragged sails askew
The captain, and the carpenter,
And a ghostly skeleton crew.

Oh Bunko Kelly,
Oh Lord what have you done?
The Flying Prince has lost its course
Since Portland, Oregon.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Embracing Fakelore



Having seeing the old Stewart Holbrook chestnut, “How the Flying Prince Got its Crew” treated like authentic history by people who should know better, I decided to get into this “fakelore” business myself. For those unfamiliar with the word, the neologism was invented for a 1950 article in the American Mercury by an American collector of real folklore, Richard Dorson. He spends much of the article skewering the likes of one Paul Bunyan as being mostly the invention of a writer hired by a lumber corporation.



There is another interesting article on the subject by Alan Dundes with the overdone title: Nationalistic Inferiority Complexes and the Fabrication of Fakelore: A Reconsideration of Ossian, the Kinder- und Hausmarchen, the Kalevala, and Paul Bunyan. Dundes doesn’t seem to get the picture that lots of fakelore is invented to make some money—to sell a story to a magazine, create a tourist trap with some ghostly tale of evil deeds, or to land an episode on the History Channel.



As most of my readers know by now, I am of the opinion that the city fathers and mothers of an older Portland, Oregon were so ashamed of the wide open past, corrupt cops, and teeming red light districts that they allowed for none of the old tales to take root. Until Stewart Holdbrook Portland history was a collection of bearded and boring men, doing boring deeds, while stealing the public blind (as in the case of the large section of land belonging to the Stevens family) and slapping each other on the back as jolly good fellows.



Holbrook unashamedly rewrote the city’s history in ways that would not be easy to forget. In Holbrook’s little booklet, The Portland Story (written for the Lippman & Wolfe 50th birthday celebration) he starts with the earliest pioneers, rolls in the railroads and the 20th century, and gives his imaginary nutshell history. Holbrook was awarded financial well-being and national notoriety, and all for being an ex-logger who could tell a good tale about the old Northwest.



When I think of all the places around the country—especially the “Wild West”—that increase the tourist income in their area by cashing in on a good piece of fakelore, it appears that this fakelore lark is a good cash cow. So I, not wanting to miss out on an opportunity to fatten my wallet, am sticking my toe in the Portland fakelore business.



Awhile back I penned a bit of verse (whether good or bad, you be the judge) called, “The Ballad of the Flying Prince,” which I foisted on the gentle readers of this blog. I sent the verse to my multitalented friend, J.D. Chandler, to see if he could make it into a song (my own banjolele fingering arm being busted up). He graciously sent me an MP3 of his mouth harp version. As soon as my fingers could caress the strings of my antique banjolele I set to work making the lyric into a song. I was planning to overtrack harmonies and all sorts of fancy things, but upon completion of the first track I saw, to my dismay, the song was too long for my purpose—almost 8 minutes.



I wanted a nice, compact piece of fakelore, which I could turn into a cartoon through the magic of graphics and animation software. The various sections of the cartoon are finished, all I need is song to narrate the story so I can edit the parts to fit—but the song was too long, If I can ever stop blogging, or working on my new book, or taking care of other business long enough I will narrate a Holbrook style version of the tale to go with the images and make a little, 4 minute cartoon for the attention-deprived Youtube generation.



At least that is the plan.



Below are a few stills from the coming cartoon to whet your desire to devote 4 minutes of your life for a little uplifting fakelore.

 
Bunko Kelly ponders his dilemma

Bunko Kelly leaves the Snug Harbor Saloon to look for the source of the moaning sound

What they were drinking
 
Bunko Kelly almost steps on a dying wino

The time in the train station tower shows that the tide is high

Bunko Kelly finds the lads at the livery stables ready to help


Coming Soon! How the Flying Prince Got Its Crew

Friday, December 12, 2014

Hacking, 1883 Style



In the days when the telegraph was the primary medium of information exchange there would be, in certain cities, saloons with names like, "The Turf Exchange" where bets could be placed on far off horse races. The sportsmen would then sit around smoking cigars and drinking until the results arrived via Western Union.

