5820 NE 60th

Short Non-Fiction by Doug Hawley

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The home I spent the first nineteen or so years in was in Northeast Portland, a working-class neighborhood just outside Portland, Oregon – until it was incorporated into the city much later.  I wasn’t around quite yet, but it was first bought by my parents in 1941, shortly after my sister was born as Sharon Hawley (she later changed her name through marriage and choice – by coincidence, I’m married to a Sharon Hawley).  I arrived in 1943.

The house started as a two-bedroom, one-bath house and one of the first in the neighborhood.  When my sister needed more privacy, my handy father finished the attic to which I was banished with my dreams of monsters.  According to a real estate site, it now has two bathrooms.

The original sales price was something over $3,000.  That was quickly paid off in part because my father worked in the defense industry during WWII.  That bought a 2,000 square foot house on a 7,000 square foot lot which is very close to the statistics for the house that cost us a hundred times as much.

Family story – I was bred to mow the yard and do other yard work, which I did.

Second family story – Father wanted to name me Duke after his favorite dog, but compromised with Mother on Doug.

My father planted two willow trees in the front, which my sister and I climbed on.  He also put up swings in the backyard.  My swinging may have produced early dreams in which I looked down on the neighborhood while I flew over it.

The dismantling of the swings was the beginning of the end of my childhood, and the removal of the willows was another big change in my life.  5820 had changed.

There were several kids about my age on 60th or the cross street Simpson.  Last time I checked, Mike, with whom I had an unsuccessful trip to local make out spot Rocky Butte and took the fastest drive I’ve ever been in – 120mph, was in Montana.  I lost track of the girl next door to the north who said she’d show me hers if I showed her mine. We were interrupted by her father before the exchange could be made.  Guess I’ll never know.  Peter, who was a year younger and sometimes walked to our grade school Whitaker with me, died of covid three years ago. Cheryl died after a stint in memory care.  As far as I know, Donna is still married to a guy she started to go with in grade school.  Stan, a popular guy who I was close to, died of cancer and later in life said he didn’t remember me. Tom and Kent were my two closest buddies at the end of grade school.  Tom died young in a motorcycle accident, and Kent joined the army and died recently in Georgia.