I picked up a little book of philosophy out of a street library the other day: William James’ Pragmatism and Other Essays. It is somewhat water damaged and contained the receipt from its original purchase: April 27, 1968. Cost: 54 cents and two cents sales tax. First publication: 1907.

The study of philosophy has always interested me but I never actively pursued it in college outside of one undergraduate course. I regret this now. It’s a serious gap in my cultural knowledge. Over the years I’ve tried to rectify that by reading books of Eastern and Western philosophy whenever they happen to appear—which is why I’ve been reading James here and there for the past couple of weeks.

In “The Present Dilemma of Philosophy,” an essay that James delivered first as a lecture, he writes: “I know that you, ladies and gentlemen, have a philosophy, each and all of you, and that the most interesting and important thing about you is the way in which it determines the perspective in your several worlds.”

That might have been true of his audience because they were students of philosophy, but I hardly think that’s true of most Americans.

Most Americans have no philosophy whatsoever except rabid consumerism.

Reading James inspired me to consider my own current philosophies of life and the philosophies or non-philosophies of others.

When I was teaching, I had one main philosophy with students: engage, engage, engage them with content and experiences. It always astounded me that almost every teacher I ever worked with had no teaching philosophy that they could articulate. I remember serving on several hiring committees and asking prospective candidates, “What is your teaching philosophy?” and I was met with silence and confusion—they’d never thought about one.

A decade or so ago, I had no philosophy for romantic relationships or friendships. I do now and they serve me well.

I always had a philosophy as a coach for sports: make it fun and never quit during a competition.

Over the years, I developed what might be the world’s only philosophy for building driftwood forts. I hope to write a book about it one day. Indeed, I have already written it!

Republicans at all levels of governing practice a political philosophy—don’t govern; do the opposite of good governing to achieve your non-governing beliefs.

Evangelical Christians practice a philosophy exactly contrary to the philosophy espoused by Jesus Christ in his Sermon on the Mount.

I have several philosophies for my writing: 1) engage with what interests me and let my mind unfurl as I write about it; 2) amuse myself; 3) find and document previously unknown or lost Oregon stories; 4) give up any idea that I will ever make any money from writing; 5) ass to chair.

I have a philosophy for reading: read anything interesting or novel that I come across at random. The same holds true for listening to music.

I have a philosophy for coffee: drip, black, cheap.

My main philosophy in dealing with others: follow through.

Another important philosophy in my life: maintenance of everything.

I have a philosophy for choosing a dive bar as a place to write: languid, with an occasional freak wandering in to break up the languor.

I am in a dive bar drinking a Guinness. It’s from a can and therefore not the same as draft.

Weirdos abound here. I need weirdos in my bars.

Current reading: Soldier of the Great War, new James Ellroy novel, Abraham Lincoln’s speeches and letters, William James’ essays, Langston Hughes poems. I tried reading some William Faulkner short stories but they just don’t hold up anymore. I doubt his novels do either.

I read where the new Speaker of the House of Representatives once saw the face of Moses in the ceiling of legislative chamber and it directed him how to vote on a bill. No comment.

Earlier this morning I saw a homeless man laden with bags of cans and bottles somehow strapped to his body, bicycling and towing a yard work wagon that contained an elderly woman.

I have a new best friend: he’s a fat squirrel that I’ve dubbed the Red Chunk.

I picked up a couple disco compilations on CD for a few bucks. These are extended versions that never made it to radio and I have been fascinated by the musicianship of these often maligned genre. Some of the players really cut loose. Taste of Honey’s “Boogie Oogie Oogie” is really something fantastic. What a groove! I also appreciate that there is absolutely zero irony with disco. You were supposed to move, feel free, feel happy, feel sexy, get laid. Can’t say that about Pearl Jam.

Thanksgiving looms. I’ve got to shake things up and do something novel. I rarely go looking to find a story, but I might this time. Holidays are good for this kind of sleuthing.

I’m not sure why I get so many compliments on a certain plaid cloth coat, the one I’ve owned for 25 years and bought for three bucks in a Coos Bay thrift store. Someone just recently told me she wanted to wear it around the house with nothing underneath. Good ol’ JC Penney Towncraft quality!