As I was researching details on my latest book, my eyes happened to light on the following news item in the Morning Oregonian from October 16, 1883, which has to be one of the earliest instances of hacking for profit that I have seen:


STILL A MYSTERY
New York, Oct. 14.--The tapping of the wires of the Western Union Saturday, by means of which bogus dispatches were sent all over the country, announcing false results of the Jerome park races, and through which nearly $100,000 was lost by pool sellers throughout the United States, remains as much of a mystery as ever.


Saturday, November 22, 2014

The Sinking of the Flor

 --This is another in the continuing story of my adventures in the grain trade.--

Into the 1980s the Portland grain docks would occasionally see an old steamship. Only an expert in maritime finance could explain the reasons why these straggling vessels were still at work and not turned to scrap. But I do happen to know that at that time the U.S. Congress mandated that 25% of the grain that the U.S. was giving away to places like Egypt and Pakistan must be carried aboard American vessels. I assume that many a mothballed ship waiting for the scrap heap was brushed and polished and put into action at that time.
.
That was before Jimmy Carter embargoed the U.S.S.R. over its invasion of Afghanistan, when the Soviets and all the rest of the world were beating a path to Pacific Northwest ports to load up with grain. Wheat, barley, sorghum, corn (but mostly wheat) was coming into the elevators in anything that would carry it. I have seen belt unloading potato trucks and open top coal cars carrying grain, since there were no other available carriers. The great grain merchants of the world were using anything that floated as well. 


Ships from the grain fleet of the Soviet Union were often seen passing under the Broadway Bridge looking much like WWII era supply ships with a large hammer and sickle on the smokestack. 

Soviet grain ship at Globe (O Dock)


They may have looked militaristic, but these vessels were all named after Russian poets-and they were fun to visit. The vodka usually was flowing and the smells of fresh baked bread filled the halls. These ships had crews made up of both men and women. Sometimes I would run into a woman dressed like a village babushka swabbing the decks. I would have to look back at the elevator and shake my head to reorient myself.

One of the many amusing details of these ships was that inside the main entrance to the superstructure there was usually something that looked like a tract rack in a Missionary Baptist Church. Instead of pious tracts these contained some poorly written, glowing reports of life under communism. They also had booklets criticizing the U.S. for its imperialistic foreign policies and institutional racism. I had a great number of interesting encounters with our Russian customers, and I was sorry to see the last of them.

Of the last of the steamships my personal favorites were the old President Lines general cargo ships. Their cargo areas were made up of midship refrigeration holds, main deck, upper tween deck, tween deck, lower tween deck and orlop. Of course we didn't load grain into the refer area, but we had to keep meticulous track of which parts of the holds received what part of the cargo. I soon learned the difference between an orlop and a tween deck.


General cargo President Liner


Whenever there was a President Liner in town I always hoped to be called upon to inspect her stowage areas. As a young boy I was fortunate to have crossed the Pacific on the S.S. President Wilson--one of the highlights of my childhood. I loved the lovely smell of an American merchant ship. All the ones I have been on have it. That lovely mixture of diesel fuel, fresh marine paint, and grilling steaks. These vessels were left over from the days before containerization. When they came to town carrying break bulk cargo the port could still use one of its old warehouses left over from World War II, such as the long rows of warehouses at Terminal 4, between the grain elevator and Matson Lines dock.

One of my many "duties and responsibilities" was that of inspecting the "stowage areas" of a newly arrived vessels. Usually we would inspect the hold of ships while they were either at anchor in Astoria, or in the Columbia River's Vancouver anchorage, in the waters beyond Kelly Point. This was because the large fees charged to ships for being tied up at a grain dock could run into tens of thousands of dollars per day. The shipping agents had to make sure the vessel was ready to receive its grain cargo before committing to being tied up at the export grain elevator.

