A BIRTHDAY, VE DAY, FLYOVER PORTLAND DAY

My dad’s birthday is May 8, so it was a big day before I learned about Victory in Europe, or anything in Europe.

It’s still a big day. Sharing his day with the end of the worst war in the history of mankind, where industrialized death became the accepted norm, can’t be easy.

Just ask anyone with a birthday in December.

The top pic and those following are the view from Council Crest after the frontline worker appreciation flyover.

My old man grew up in the shadow of Mt St Helens, the old St Helens that was compared to Mt Fuji for its beautiful symmetry.

Now it’s all Fuji.

He lived the unlikely dream every flat-lander has after a visit to Portland, the one where the ocean is a short drive that away, and Alpine mountains a short drive the other.

Then they move here and never leave town.

Mt Rainier Behind St Helens

For some reason my dad took to clam digging more than snow. We weren’t a snow-camp sort of family, but we knew our way around a mudflat.

We weren’t a big birthday celebrating family growing up either, not like the wife and I did with our kids. Maybe there’s something about two kids instead of four?

But, I don’t remember a dad birthday party, or cake, or ever getting him a present. That started after I got married and we celebrate everything. Birthday Week sounds needy and self-congratulating? That’s what I thought before my first week. ‘A week just rubs it in.’

Not anymore.

(Side note: After coaching a big basketball season, my fourth grade team mom asked what I’d like for a gift. I said, “Nothing,” and she told the rest of the moms I thought I was too good for their present. Know the audience. If Birthday Week works for everyone else, it works for me.)

Mt Adams On St Helens’ Right Side

From a distance the Cascades look manageable; the closer you get, the more imposing they grow.

Go to Trout Lake Washington for a close look at Mt Adams and it feels like the whole thing could tip over. Not so much from Council Crest.

My wife’s idea for my dad’s birthday remembrance was driving to Oregon City for the Air National Guard flyover, and a loaf of bread from a local baking treasure.

Turns out that particular bread would be on hand the next day, so I suggested we cheer the Coronavirus frontline workers/ VE Day/ and my dad’s birthday from Council Crest.

Off we went with plenty of time to spare. I should have jumped on 217 out of Tigard, or I-5, or 99W, anything but Scholls Ferry to Beaverton-Hillsdale Hwy, a too early left, and finally on SW Hamilton.

The Mighty Hood

My claim to never be lost as long as there’s gas in the tank had never been weaker.

I’m on Hamilton. I can see the KGON Tower looming over the trees. The skinny road got thinner, a sign warned I might have to back up for on coming cars, and lush trees in spring blast created a tunnel, a green tunnel.

I rolled my window down. A sound of air rushing grew louder, louder, then faded over the tree tunnel.

Either I missed the covid-19 frontline worker appreciation flyover, or I heard my dad whispering through the still trees. I was late, but not lost.

Then I accidentally turned onto Fairview, or Fairmont, the road that never ends and just circles and circles and circles in ever widening curves. I was lost, but not for long.

I passed runners, trotters, bike riders, a parade of fitness kooks forcing me into the other lane of traffic. Since I was the only traffic either way I half expected someone to yell that the rode was closed to cars.

Finally I made the right turn, parked by houses since the Council Crest gate was closed, and dragged up the hill. People were leaving, the show was over, my wife slightly pissed, but we made it.

At the top I looked to the horizon, stopping on St Helens, and thought how new people would never see the perfect proportions of the American Fuji. It was no longer the same mountain my dad grew up with.

That thought shifted to another on this birthday. We don’t live in the same country my dad grew up in. He died in 1993, his last few years of bad health taking a harsh toll. He looked eighty.

His view of America was shaped by a rural upbringing, sports, and five years in the Marine Corps starting with the Korean War. Then three sons and small town life before an empty nest grew more empty and sort of fell out of the family tree.

But, he and I hung together. I’d take the Greyhound from Portland to Eugene on Friday after work. He picked me up at the station, and we’d drive through the night to his new place. We worked clearing land for two days, then back to Eugene, and the night bus home on Sunday.

He was game to kick ass back then, and we did. By the time my kids showed up, he’d slowed down, then slower.

They don’t remember the same man I knew; their kids won’t remember me the same they do.

Does this remind you of a song? This song?