There they are! The blue drinking fountains of Westmoreland Park, inconspicuous, easily missed, hidden away, seemingly by design, chipped and cracked, relics of a cheaper and better bygone era when people drank from drinking fountains in parks or held up their snot-nosed brats for a splash and didn’t carry plastic bottles of inferior-tasting water or $29.99 space age “hydra flasks” filled with not pure water, but enhanced H2O full of snake oil additives.

I have taken over a thousand walks in this park the past 3 ½ years and never once—NOT ONCE—seen another person, not even a homeless one, take a drink from one of the three water fountains in the park. I sometimes think I am the only one left in Portland who uses them. I sometimes hit all three on one walk!

The water is cold and delicious, the finest the Bull Run reservoir has to offer, some of the best public drinking water in the world. It’s free, free, free!

What wants to carry bottles or flasks or ridiculous tanks of water encased in a backpack-like contraption on walks or jogs? How uncomfortable! How unsexy! How wholly unnecessary! If Elmer needs a drink, I merely fill my cupped hands with water and let him lap it up. I like the synergy of that sharing.

You rarely encounter a public drinking water fountain anymore. When you do, they typically never work. I wonder if there are any drinking fountains left in public schools anymore? They were almost gone when I left the teaching profession.

I supposed one day the fountains won’t work in Westmoreland Park and no one will bother to repair them—too expensive or too archaic. And there the fountains will remain for as long as they stand, a reminder when Americans didn’t buy water and expensive, absurd water containers to keep refreshed on a walk in the park.

Convincing Americans to buy bottled water was the greatest corporate scam marketing triumph of the 21^st century. There was nothing wrong with most of our public water supply systems, excepting places like Flint, Michigan, Jackson, Mississippi and elsewhere. What fools we were for buying bottled water to serve at events indoors where drinking fountains abounded.

Someone should write a novel about this.

The television meteorologists predicted a fourth straight day of record-breaking, triple-digit heat. The forecast today called for a high of 105 degrees.

Elmer and I were on the move toward the park earlier than usual—4:45! Full sunrise was still less than an hour away. My mood soared with good will at hanging with my dog that time of day.

We were about ready to cross a bridge over a creek that had undergone two decades of massive, expensive and successful efforts to restore its riparian areas along a quarter mile stretch that flowed through the park

The previous morning I had seen the old beaver glide upstream not far from where I walked and a blue heron perched on a wooden fence that kept dogs and humans out of the riparian areas.

It may seem unusual to some, perhaps many, but this creek is my friend. I have a daily spiritual service with this watercourse and witnessed uncountable marvels of nature in and around it.

A young man riding a bicycle approached us and then turned off the sidewalk, He stopped and got off his bicycle. I saw the beam of a flashlight in the riparian area behind him. I heard voices. I saw part of the fence had been removed to allow easy access. The man walked his bicycle through the gap and disappeared into the foliage.

Homeless people had made a new camp.

I wanted to investigate but decided otherwise because I was angry and that is no way to investigate anything in life.

Longtime readers of this newsletter know I have no sympathy and more than a little animosity toward homeless people who destroy natural areas such as forests, wetlands, dunes, riparian areas and deserts with their residency and accumulations of weird shit, garbage, fires, tree cutting, soil compaction, feces, propane tanks, drug paraphernalia, etc. They have no right to destroy flora and fauna and the habitats that support them.

Is their presence murdering a natural area more heinous than five tents murdering a small business that someone dreamed about their whole life and spent an inheritance to open?

In my mind, yes. Perhaps that comes from having had a hand two decades ago in planting 10,000 trees in Tillamook County watersheds as part of massive initiatives to restore riparian areas, estuaries and deforested uplands utterly wrecked by human/corporate use, mostly by logging and dairy farming. I am glad I lived long enough to see the ecological benefits of these initiatives. I count it as the greatest work of my life, way more meaningful than teaching or writing.

My point is: these efforts worked. They are also working to restore the creeks and wetlands in my neighborhood. The astonishing array of wildlife nourished by the creeks and wetlands that Elmer and I see on our walks is proof of that.

Unfortunately, I’ve also seen the results of the destruction wrought by the homeless in these same restored areas and it undoes much of the planning, expense and labor of the efforts. It is horrible to behold. It seems almost malicious.

Elmer and I walked around the park twice and I cooled off a bit. It was now time to investigate.