Why so many editorials about Matthew Perry? I’d rather read editorials about non-celebrities who battled addiction and didn’t have access to expensive professional help. Then we might actually learn something useful to enact social policy.

I saw a tall and older homeless man riding a bicycle and eating a bag of candy corn. His face was pulverized. I wonder if I’ll ever get that image out of my mind.

A masked figure wearing a black stocking cap rode a bicycle into the parking lot of the grocery store. I was walking to my car after returning a cart. The rider skidded to a stop in front of me.

“MAAATTTTTTTT!” the rider screamed, while simultaneously yanking off the mask and stocking cap.

It was Jamie from the Old Crow Book Club! I hadn’t seen her in months and the last two times she’d been zonked on fentanyl. Via the book club grapevine, news reached me that Jamie was in terrible shape and living along a creek in the neighborhood.

But here she was, smiling, sober and damn happy to see me.

“Where the hell have you been?” I said. “I’ve been worried.”

What ensued was more of a monologue by her rather than a conversation, but she needed to talk. I listened and interjected a question here and there when an opening presented itself.

Her recent story was this:

She was in disguise because of stalkers. She was living alone down by the creek. The encampment there, after utterly destroying a riparian area, had been swept a couple of times, but she somehow managed to return. Her dog was gone. Someone had ripped off most of her possessions, including the flute she busked with to survive. She really needed that flute. The holiday season was looming and she earned three times her regular donations because people loved the standards.

No, she hadn’t lost the Swiss Army Knife I’d given her six months ago. She used it every day. She’d slit anyone’s throat who tried to steal it.

Yes, Mark had given her the Old Crow shirt but it had gone missing until she saw another homeless woman wearing it. Could I make her another one?

The monologue ended.

I told her I’d buy her a flute. How we would coordinate a rendezvous for me to hand it over was lost to me in the moment, but I’d figure it out and employ the Old Crow network for communication. They operate very much the way Sherlock Holmes’ band of underground contacts did in London.

“OOOOHHHHH MAAAATTTTTTT” screamed Jamie. “THANK YOU!”

It’s a damn good feeling when someone scream THANK YOU for your effort. In fact, it was the best thank you I’d ever received.

We parted.

I drove home and went online to research flutes. Flutes! For a homeless woman who needs it to gig at Christmas!

Jesus Christ there were a lot of options! And flutes have different keys? What the hell? Jamie hadn’t told me what key she preferred! I’d just have to wing it.

“Tell your friends,” said Elizabeth, owner of the Checkered Flag Tavern on SE 82^nd Avenue, to me and my friend. “Tell your friends about it and get more people in here.”

We all stood inside the joint on a Tuesday before noon and Elizabeth had just told the extraordinary story of how she and her husband Jason had bought and renovated the place during the pandemic, turning a former biker bar full of old man anger and grievances into a welcoming place for all people. The Checkered Flag also hosts an annual drag show that raises money for LGBTQ non profits.

We said we would certainly share the word about this great dive bar and its structural and philosophical transformation. Elizabeth, in her late 30s, also shared her personal story: she was in recovery, had grown up in the area, graduated from a nearby high school, and called life she observed on 82^nd Avenue right out front her bar as “spicy.”

The bar story was fantastic, but even more incredible was something else Elizabeth is trying to doing with the property that deserves promoting and high praise and is nothing like anything I’ve heard in connection to Oregon’s homeless crisis.

Or perhaps it is very much like what is going on everywhere and we simply don’t hear about it or take notice. Quiet positive work is often like that.

When Elizabeth purchased the Checkered Flag, the deal came with 10 small studio apartments onsite. The complex must have originally been a motor court from the 40s and 50s and was later converted to housing in the 70s or 80s.

It is dilapidated. The units are tiny. The front yard is concrete. The complex is a football throw away from one of the most inhospitable and dangerous roadways in Oregon.

Nevertheless, the studios are housing for destitute people on the verge of being homeless and that’s what matters.

