11-7-Harry-Phillips

Harry Phillips, Alameda Builder, 1886-1935.

We’ve often walked the Alameda Ridge above and below Ridgewood and admired the work of Harry Phillips, a prolific builder and designer who shaped the western edge of the Alameda Park neighborhood. It’s been a pleasure to be able to visit with and interview his two sons–now in their 80s–to learn more about their father’s work and his too-short life. You might have read the profile we wrote about him in The Builders section. The quality of Harry Phillips’ work, and the striking sadness of his family story, have captured our imagination.

So it was particularly nice recently when Harry’s son Jerry sent along a portrait of his dad, taken in the 1920s. Seeing Harry Phillips helps us to imagine him and his family here in Alameda, and to honor his work. It’s too easy to forget the many lives who have shaped our homes and neighborhood in the last century. Here’s one person–thanks to his dedicated sons and stories passed across these many years–who is remembered.

We read the very nice story by Janet Goetze in the November issue of the Hollywood Star News, which arrived in our mailbox today. She wrote about our passion for seeking out the history of the neighborhood, and highlighted some of the stories you’ll find here. Thank you, Janet. (She didn’t mention this in the article, but she lives in house built by prolific Alameda builder Frank Read, who you can read more about by clicking here). Here are links to the topics she mentioned in the article:

You’ll find the information on Elwood Wiles here.

More about the Broadway Streetcar here.

A collection of stories about people who are living in the houses where they grew up is here.

The remarkable tale of the Pearson Ponderosa Pine is here.

Have a good poke around the blog: there’s lots to read and you’ll find topics not just about Alameda, but Beaumont-Wilshire, Rose City Park and Albina too. And if you’d like a little more on neighborhood history, come along to the program I’m doing at the Archtectural Heritage Center on the morning of Saturday, January 23rd.

Of course, I’m always on the lookout for an old photo, a mystery to solve or a neighborhood or old house story to listen to, so leave a comment here on the blog or drop me a note at doug@alamedahistory.org And if you’d like some help investigating the history of your own house, check out the research services and resources tab.

Thanks for dropping by.

It’s been quiet on the Alameda old house history blog for the last month or so, but time to get back into the swing of things as the kids return to school, and as the weather transitions to more research-friendly conditions like cloudy, cool and wet. Actually, I think this stretch from now through late October holds some of my favorite Oregon weather.

In addition to perking along with a few research projects this summer (but not much blogging), we’ve been working on a kitchen remodel in our almost-hundred-year-old house. We’ve tried to be faithful to the historic design concepts even though we are using standard current kitchen technology. We’ve been fortunate to have a great architect in Arciform and an excellent contractor in Joe Petrina and Petrina Construction. You can read more about our kitchen adventure here, and maybe share your own pearls of wisdom about surviving a kitchen remodel.

As we’ve worked through the remodel process, we’ve kept a keen eye for clues from the past, and we’ve found some interesting items…nothing earth shattering, but some quaint signs of the time. Thanks to some insulating material (as in crumpled up newspaper) we confirmed the long-held thought that a back porch extension was made to the house sometime in 1930.  Below is a clip about the Reo Convention coming to Portland, from the Sunday Oregonian on February 2, 1930.

 7-14-Exhibit-7

 

Here’s an interesting scoop about the world’s largest passenger plane — a 30-seat Fokker – coming to Portland. And below that, from January 26, 1930, a story about a record order expected for new Chevrolets to keep up with a booming demand for new cars. Apparently, the market had not yet found the bottom. Hmm.

7-14-Exhibit-3

Exhibit 8

 

But probably one of the most interesting finds during the remodel was the signed name of our original builder, William B. Donahue, who we have profiled here on the blog. We found this little gem buried deep inside a wall, signed in what looks like blue grease pencil or blue chalk on the back of a wainscot panel that faces our breakfast nook, on the other side of the kitchen wall. Check it out:

9-15-post-Donahue-Signature

Because we’ve found documents and letters sent by Donahue years after his construction endeavors, we think we can recognize the handwriting. If you look to the left of the crossbrace, you can see the “#1.” Could be that Donahue was sorting out the plywood he wanted for the wainscot, and this had a number 1 grade side (the other side). Not sure. But it sure was a treat to find.

When you are working on your renovations, be sure to tell the contractor and the crew that you are interested in old house archaeology. You might even ask them for their stories about the most unusual items they’ve ever found working on these time capsules we call our homes.

What have you found?

Interested in learning more about Alameda? I’m doing an education program for the Architectural Heritage Center, which has been rescheduled to Saturday, January 23rd from 10:00-11:30 in the Center’s auditorium on Southeast Grand Ave. It will be a good opportunity to have a closer look at the evolution of Alameda, and specifically at several of the prolific builders and their design styles that have shaped the neighborhood we know today. It’s also a great excuse to drop by and get to know the Architectural Heritage Center a little better. And you might even meet a neighbor or two!