Whenever I was on a "stowage inspection" it was a good day. It broke up the boredom of 12-hour shifts pacing back and forth in a cramped grain inspection laboratory, or any of our other mind-numbing services provided to our customers.

I recall one lovely morning in August 1979 when I drove into the parking lot at Bunge Elevator (now Irving) at 800 North River. I noticed an unusual hulk of a ship tying up to the dock-linemen yelling at the sailors and vice versa. I paid it little mind as I was in a bit of a dark mood, looking forward to an entire day in a windowless room, grinding wheat samples into flour to test the protein by use of a crudely high-tech spectrum analyzer. When I stepped in the door of the lab the supervisor told me there was a change of plans. The ship that was tying up had come straight in from sea, and would need to have its holds examined dockside. With an upbeat step I headed out to the dock to join the others from my stowage exam team. I had not seen anything quite like this vessel, at least not in Portland.

All merchant ships loom up from the dock when emptied of cargo and ballast, and even though this was a ship of medium size it was painted solid black which added considerably to its loom factor. While the line crew struggled and shouted, I walked as far to the stern as I could get, stepping out on the catwalk that goes toward the barge unloading dock. There were no stars and stripes fluttering in the breeze, but the name and port of origin was painted midway across the stern:

Flor
New York





the name and port of origin was painted midway across the stern

I joined the boarding party again, which by now included the ship's agent.

"American," I said. "We don't see many of those."

The ship's agent, who looked as though he had been up all night drinking coffee and talking on the phone to Kuala Lumpor and Rome, looked at me wearily and said, "It's a steam tanker. A steam tanker!."

I was puzzled for a minute, then I said, "Ah! But it doesn't burn coal--does it?"

"No, it burns diesel--but it's all run by steam. Even the tank covers use steam to open and close. Instead of using steam to make electricity and running the operations off that--it uses steam. You will see what I mean in a minute or two."

Soon the gangway was in place at a precarious 45 degree angle. Slowly the boarding crew climbed up, holding onto ropes, panting like Labradors all the way up into the strange world of the S.S. Flor.

The entire deck area was covered in plastic garbage bags full of refuse. Most of the sacks were either open at the top or split open, spilling their contents of rotted lettuce leaves, empty milk cartons, coffee grounds, cigarette packages, orange peels, egg shells, etc., all over the deck. The sailor standing guard at the top of the gangway was in some sort of snit, ignoring the normal pleasantries directed at him by the new arrivals. He wore an earth tone stocking cap on top of his boney skull and a disconcerting scowl making him look a lot like Dr. Suess's Grinch.

The first mate came towards us, kicking garbage out of his path as he walked. He was a man in his late 60s with obviously accelerated arthritis in his knees. As he led us to the ship's office I asked, "What gives with the garbage?"

The story was a long one. It had to do with U.S. Coast Guard regulations and lack of facilities to comply with the same. I was still being filled in on the details when we arrived at the ship's office up three flights of stairs.

The ship's office was also the captain's office, with lots of natural light and tasteful, hardwood paneling. There were framed maritime scenes on the walls and colorful curtains by the port hole windows. The ships library seemed to be made up of about three decades of Lloyds Registry of Shipping, all neat and in order behind the glass doors of the bookcase. Sitting at a green leather-top desk was the captain. He was a gentleman of 70 or more years. His hair was white, his eyes were a watery blue, and his nose was a matrix of ruddy veins along the line of W.C. Fields. On the table was a fifth of cheap bourbon with four fingers left, and next to it a water glass full of unwatered booze.

He was an easy man to get along with--quiet, polite, and undemanding. He said this would be his last sea voyage as a ship's master, then he would retire for good. He spoke of roses and a place in New Hampshire. I needed him to sign papers giving me and my fellows access to his vessel before inspecting the holds--which in this case were tanks for transporting petroleum and other chemicals.