We walked a path that paralleled the riparian area where the homeless had made camp. I slowed down and looked through some foliage. I saw a man almost prone on a mattress; I caught a sliver of his face. He was the same man who had been whacked out of his mind in the neighborhood the last month, living against the wall of a convenience store, under a bus shelter, and inside an upraised brick flower planter in front of an abandoned retail store.

His camp was an unholy mess of water jugs, pop bottles, bedding, mosquito netting (how in the world had he procured that?) and fast food detritus. He had hacked away or broken off dozens of branches to create a mini clearing and a trail to the creek to piss and shit.

The bicycle was there, too. I saw two other men sleeping on the ground.

Back home, I got on the computer and found the contact information to report the encampment to the city’s Park Ranger program. A two-sentence email would conclude my civic duty on this matter, except for the obligatory ten follow-up emails or phone calls to spur action.

Or it was quite possible Rangers would act immediately, this very day in fact, and roust the campers out of the riparian areas. I suspected there were already complaints lodged by local residents.

But…it was going to hit 104 this afternoon. The shade from the forested riparian area was probably keeping at least one of the men alive.

I didn’t send the email. I would give the men three days to leave. The temperatures were supposed to cool down to the low 80s by then.

Three days later, the men were gone but all their shit was left behind.

Two days later, all the shit was gone.

Progress?

For several months, a piece of renegade art mounted to a power pole magnetized my attention whenever Elmer and I passed it on our morning walks.

I wanted this black stencil of a woman wearing a striped dress painted over a watercolor background on a piece of 10”x 20” piece of particleboard that had seen earlier life as a piece of furniture or cabinetry. The application of the stencil had been perfectly executed—no drips or splotches.

The artist mounted the piece with a drill and star screws and too high for anyone to simply pull it off by hand or apply a crowbar for leverage. You would need a step ladder or perhaps an overturned bucket to reach it.

A creative mind of considerable cunning force was at work here; if I wanted the painting, I’d have to devise a plan and stage an operation.

It wouldn’t be theft; it seemed all part of the artistic concept. Why else mount this groovy piece of art on a obscure side street decorated with blackberries and potholes? The power pole overlooked apartments, a highway safety equipment manufacturer and a pickup, van and canned ham trailer where various homeless men lived. There was something of sly social commentary in the placement going on, at least in my mind, which is all that mattered.

Every time I passed the painting, my mind returned to my ex wife, Cindy, a visual artist of incredible talent and range, but virtually indifferent of doing the frustrating dance with gallery owners, something you had to do if you wanted shows.

In the years after graduating from a Portland art school, Cindy gave away much of her art she had by hanging paintings, some of them framed and oils (!) from fire escapes in the then-lightly trafficked northwest sections of downtown. If someone saw them from the street or a nearby building, and wanted possession, then a daredevil was required to make it happen.

I marveled at Cindy’s system of distribution and drew upon its inspiration when I began giving my authored books away for free in street libraries and dive bars all across Oregon.

As it turned out, that strategy led me to find some of my greatest readers.

There is something very, very powerful about giving away your art for free to strangers. You never know where that generosity will lead.

The question remained…how am I going to procure this coveted piece of art on a walk with the dog? For some reason, the thought of driving over to it with the necessary tools felt sneaky, abhorrent.

At roughly 5:45 in the morning, Elmer and I traversed a boulevard across the street from a fire station. It was a sultry morning, orange cirrus clouds decorated the sky.

I looked left and there was Jacob from the Old Crow Book Club. I was glad to see him. The last time we talked he told me he might be going back to jail for violating his probation. His new offense was a DUI with no license or insurance. He’d taken the wheel for his mother who was too drunk to drive home from a wedding they both attended.

Jacob saw me, yelled my name, and waved. I hailed him. He sprinted across the boulevard to meet me even though there was no traffic. It’s a nice feeling when someone runs to meet you and you see them running toward you. All of us need to experience more of that in our lives.

We shook hands and he gave Elmer a pat on the head. Since he was standing in front of me that meant he wasn’t in jail so I didn’t ask about that. I did ask where he was living. He told me he was sleeping a block away in a tiny section along Chrystal Springs Creek surrounded on all sides by concrete and roads. He was staying there temporarily with a friend who camped by himself.

Jacob gave me the rundown on other members of the book club and it was grim news for everyone but Mark, who was doing well in a Safe Rest Village.

Standing there, with Elmer tugging slightly on the leash, a definitely Great Notion overcame me: hire Jacob to score the painting!