You can find more information about the program, and a link to registration, at the AHC website: http://www.visitahc.org/content/upcoming-programs

Seeing as how the English Tudor Cottage stories and photos are among the most often viewed files here on the blog, I thought I would share an article and drawings that ran in The Oregonian homes section on December 20, 1925 (click on the image to enlarge). Interesting to note that plan sets like this were available in abundance. Every week, the newspaper focused on a different house style: the narrative describing each house could have been the same for every story, favoring words like roomy, inexpensive, tasteful, convenient. If you live in a Tudor, does this floor plan and design look familiar?

From The Oregonian, December 20, 1925

From The Oregonian, December 20, 1925

I’ve just finished a research project on a century-old house in the Boise neighborhood, an area known in earlier years as Albina. The house, on North Borthwick, was a rental for many years that held at least 17 different families and dozens of occupants of all ages. The research task was to track down all of the past residents and to learn something about their lives. What a fascinating pleasure it was to unearth the stories from newspaper clips, Polk directories and a handful of remaining public documents.

The part of the neighborhood I was focusing on was a Scandinavian stronghold in the early years: the house was built by a Swedish immigrant and for the first 40 years of its rental life, the house knew only immigrant families.

In the course of the research, I had occasion to read and enjoy a great book by former Northeast Portland resident and author Roy Roos, The History of Albina, which I recommend to readers of this blog.

The back of the book contains a thumbnail history of many properties in the Boise, King, Humboldt and Piedmont neighborhoods. You’ll recognize some of these buildings, particularly the ones up and down Martin Luther King Boulevard. But it’s the front part of the book—the narrative that describes how neighborhood geography has changed over time, and particularly the maps—that will haunt you. So much has been lost in these neighborhoods. Virtually all of Albina has been altered by development of Emanuel Hospital, construction of Interstate 5, and construction of the Fremont Bridge and its various ramps and fly overs. Overlay the map of old Albina on the geography of today and you can get a sense of just how much is gone.

If you are haunted by layers of history and enjoy seeking clues that link today with the past, read Roy’s book and then get out there on the ground, maps in hand, to imagine what must have been. You can find his book at Powell’s and many other booksellers locally and on the internet. Here’s a link to a neat story that ran in The Oregonian following the book’s publication.

Hat’s off to Roy for keeping these stories and places alive.

There aren’t many of these in the neighborhood, so they tend to stand out proud and clear: the Mediterranean, with its distinctive tile roof and stucco exterior, is a time traveler from a very specific period in Portland’s residential architecture history.

This home at 2506 NE Ridgewood, built in 1925 by Emil G. Peterson, is a classic example of the Mediterranean style in the Alameda neighborhood. Current resident Clayton France is underway with restoration work.

This home at 2506 NE Ridgewood, built in 1925 by Emil G. Peterson, is a classic example of the Mediterranean style in the Alameda neighborhood. Current resident Clayton France is underway with restoration work.

First beginning to appear with the housing boom of 19-teens and early 1920s, the Mediterranean style quickly became popular, with multiple grand homes built particularly in high-end Portland Heights and Willamette Heights neighborhoods, but also with more modest versions scattered through Irvington and Alameda.

While much of the surrounding housing stock of the time was clad with shingles, clapboards and the distinctive angular features associated with the Craftsman era, the Mediterranean style offered a more exotic and even romantic feel. Characteristic design elements tie to centuries-old classic materials and structures, including terra-cotta tile roofs, graceful archways, white-washed smooth stucco exteriors, and hipped-roof towers. Look for small porch-like tile-roofed entries (called loggias), and long narrow—often arched—casement windows.

All of these features conjure up romantic visions of Tuscan villas, rolling hills and established old settlements rooted in generations of storied history, which of course young Portland didn’t have a lot of in the 19-teens. But the appeal of this stylistic message, particularly here in a brand new neighborhood at the edge of a booming western city, was clear enough for some speculative home builders to give it a try.

A perfect example of the style here in Alameda is the home at 2506 NE Ridgewood, built in the spring of 1925 by local builder Emil Johnson. Johnson, and his younger brother Ernie Johnson (both Swedish immigrants, and both home builders) were busy in Alameda and Irvington during these years, but this is the only Mediterranean he built. Johnson designed and built this house, and likely took special care in its construction because it’s where he and his family lived (his daughter Eileen lived in the house all her life).

Look at the arched and roofed front entrance, the long casement windows, the terra-cotta roof tiles, the hipped-roof stair tower at the entry, and the wrought iron balcony railings: design elements that trumpet the Mediterranean-Italian connection.

Like so many aspects of American life that changed in the early 1930s, the Great Depression signaled the end to the popularity of the Mediterranean style as well. People went back to basics and the seemingly frivolous romance of the 1920s was seen as part of the problem. But this home, like several other Mediterraneans in the neighborhood, remain as a classy souvenir from the past, and a fine example of the diversity of architectural styles that make up our neighborhood.