I didn't have much hope that this apparent garbage scow would pass anything--let alone a readiness to receive a grain certificate. Stepping out on the deck, I noticed that steam pipes were running every which way--boiling hot to the touch and some even blowing dangerous geysers of steam out of rusted spots. Just before reaching the butterworth (tank inspection hatch), I saw the furry butt of a rat scurrying into a nearby garbage pile. According to the regulations, the rat has to be inside the stowage area to turn it down, but somehow none of this felt right.

I climbed down into the darkness of the tank fully expecting filth and disgustingness. The only other tanker I had been in at that time was a supertanker loaded in freezing weather with Alaskan crude warmed to 90 degrees Fahrenheit to accommodate the flow. The result was about 12 to 16 inches of paraffin stuck to the steel tank walls of the ship, over an area the size of Notre Dame cathedral. It all had to be scraped out by hand like scraping candle wax off the living room floor.

The previous cargo had been "sweet crude" from Malaysia, a high quality, low sulfur crude oil that cleans up pretty well. Down in the tanks there was the lingering smell of petroleum, but not bad enough to turn the tanks down for "commercially objectionable foreign odor." I kept looking for the rats that I was sure were there (which would have failed the vessel), but they must have made a deal with the crew, laying low until we left. The old tankers, with small, round butterworths are slow loading, with grain loaded by pipes attached to the main spouts from the shipping gallery above. The "Flor" would be there for at least a week.

Several days later I was working supervising the weighing in the control room--a room that looks like the flight deck of the starship Enterprise. It has large picture windows with a view of the shipboard activity. About mid-morning the door to the control room was thrown open with a crash. In lumbered a giant of a man, bearded, wearing a flannel shirt, his dungarees held up by working man suspenders. He was apparently stone deaf, for he had only one volume to his gruff, nerve-racking, ear-splitting shout.

"Can I use the telephone?" he shouted, causing the secretary to jump, spilling her coffee. "I am an able-bodied seaman. I need to call my business agent in Seattle!"

It became apparent that whatever business the seafarer had with his business agent, none of it would be private.

"Halloo, Mike! Derosher here! I'm down here in Portland! You've got to take me off of the list for this Flor! What's that? No! No! No! Not that! They are going to sink her!"

There was a minute of silence.

"That is what I said, they are going to sink her, over in Indonesia, or somewhere! For the money! There is money in it for me, but I don't want any part of it! It stinks!"

After shouting a few more business arrangements the sailor left--the longshoremen, Bunge managers, and I looked at each other with something akin to shock, then we all continued on, loading tons of sweet American prairie wheat on to the doomed ship aware that it sounded as though it was destined for the bottom of the South China Sea.




Eventually the ship moved on to Terminal 4 for more cargo before sailing for Asia. Others came and went, the days passed, each one bringing a fresh Oregonian with a fresh New York Times crossword puzzle. In early September I noticed a small paragraph somewhere near the obituaries. An American steam tanker, the Flor, had gone down somewhere near Indonesia. All the crew was accounted for and there were no injuries. No injuries--just 5 or 6 million dollars worth of wheat gone from the world food supply.









Thursday, November 20, 2014

In and Around the Sanitarium



I have been away from my beloved blog for many days. The story of why would be boring for you to hear, and painful for me to tell (involves--among other things--a new, titanium knee). So here, then, by way of apology:






On Hawthorne Lane




I have left my garden to grow alone,

Like the god of the Unitarians,

For you see, my dears, I have been away

For a rest in the sanitarium.



& while I was there I met a man,

Who spoke of Joachim Miller,

When Mount Hood was just a hole.

He was a crazy kind of feller.



There was an English lass—a faded rose—

She said her name was “Lizzy,”   

She had a heart of earth wrapped up in stone,

But she’s still God’s little missy.



There were dark men on shadowy stairs

Ashamed to show their faces.

So we kept the gaslights turned down low,

One of life’s redeeming graces.



The sun outside was mostly veiled,

When the weather wasn’t rainy,

& the light was stored in a wooden box,

Filed away under miscellany.