I pitched the job and offered $25 and the use of my star wrench set. Jacob was game. I said the wrench and cash would be inside an envelope left on my front porch in two hours. Swing by then. I said he might need a step ladder or bucket.

Jacob looked at me as if I’d made the dumbest suggestion in the world.

“I’ll figure it out, he said. “There’s always shit to use all over the place.”

That sounded like an excellent philosophy on how to live one’s life when mass consumption is killing souls and the planet.

Jacob went his way and Elmer and I headed toward the park.

A giddiness sunk in: I had just hired a homeless man to “procure” a piece of street art! A goddamn righteous creative mission!

Eight hours elapsed and the envelope was untouched.

There was no way Jacob would let me down; he had always delivered in the past on a host of errands and communications on behalf of my efforts to assist the neighborhood’s homeless population.

Towards five in afternoon, I checked the porch again. The envelope was gone!

An hour later I checked the porch and the piece of art was standing upright in the basket beside the wrench set.

Fifteen minutes later, the painting was hanging on the wall in my living room.

It’s a hundred degrees on the back deck as I write this while sipping a vodka tonic.

George Benson plays on the socialist jazz station. I saw him live in the mid 80s.

Elmer the husky is wilting on the back yard. We just passed six months together and have found a sweet groove. My creative mind and bodily fitness continue to improve because of him and our outings.

Speaking of one of our outings, we passed a young homeless man at 5 in the morning. He was leaning against a church and eating what appeared to be pudding. His kid’s bicycle rested a few feet away, as did his possessions. I didn’t say anything. Later, on my way to the golf course to hit a bucket of balls on the range, he was still in the same spot. I am preparing an emergency bag of supplies for him and carrying it with me tomorrow morning. If he’s there, he’ll get it. I’ll just set it down and walk away. If he’s not there, there’s certainly someone else in need we’ll encounter. There always is.

As for the assassination attempt on the former President, I just can’t bring myself to write about it. I do know from my long study of American history, we’ve been in as worse or much worse places and also with Supreme Courts as reactionary as the current one. Dred Scott? Plessy vs Ferguson? All FDR’s New Deal programs tossed? It helps me cope to know this. It is also worth remembering that MLK was killed and George Wallace was an elected Governor, ran for President, won electoral votes, and that Eisenhower had to call in the US Army so black students could attend Little Rock High School.

I finished rereading Jim Harrison’s 2004 memoir, Off to the Side, earlier today. I read it when it first came out and he died in 2016, I think. What a life! He is easily my favorite American novelist and his books have influenced me as a person and writer more than any other author (Gore Vidal is a close second). I never tried to write like Harrison. He just inspired me to leave Portland in 1997 and head to the Oregon Coast and try to become a writer. Harrison had a lot of help early on from literary and cinematic celebrities in getting his books published. But he made his own breaks. You have to put something out there to get a break as far as writing goes. I have often wondered what would have happened to me if one of my books would have found its way to someone who then gave me that big break. I’ll never know. I did meet Harrison in a Portland bookstore in 1997. He was doing a signing for his collection of Zen-inspired poems. He was drinking red wine from a goblet. I was nervous and thanked him for his writing. He signed the book and I still have it, of course. It was the only time I ever met a personal hero. Wait, I also got to meet Maurice Lucas!

I loaned someone $500 knowing full well she’ll never repay it despite her saying she will.

I teach another writing workshop this coming weekend. The subject: homelessness. I’ve said this before, but this one feels like the last one.

The 20^th anniversary of my book, The Far Out Story of Vortex I, is this summer. A week ago I received an extraordinary email from a 77-year-old woman from California who found the book and was overwhelmed with emotion reading it because it transported her back to an important (better) time in her life. That email made my month and she went on to purchase several other of my books.

My highly eccentric Steve Prefontaine book is completed and should be out this fall if everything goes according to plan. The decision I now have to make: how far do I go to promote the book. The 50^th anniversary of his death is in May of 2025 and there will be fanfare. Do I try to capitalize on that or is that unseemly?

I recently made my first piece of visual art, a mixed media of watercolor and collage of sewing patter cover illustrations from the 1970s. I have never considered myself a visual artist because I can’t draw. But I am maker of driftwood forts and consider what I leave behind on the beaches to be art and shelter and entertainment. I may never make another piece of visual art, but painting a piece of wood with watercolors was an exhilarating experience quite unlike writing.

Next book to read: Rickshaw, a Chinese proletariat novel from the late 1930s.