Local service and social club has been doing good works quietly for almost 100 years

When you think about Alameda neighborhood institutions and landmarks, a few standouts come to mind: the school, the churches, the ridge, Deadman’s Hill, our particular grid of streets, the big ponderosa pine at Fremont and 29th. We all have our list.

Chances are, though, that you don’t think about—or maybe even know about—one of the longest-lived, active and engaged institutions our neighborhood has known: the Alameda Tuesday Club.

Members of the Alameda Tuesday Club gather in a local home in December 1963. Scrapbooks showing club activities are now in the collection at the Oregon Historical Society. Photo courtesy of the Metschan Family

Members of the Alameda Tuesday Club gather in a local home in December 1963. Scrapbooks showing club activities are now in the collection at the Oregon Historical Society. Photo courtesy of the Metschan Family

The ATC, as it is fondly referred to by its 36 members, is a social club with a service mission; a collection of active women from the Alameda neighborhood who are quietly carrying on a tradition that began at the dawn of the neighborhood itself. Since 1913, when the first homes were being built in the fields that are now our neighborhood, members of the club have been gathering on a regular basis in a different Alameda home each month for conversation, for learning, for tea and a meal, and to plan good works both close to home and far away.

In 1914, when a down-on-their-luck family was living rough in the 33rd Street Woods (a much wilder version of today’s Wilshire Park) and the Dad had tuberculosis, the club stepped in to provide food, coal, clothing and milk for the children.

When a well-known national suffragette came to town to advocate for a woman’s right to vote, the club boldly hosted an event with her as lead speaker.

When World War I soldiers from Portland were in the trenches in France, the ATC made and shipped bandages and other supplies overseas.

When the young neighborhood clearly needed a school, the Alameda Tuesday Club stepped up to help make the case.

You get the idea: These women are strong and know how to get things done. The list of charitable works over the years is long and generous. But they know how to have fun too: picnics, tea parties, an award-winning flower-bedecked float for the 1916 Rose Festival parade, fundraisers, costume parties.

These days, the club isn’t advocating for schools or building parade floats. But it does make generous gifts to charities, including most recently the West Women’s Shelter, Beaumont School Library, the Jefferson Dancers, the Oregon Food Bank, Friends of Children and SMART.

“When I first heard about the club, I thought it was such an anachronism,” says current president Kathie Rooney, who has been a member since 1986. “But when you are involved in charitable works and you get to know these women, the club takes on a whole different dimension. There is definitely an old fashioned social interaction. But we’re also talking about the issues of the day.”

Rooney explains that club bylaws have changed little since 1913, and still require members to live within the perimeter of the original Alameda Park Addition: from Fremont to Prescott and between NE 21st and NE 33rd. Membership in the club is by invitation only—as it has been from the beginning—and no more than 36 members are allowed. Monthly meetings rotate around the club, with a member hosting a lunch in her home on the second Tuesday of the month, nine months of the year. Some neighborhood homes have held multiple generations of ATC members and meetings.

And then there is the unwritten silver tea set rule: tradition has it that a silver tea set must be at every gathering of the club. Look back through the club scrapbooks (an amazing collection of images and notations set on black album pages now housed at the Oregon Historical Society) and you’ll see it there on a table, in the corner of a room, sometimes in use.

Terry O’Hanlon has been a member of the club since 1962 and has watched the neighborhood, and the club, change. When she joined, average club membership was a bit older than today, with most members between their early 50s and 80s (she was one of the youngest when she joined, in her 30s). Today, O’Hanlon is the eldest club member, and the youngest member is in her mid 40s. She also remembers Alameda filled with more young families and young children. Not so today, with plenty of two-parent working families.

“The pressures on professional women are different today than in my day,” she says, reflecting on the forces that have shaped the club over the years. “If you are working 40 or 50 hours a week, it’s hard to make it to an afternoon meeting like ours.”

Still, the friendship and camaraderie of the club—and its core philanthropic mission today—create a special sense of purpose that continues to fuel club meetings and activities. The tie to tradition, a respect for generations of Alameda women, and a real love for the neighborhood, distinguishes this special group.

-Doug Decker

I’ve just posted the next builder biography, this one about Harry Phillips, who built many of the homes on NE Gile Terrace and Ridgewood in the 1920s. Phillips’ story is fascinating, tragic and indicative of his times. His work, appreciated and admired today, has clearly stood the test of time.

I’ve often wondered how builders weathered the storm of the Great Depression. I know Albert Irwin did only remodeling work in the mid-1930s. Others, like William Donahue, got out of the business altogether. Harry Phillips wasn’t as fortunate.

Phillips’ sons Jerry and Roger—now in their 80s—generously agreed to be interviewed about their parents, the work of their father, and their own growing up years. I feel very fortunate to have been able to gather their story in before it would have been lost to time.

Check out the biography of Harry Phillips on The Builders page.

Do you live in a Phillips home or have any insight to share about the family? Drop me a note.