I was shown this light by “Crawdad” Pete,

A “sourdough” from the days of old.

He had seen a doctor hide it there,

& he had dreamed that it was gold.



Pete had no use for light, he said,

“There ain’t no way I can constrain it.

When it’s out it’s out, free as the wind.”

At least that’s how he explained it.
.






Liz and I sneaked out that night,
To stroll on Hawthorne Lane,
With the moonlight brightening our eyes,
It was hard to say which one's insane.

We met an old bearded gent named George;
He said he once worked for Lincoln,
But he moved his family to the great Northwest,
Because the "whole east coast was sink-un."

He asked me of my folks and home;
I only said I was a stranger
& my home was where my heart found love,
A mighty shield from every danger.

"Those are fine words, my friend," he said,
"Just like some Romantic poet,
But death and pain must come to all,
& I think that you must know it."

"Pain and death must come," said I,
"I am sure I can't ignore it.
But should things work some other way,
We would be the poorer for it."

The old gent smiled and tipped his hat,
With the knob of his silver cane,
& Liz and I turned back towards home,
The big house on Hawthorne Lane.

So I've been gone these many months,
In the house with a rolling lawn,
& I am cheered to find on my return,
No one noticed I was gone.








To those interested in obscure political intrigue I must say, the staid and righteous figure of Dr. Hawthorne has a few flies on it. Dr. Hawthorne’s Asylum was the asylum for the state of Oregon, taking court-committed mental patients from the entire state. Once when the legislature was debating opening a state hospital at Salem, Dr. Hawthorne went to see his old friend, then governor Lafayette Grover, and with tears running down his face, begged the governor to put a stop to the project—or, Hawthorne wept, he would become bankrupt, and his family desolate.

His kindly old friend, the governor, stuck his neck out and nixed the state asylum project, much to his political disadvantage. Many in the business community of Salem were anticipating the arrival of the state hospital as a pork-bellied sow awaits the chow bucket. Opposing the plan was a slap in the face to many a friend and foe alike. As Grover put it some years later while under oath:



"My course toward Dr. Hawthorne in maintaining the asylum in his hands was purely the act of a friend—I was a friend in need, and became a friend indeed. But it cost me money, and it cost me friends. For all those in that town (Salem) who moved to secure the asylum there in 1872 opposed my administration throughout, scandalized my public work, opposed my election to the United States Senate, and came near defeating me."

In 1910, after Dr. Hawthorne’s death, Lafayette Grover and his wife found themselves in dire straits—without money for food, or daily needs. Mrs. Hawthorne, however, was wealthy, mostly with wealth Lafayette Grover had helped her husband accumulate as friend and attorney. Much of her real estate wealth came from 45 acres in the West Hills that her husband had acquired in a deal with Grover. Ten years earlier the Grovers were land rich and money broke. 

Lafayette Grover worked out a loan from Dr. Hawthorne based on the 45 acres mentioned before. All this came to light in 1910 when, in desperation, the impoverished couple took Mrs. Hawthorne to court, trying to arrange a way for them to get their fair share of the West Hills property.

It is hard to imagine a once United States Congressman, Senator, and governor of Oregon on the doorstep of the poor house. Under oath, Mrs. Hawthorne had sputtered in her defense that she had, “furnished them money to get through this financial stringency.”

M.O. Collins, the son-in-law of Mrs. Hawthorne had shown how vehemently his family opposed this lawsuit by threatening to do bodily harm to John Manning, one of the Grover’s attorneys.

While in the witness stand Manning asked Collins point blank:

"Did you threaten to lick me at one time if I commenced this suit?"

In a heated reply Collins said that he had threatened him for the “scandalous allegations” in the lawsuit, not to try and stop him from commencing the suit.

This “very Portland” sort of historical soap opera may be of great interest to someone who cares to go dig up all the dirt. I merely stubbed my toe on it while wandering in the dark.


 
From: West Shore, April 1880