TIGARD MAN: WHY MOVING OUT OF INNER CITY PORTLAND WAS A GOOD IDEA

I’ve been a Tigard Man for thirty years, but it feels like yesterday.

Memories of Portland keep reminding me why I moved. Not bad memories, but they weren’t good for others.

For example:

My last Portland apartment was around the block from a crack house. It came with a pit bull. Going for a walk with the wife and a drug house pit bull was dicey.

But it was inner-eastside before it got popular, so it was normal.

Here in Tigard there’s a meth-friendly house two doors down, but no pit bull, so score that one. Of course there are other problems, there’s always other problems.

My last neighbor in Portland used to argue with his girlfriend at night. I could hear them bicker, then her crying. It was sad, but his parents were the landlords and he was untouchable. Does yelling and crying at night sometimes help relationships?

Not that one.

The first neighbor I met in Tigard was a millwright in a steel factory. In other words, a man’s man. He also felt anyone who couldn’t do what he could do had more money than brains if they hired anyone to do anything.

He pointed this out when I bought a water heater from the Water Heater King and had it installed.

Which is why I place millwrites and contractors on the top shelf. They know how to do things, lots of things, that other people struggle with. And my neighbor was one of them.

The Portland Street vs Tigard Street

Shortly before I moved out of Portland, an incident occurred on my street. Someone either jumped, got pushed, or fell out of speeding van. They bounced off a telephone pole and died.

With all of the lights and police cars and ambulances, I went outside to see what was up. I talked to a guy who wasn’t very helpful. Then a policeman came up, asked him if he was the driver of the van. He said yes, and was taken away.

I looked the scene over the next morning and found blood and hair, and wondered who did the clean up after these things. That was one motivation to become a Tigard man.

In Tigard, a kid came home late one night. He was distraught over the way things were going the summer after senior year. He was angry, but not angry enough to die. His parents needed help, so they called the police. A group showed up, one thing led to another, and the kid ended up face down with eight police bullets in his back.

The suburbs are not where to escape city life, if that’s the general impression.

Portland Friends vs Tigard Friends

As I’ve aged I’ve turned into a one-friend kind of guy. One Portland friend moved to Lake Oswego. His replacement moved to Beaverton. The friendships devolved with the moves.

Tigard friends came with extras: kids. Most of the people I like are parents with kids that my kids went to school with, played sports with, or both.

My besties have been guitar playing beer drinkers who like the life they’ve chosen. But, things change. My first friend decided to change his things up, got divorced, and jumped on the social climbing ladder.

This Tigard man didn’t follow.

His replacement was a marriage zealot with no religious hook like me. We have an agreement that if either of us strays, the other gets to beat his ass. We laugh when we remind each other, but it still counts.

Since I met them, he and his wife have moved out of town and back, and I’m glad. Do you know how hard it is to find trustworthy people? Squirrelly ones are all over the place; real ones are few and far between.

Tigard Man Now And Later

Will Tigard be my last official residence while I live my suburban lifestyle dream? I’d like to think so. I’ll stay if my kids stay; if they go, I go.

Here’s why:

As adults we become targets of great marketing. We fall for sucker deals all the time. I believe if my kids see their old man rejecting great deals, then I tell them why, they will do the same. Both of them are pretty sharp characters. I’ll ask them their opinions on reverse mortgages when the time is right.

Besides, I like them, I like their circle of friends, and I like their ladies. Chances are pretty good I’ll like their kids, too.

I grew up in a small town and moved away after a conversation with my dad. An older kid we knew, a guy who had graduated a few years earlier, got into trouble and landed in jail. I asked my dad what he’d do if it had been one of his sons.

“Well, if you want to get in trouble, I hope you do it in another town. There’s lots of room to make mistakes, and they don’t all have to happen right here.”

Made sense to me, so I moved along and never lived in North Bend again. I say that with some regret. I moved out, but I also took my roots with me, the same roots I’ve sunk in Tigard.

So, yes, this is my stand, and it’s a Tigard Stand.