Exploring Neighborhood History With Henry, Ramona and Beezus

We’ve been re-reading some favorite books recently, and as it turns out, finding quite a few clues to the world of neighborhood history. Award winning children’s writer Beverly Cleary grew up in the neighborhood and if you read carefully, you’ll find real echoes of our past in her books.

Cleary imagined an entire universe in a few small blocks. Our favorite young residents—Ramona, Beezus, Henry, Ribsy—crisscrossed their kingdom on bikes and on foot walking to their beloved Glenwood School, delivering the evening Journal newspaper, and getting themselves into some memorable misadventures.

Ramona Rides downhill (is that Regents or maybe NE 37th?) in a drawing by Louis Darling.

Ramona Rides downhill (is that Regents or maybe NE 37th?) in a drawing by Louis Darling.

The geography of that imagined place came from author Beverly Cleary’s own experience as a child growing up here in the 1920s and 1930s. She lived in a home on Northeast 37th Avenue, and attended the school now named for her: the Beverly Cleary School Fernwood Campus. The landmarks that define Henry and Ramona’s world—the churches, schools and houses, the hills and even the vacant lots—are drawn from places Cleary frequented as a young person.

It’s possible to find clues to Cleary’s own geography—and even a sense of Alameda neighborhood life in the 1950s—by exploring Henry and Ramona’s neighborhood as it unfolds on the pages of more than a dozen of her books.

A good place to begin looking for clues is Ramona Quimby’s house, just up the street from Henry Huggins on Klickitat Street. Cleary actually tells us in one of her books that Ramona lived with her mother, father and sister Beezus in a rented house near the corner of 28th and Klickitat. I remember reading that part of the story to my daughter one night and making a mental note that I needed to go look up that address on my next walk through the neighborhood.

As many astute readers will recognize, the corner of 28th and Klickitat is actually a “T” intersection adjacent to the playground at Alameda School. The day I walked past that spot and realized it was the setting for Ramona’s fictional house (a school playground), I laughed out loud and tipped my hat to Beverly Cleary.

All readers of the series know that Henry Huggins lives with his mother, his father and his dog Ribsy in a square white house on Klickitat Street. Cleary never really tells us exactly where on Klickitat that might be. But if it’s a square white house—let’s imagine an old Portland foursquare style house with a nice porch—chances are it’s west of Ramona’s house. In Henry And the Paper Route, Cleary hints that Henry’s square white house was slightly elevated above the sidewalk with a sloping lawn the kids rolled down. This sounds indeed like a four-square, built in the 19-teens. Now all we have to look for is Henry’s red bike and the barking Ribsy.

Ramona and Henry’s Glenwood School is an obvious stand in for Fernwood School, where the young Cleary attended before moving on to Grant High School. Why didn’t she create a fictionalized role for Alameda School? We do know there was a certain rivalry between neighborhood schools.  Kids from one school sometimes looked down their noses at kids from the other. Was omitting Alameda School a diss? Probably not. Just a little too complicated to explain why kids living in the playground of one school (wink) would be going to a different school a few blocks away.

Vacant lots…now there is a commodity of the 1950s that we just don’t have any more. By the late 1950s virtually every easily buildable lot in Alameda had been developed (many of the last ones by builder Ken Birkemeier). During Cleary’s growing up years—the 1920s and 1930s—there were plenty vacant lots to be found and they surely provided a refuge for everything from baseball to clubhouses. In Cleary’s 1955 Henry And the Paper Route, Henry watches as the ladies club sets up sawhorses and planks in a nearby vacant lot for the annual fundraising rummage sale. The vacant lot was a community commodity as well as landmark. Reading more closely between the lines, was the ladies club the fictional counterpart of our own Alameda Tuesday Club? Could be.

The business district of the fictional neighborhood bears some resemblance to places we all shop and frequent today. The movie theater, dime store, Rose City Barber Shop and even the “Colossal Market” are landmarks in today’s Hollywood neighborhood. The Colossal—where Henry’s mother bought everything from vegetables to hair clippers—was probably patterned after the original Fred Meyer store at 42nd and Sandy.

Al’s Thrifty Service Station, where Ribsy steals a policeman’s lunch, is today’s 76 station at 33rd and Broadway. Kids at Glenwood School watch from their classroom windows as a new supermarket is built: today’s QFC (formerly Kienows) just south of Fernwood. All the pieces line up.

In addition to the fun of hearing about these thinly disguised places we all know from our area’s past, there’s some wonderful imagery in these books that evokes an earlier time in the neighborhood, while also being timeless:

  • Ramona and Beezus playing outside on a summer’s evening until the street lights come on, when it’s time to go in.
  • The 11-year-old Henry riding his bicycle through the neighborhood in the late afternoon and early evening, delivering the afternoon newspapers hot off the press.
  • Kids jumping in puddles and playing in rivulets of muddy water on a rainy morning’s walk to school.
  • The Fuller Brush man in trenchcoat walking door-to-door selling his wares.
  • Henry crawling on all fours through Grant Park at night with flashlight in search of nightcrawlers for fishing.