Elizabeth inherited a challenging roster of tenants and had no previous experience as a landlord, let alone the demographic that occupied the studios. Thus, she became a bar owner and bartender who unwittingly took up social service work (primarily with the elderly) on the side because they were living on the property and needed her help and no one else was doing it. So what began with owning a dive bar, launched her into ad hoc work helping the homeless in the area obtain housing or keeping those housed in her complex from losing their homes and dying on the streets.

And she loved doing it.

I got all this from Elizabeth, while drinking my IPA, and was not taking notes, so I hope it’s mostly right.

Her work began with a Mr. George, an elderly man who was an alcoholic, semi homeless, and a regular at the tavern. Elizabeth invited him into one of the studios and he eventually died, but didn’t die on the streets.

Most of the units were occupied but they suffered from hundreds of thousands of dollars in deferred maintenance and Elizabeth had a bar to run and make a living.

Not too long ago, water pipes burst in several of the unoccupied units and Elizabeth lost four of the apartments.

She wanted to remodel but didn’t have the money—yet. There was no doubt she would raise it somehow.

THE MONEY! THE MONEY! THE MONEY!

Report after report from the Portland area documents how various governing agencies haven’t spent hundreds of millions of dollars in funds earmarked to address the homeless crisis in the state’s most populated county with the homeless people. These are funds raised by voters who taxed themselves because they want action. The Governor even requested some of the special monies allocated during the last legislative session returned because the county hadn’t spent it all by deadline!

Elizabeth’s studios are a perfect candidate for some of this unspent money. One application. One page. A visit from a county and/or county official. Approval in two weeks or less. Treat it like the emergency it is. Hire a contractor of Elizabeth’s choosing. Get building!

Part of the money could also subsidize rent for the tenants. The studios could serve as transitional housing until tenants found other residences. There are dozens of models that could work. Elizabeth would choose one that best serves her clients because she knows who they are and what’s best for them. A homeless industrial contractor from Los Angeles certainly does not and anyone can talk to Elizabeth anytime they have an issue or a possible placement. In Portland, the outside contractors providing much of the housing are not reachable and operate in darkness.

A construction crew working 10 hour days for a week could repair it all. That effort would house almost 15-20 people who otherwise would soon live on the streets.

Or, if it made more construction/financial sense, raze the studios and bring on the small (200-foot) manufactured home/cabins I’ve seen for sell along highways everywhere in Oregon. I’ve even stayed in one on Loon Lake and it was wonderful! No expensive and boutique tiny home featured on the television shows that cost ten times as much. You could even set up a mini RV park onsite. Just grandfather it in from land use laws. There’s already a mobile court/RV park next door to the Checkered Flag!

Listening to Elizabeth narrate her story and evince her passion was incredibly inspiring to me, one of the more inspiring moments I’ve experienced since I started about writing the homeless crisis in Oregon.

I offered Elizabeth my services as a grant writer and/or red tape cutter on the spot. I could also serve as grant manager and PR director. Hell, I could even work as a volunteer laborer on the construction crew!

Sometimes I believe writing is not enough in support of this monumental cause. Sometimes I feel the same about assisting Mark with pep talks, corduroys, books, pipe tobacco, an occasional can of malt liquor, and rides to various appointments.

I want to get more physical on the ground but I don’t want to belong to a non profit and take endless canned training sessions and swim around in mazes of molasses and mayonnaise. I want to build something!

Look at Elizabeth, a bartender, recovering addict with no formal education or training in providing homeless services. She is going at it alone.

It’s called freelancing. She’s just doing it. Freelancing! Making it up as she goes along, feeling her way through ideas, enlisting ad hoc help here and there. She is highly reluctant to put herself forward in this endeavor but knows that it has to happen in some fashion.

She could use some help. Her state representative and senator should learn her story. Pay a visit. Talk to her.

Our conversation was nearly over when I told Elizabeth I had a gift for her. She smiled. I ran out to the car and retrieved two copies of The Old Crow Book Club. I handed them over and gave her a brief preview of the contents and my passion for the cause.

I said it was almost cosmic we had met in her tavern. She agreed.