And a timeless image that could have been borrowed from this winter: Ramona  sledding down the 37th Street hill on her dad’s old sled. Now there’s a scene drawn from the author’s personal experience, just a few doors up from her own childhood home.

Which gets to what makes Beverly Cleary’s work so appealing and enduring (and even instructive, for us students of history who also like to read to our kids): she crafts a slice of universal life through the experiences of her likeable, believable characters, and all through the lens of a remembered Northeast Portland childhood.

remodel-then-now

Since last fall, Alameda neighbors have watched with interest as the brick house at NE Dunckley and Regents has had a major overhaul. I had been particularly interested in the house after hearing (and debunking) an urban myth that it was built as a library, which I wrote about here on the blog back in January 2008.

The home was originally built in 1923 by C.O. Waller at a cost of $12,000, which was a lot of money for a house at that time, even in this neighborhood. 

As the construction project has entered the home stretch, I’ve wondered—as an amateur old house archaeologist—about what clues the owner may have found, and of course about the extent of the remodeling work. So, last week I dropped in on owner Don Sarason for a visit and a walk through the house.

The word remodeling doesn’t quite do it. Let’s stick with construction project. Here’s why:

Sarason and his contractors have virtually rebuilt the 6,000-square foot house, almost literally from the ground up.

The sun porch on the southwest side of the house, with the distinctive bank of windows, as well as the front porch area, is being rebuilt.

The brick exterior was in serious need of tuck pointing, so all of the old bricks have been removed and a fully new brick exterior is now in place.

The heating system wasn’t operating well, so crews removed the old radiators, put in a new boiler, and added radiant heat into the floor surfaces.

The plumbing system needed an upgrade: out with the galvanized and in with the PEX.

Wiring? That’s been upgraded too. Sarason added a 400 amp electrical service, and category 5 computer cable throughout to boot.

One of the most distinctive features of the house—its windows—needed help too. The originals have been sensitively replaced with all new insulated aluminum-clad wood windows. And the unique oculus window above the front door has been added.

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Don Sarason stands in the sun porch area backed by all new wood windows. It's an impressive space.

The Sarasons chose the house when the family moved from San Francisco to Portland in May 2008. The family of five—two boys and one girl—was drawn to the neighborhood because of its location and character: all the big city amenities very close to home. “When we saw this house in this neighborhood, it became clear what this ‘once wonderful’ house could become again,” said Don. The family purchased the house in May 2008 and by August 2008 had secured necessary permits for the work.

The project might be a classic case of being glad they didn’t know then what they know now. Like most remodeling jobs, it’s turned out to be more work than they expected. But with all of the system upgrades and expansion,  it’s also turned out to be more house.

Under the guidance of historic preservation architect Bill Hawkins, they have enlarged the existing dormers, added one more, and given them all a unique look that includes a graceful radius and distinctive trim that represents a combination of Craftsman and has Asian design.

In the public spaces, they’ve completely rearranged the floor plan and traffic flow on the first floor: you can now access the kitchen from the dining room. They’ve opened up the kitchen and family room area (including a spacious, barrel-ceilinged gathering space), added a direct link to the back terrace, and added more windows. Upstairs, they’ve taken what were two big, undefined spaces and crafted three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and some very nice “perching spots” to read or just look out the window. A haven for kids.

It’s basically a new house tucked into the original envelope that honors the original design. Take, for instance, the two beautiful tight-grained Douglas-fir fireplace mantles that have been carefully removed, painstakingly stripped, re-stained and put back in place. Or the ceiling cove molding, stripped clean of generations of paint and reinstalled. Or the decorative wall sconces, all cleaned up and put back in place.

Stripping the fireplace mantle on the first floor.

Stripping the fireplace mantle on the first floor.

During our walk around, I asked about what kind of clues had turned up from the past (“any old library books?” I asked with a smile). Nope. The biggest artifact was a built-in safe, which Sarason was able to open (thanks to finding the combination scrawled conveniently nearby). Nothing inside. And not too big a surprise…thinking back to the era of their construction and the crumbling banking system of the Great Depression, other Alameda homes had safes for the owners to keep a close eye on their precious assets.

During the construction process, several people who have lived in the house over the years dropped by, providing great stories about the home’s earlier years.

Sarason says the target for completion is the end of this month. The work is clearly wrapping up: the construction fences have come down and now it’s time for the final details.

And he’s proud to show off what has become a labor of love.

That was a very nice piece in The O today about accessing the past online. I’m honored to be included with some very capable and cool history sites. I invite you to have a good look around…there’s lots here about the Alameda neighborhood and the fruits of old house research in general. I’m always on the lookout for stories and information about the evolution of this neighborhood, and particularly looking for old photos of homes, the school, etc.

Last week a former resident sent me some family pictures taken in the 1950s out in front of her house on NE Regents, which I considered a major find. There just aren’t many photos of our old houses in existing public collections. So, send me a copy, a story, a lead. And bookmark www.alamedahistory.org because there’s always something new — er…old — here to see.

-Doug

A reader has asked about how the name of a neighborhood relates to the name of an addition, plat or subdivision.

The short answer is that there isn’t necessarily a relationship at all.

Neighborhood names are administratively determined by the Portland Bureau of Planning in collaboration with the Office of Neighborhood Involvement: the Alameda Neighborhood boundaries were last plotted on a map in June 2001.

Plat or subdivision names are filed on the date of platting with the Multnomah County Surveyor and are boundaries of surveyed property tied to the legal description of the land. The original Alameda Park Addition plat was filed with Multnomah County in February 1909.

Here’s a good example of a plat that has nothing to do with the name of any neighborhood. It’s Homedale, and it spans today’s Sabin and Alameda neighborhoods. Try telling someone you live in Homedale (or any of the other 21 named plats in our neighborhood) and you’re likely to get a blank stare.

Here’s a good example of a plat that has nothing to do with the name of any neighborhood. It’s Homedale, and it spans today’s Sabin and Alameda neighborhoods. Try telling someone you live in Homedale (or any of the other 21 named plats in our neighborhood) and you’re likely to get a blank stare.

Within the confines of what the city thinks of as today’s Alameda Neighborhood are at least 21 plats of all sizes, from the Alameda Park plat, to the Homedale plat (1922), to the Town of Wayne plat (1882). Probably the only one that will ring a bell for most residents is Alameda Park, the namesake for what is today’s larger Alameda Neighborhood.

And just to make life a little more confusing, the Alameda Park plat  (historic survey boundary) exists within both the Alameda Neighborhood and the Sabin Neighborhood (late 20th century neighborhood administrative boundaries).

Here’s the full list of plats inside today’s Alameda neighborhood boundaries: Alameda Park, Homedale, Olmsted Park, Irvington, Edgemont, Pearson’s Addition, Town of Wayne, Town of Wayne Replat, Waynewood, Irvingwood, Meadow Park, Dunsmeade, Irvindale, Hillside, George Place, Bowering Donation Land Claim Tract, Norton’s Subdivision, Stanton Street Addition, Gleneyrie, Hudson’s Addition and Meadow Park.

With 21 plats in just one “neighborhood” alone, no wonder the city has chosen to lump geographical areas into single neighborhood names. No plats were moved, changed or amended to coincide with our neighborhood’s name. Rather, the place name we all know today — and it’s corresponding map — was determined decades after the ink was dry on the subdivision (plat) names.

Just for fun, dig out the thick pack of papers you signed at closing, or look at your property tax statement: you’ll find the name of the plat that includes the block and lot where you live. Just remember: this name exists separate from the name of our neighborhood.

Who hasn’t come across the time stamp of history on neighborhood sidewalks? If you’re paying attention, even on a simple stroll around the block, you’ll find yourself on the trail of the past.

Curbs and sidewalks under construction, from The Oregonian, June 3, 1910.

Curbs and sidewalks under construction, from The Oregonian, June 3, 1910.

On most blocks–typically near the corners–you’ll find the name of the contractor who installed the sidewalks and curbs, along with the date of their construction, and even the names of the streets. Think of it as a signature, and appreciate the irony that even though the prestigious builders of the big houses are long gone, the identity of the grunt-work done by  ditch diggers, form builders and concrete finishers has stood the test of time.

The curbs and sidewalks on my block–block 23 of the Alameda Park Addition–were built by Warren Construction Company in the summer of 1912. Warren Construction, like other companies, had contracts with the city to excavate, frame and pour many city blocks worth of sidewalks and curbs. Look carefully and you’ll find the printed names of Hassam Construction, Krieq, Elwood Wiles and others.

elwood-wiles-stamp

So, here’s some insight into two of the of the companies you’re going to bump into walking around the Alameda Park neighborhood, and some great factoids you’ll want to hang onto for scintillating dinner conversation. After you’ve paid enough attention to these names–and learned a little about the companies and when they operated–you can almost tell what era and corner of the neighborhood you’re in just by looking at the names on the sidewalks.

Warren Construction Company

This company once employed world-renowned chemist and Nobel Prize winner Linus Pauling as its chief asphalt inspector. Pauling, born in Portland in 1901, was a young man when he worked summers for Warren, testing the quality of its asphalt production facility. Pauling recalled, years later, how company bosses didn’t want him to go on with his studies…they wanted him to stay put on quality control. In addition to giving one of the world’s greatest chemists his start, Warren Construction also made a name for itself building and installing all of the concrete decking on the Interstate Bridge (first opened in 1917), and applying the asphalt surface once the bridge deck was complete. They also worked on the Columbia River Highway as well.

 

Elwood Wiles

If you are a walker, this man is a household name. You see him everywhere on Portland’s east side. For years, I wondered about his identity, and after doing the research, I finally have a few answers. Wiles was born in Canada in 1874, and came to Portland in 1887. After high school he worked in a variety of jobs for a local harness maker before going into the sidewalk business. From 1903 til about 1917, Wiles held the majority of all city contracts for excavating, framing and pouring curbs and sidewalks. After the big building boom of these years, Wiles dabbled in timber speculation, concrete pipe manufacturing, stocks and bonds, and insurance. In his later years, he owned an illuminated traffic sign company. He died in Portland in December 1956. Be sure to check out this photo of Wiles and biography I’ve written in  The Builders section here on the site.

Interested in helping create an inventory of sidewalk contractors in Alameda? A couple of us are setting out to do some documentation, and we could use a studious person with some time to spare (and a digital camera) to help. If you’re interested in joining in, drop me a note: doug@alamedahistory.org.

Click here to see what’s been done in the Hawthorne neighborhood.

If this topic really piques your interest, check this out.

A few months back, we came upon a photograph, taken on May 6, 1926, showing the nearly completed Alameda Theater, located at NE 30th and Alberta. Have a good look at it and soak up the details, and then look at an image from today. 

 

Alameda Theater, NE 30th and Alberta. Photo taken in May 1926. Note construction materials to the left. View looking southeast.

Alameda Theater, NE 30th and Alberta. Photo taken in May 1926. Note construction materials to the left. View looking southeast.

The same view today.

The same view today.

Remarkably, most of the original exterior is still intact. The corner entry and box office; the two prominent display cases that frame the opening; the ornamental trim along the building’s parapet; the box office just inside the entry portico; the spider web window and Georgian doorway just left of the theater entry which opens into a steep stairwell to the second floor; even the store fronts to the left of the main entry (the transom windows are still operational).

You can’t see it in the earlier photo, but the original Mediterranean style roof tiles are still in place. The marquee was removed some years back, but a 1926 time traveler would definitely recognize the building today, at least on the outside (they might ask about all those antennas on the roof). On a recent visit, the building was locked so we didn’t have a chance to look around inside.

The observant reader will also note the streetcar tracks making a sweeping left turn from Northeast 30th to Alberta Street eastbound…the Alberta Line, which operated from 1903 to 1949.

Here’s a snapshot of its history:

From 1927-1937, it operated as the Alameda Theater (even though it is a few blocks north of the Alameda Park subdivision proper).

From 1937-1964 it was simply known as the 30th Avenue Cinema.

From 1964-1969 it went by the catchy name of “Cine 30.”

From 1969 until it closed for good as a theater in 1978, it went back to its earlier name: Alameda Theater.

Since 1978, the building has served as the home of the Macedonia Church of God, and its current role as home to the Victory Outreach Church.

Along the way, trips to the movies entertained generations of our neighbors, and provided some enduring memories, particularly for a couple of brothers who grew up here in the neighborhood in the 1950s. Steve and Marshall Turner talk about the theater in the same breath as Hunderups, the other neighborhood hang out at NE 30th and Prescott (see the earlier post about Hunderups). We’ve been in touch with Steve and Marshall, and they’ve shared these memories of a misspent youth:

We have fond memories of the 30th Ave. Theater. It was a place where kids could go with their friends and act like kids and generally misbehave without too much chance of parental repercussion.

We looked forward to the Saturday matinees which cost $0.25 cents as I recall. We would usually make a stop at Hunderup’s Drug Store on the way to “buy” candy because it was cheaper to charge it all to our account at Hunderup’s than to actually pay for it at the theater.

Matinees usually consisted of a cartoon such as Tom & Jerry, Woody Woodpecker, Porky Pig, Casper the Ghost, or Daffy Duck. Cartoons were followed by a News Reel and a short serial such as Flash Gordon, The Rocket Man, The Three Stooges, Spin & Marty, or Abbot  & Costello.

The main features always seemed to be a Sci-Fi film such as House on Haunted Hill starring Vincent Price, It Came From Beneath the Sea; Them (a movie about ants that became gigantic through atomic radiation); The Attack of The 50 Foot Woman; The Day The Earth Stood Still; It Came From Outer Space; Forbidden Planet; The Blob War of The Worlds; This Island Earth; and Monster on The Campus, starring Arthur Franz, just to name a few.

Sometimes management would feature a local personality to entertain the kids. We remember seeing Mr. Moon and Addie Bobkins too.

The manager would sometimes get up on stage before the movie started and remind us to be on our best behavior. But, of course, as soon as the lights were dimmed 5,000 pieces of candy would be flying through the air. Experienced movie viewers would never sit directly below the balcony as they were easy targets for “spilled” soft drinks and wads of chewed up juicy fruits, dots, or jujubes. If we had to sit on the main level it was always to the rear so as to not be in the line of fire from the viewers above.

The screen itself was even a target and since we didn’t like the black colored dots very well these made good ammunition. Every once in a while you could hear a loud “whump” against the screen.  Mr. Moon himself took a black dot in the temple. Once in a while we took pea shooters or squirt guns with us if we really felt mischievous.

In the movie Monster on the Campus, an actor who resembled Ralph Wampler, our Alameda Grade School Principal at the time, got killed. One of the neighbor kids yelled out “hey, they just killed “Wampie,” which got all the Alameda kids laughing and shouting.

Once the movie was over it was a good idea to hustle out of the balcony quickly to avoid being recognized by one of our targets below. We would then stop by the Blue Bird Ice Cream shop next door to buy an ice cream cone with the money we saved by charging our candy at Hunderup’s.

One of the last movies they showed was the Beatles’ film A Hard Days Night, but we didn’t see it.

Once the church is done with the building, somebody should buy this place, restore it, and start showing old monster movies. But they should consider shutting down the balcony.

What do you remember about the old 30th Avenue Theater?

Alameda Theater Box Office, today a spot for the greeters at Victory Outreach Church.

Alameda Theater Box Office, today a spot for the greeters at Victory Outreach Church.

We see this morning that a recent interview with The Oregonian has turned into a very nice story, which ran in the Thursday, March 26th edition of the paper. Feature writer Larry Bingham wrote the piece out of an interest in old house history, and in keeping with the paper’s focus on Oregon history during this susquicentennial year. You can find the story here at this link. Thanks Larry!

A collection of images relating to Ken Birkemeier. Top left, Ken and his wife of 50 years Marge. Photos and drawings courtesy of Dan Birkemeier.

A collection of images relating to Ken Birkemeier. Top left, Ken and his wife of 50 years Marge. Below, homes he built in the neighborhood. More pictures in The Builders section. Photos and drawings courtesy of Dan Birkemeier.

After a very interesting few weeks of research, correspondence with the Birkemeier family, and lots of walking around the neighborhood looking at dozens of houses he built, I’ve posted some background on local architect and builder Kenneth L. Birkemeier. You’ll find the details (and some more photos) over in the new section called The Builders (click here). It was great to hear memories from various family members, particularly the story from his grandson Dan, who is today an architect in Seattle.

You’ll note that I’m inviting your stories or photos of Birkemeier homes, so let me hear from you and I’ll share them here on the blog.

The new section is up to four major builders now, with dozens more to go. One thought that occurred as I walked around the neighborhood this week is that Irwin, Read and Berkemeier must have known each other. Between the three of them, they designed and built dozens of houses here in the neighborhood…they must have been bumping into each other along the way.

Next on my list is Harry Phillips, who designed and built many of the homes along Ridgewood and Gile Terrace in the late 1920s. I also want to delve into the history behind the reference to the “Town of Wayne,” which is a small plat south of Fremont and between 32nd and 29th.

Inquiring minds want to know: Who was Wayne?

Today I’ve added a new section to the Alameda History website that provides a focus on the builders. Look up above and to the right and you’ll see the word “The Builders.” From there you can click into a sub-page that provides links off into biographies I’m writing about the men and women who shaped our neighborhood landscape. I’ve started out with three builders I am very familiar with, but soon there will be more.

Fans of houses built by Ken Birkemeier will be glad to know I’ve made contact with his family and will have lots to share soon, including early photos of some houses and a complete listing of Birkemeier houses in the neighborhood.

My goal in focusing on the builders is to pay tribute to them, to take account of and remember their work, and to create an interest, appreciation and curiosity about the homes we all live in.

It was 100 years ago this week that the first newspaper advertisements began to run extolling the virtues of the newly platted Alameda Park district. The text is pretty flowery and the ad is jammed with words. Here, take a look:
From The Oregonian, March 16, 1909

From The Oregonian, March 16, 1909

This ad tells us much more about the men behind the Alameda Land Company than it does about the development itself. You get a very clear idea of who they were pitching to, and their intent to offer a “first in” deal to the early wave of investors and potential homeowners. It’s important to point out that in March 1909, there wasn’t much up here on the ridge but mud, Douglas-fir trees, brush, some small orchards and a rutted dirt road running up the hill (today’s 33rd Avenue). Panoramic views of lakes? Hmm. Not sure where they got that one. There was a small pond in the area near today’s NE 28th and Siskiyou. Maybe you could see that from the ridge…

Just one month previous to this advertisement, the Alameda Land Company filed its first plat. Even though there were no streets or curbs or water or any service in place, this March push of advertising was aimed at creating a personality for the new district and to put it on buyers’ radar screens. Different (but similar) ads ran each day this week.

Interesting to note that the March 1909 ads, which seemed to claim well-paved streets, were roundly criticized by the developers of neighboring plats, particularly Irvington, which by 1909 actually had well-paved streets, homes, water, gas and curbs. In their own advertisements taken out the following weeks, the Irvington crew called the Alameda Land Company a pack of liars, literally, for their exaggerated claims. The ad sales guys at The Oregonian must have loved it!

It’s all in the name: four square.

Four sides of equal dimension, and each side equal in height and in width. In essence, that’s the four square house, though a variation on the style added a bit more space by making the front-to-back walls longer. These practical, attractive, stately beauties can be found in Alameda mostly north of the ridge, throughout Irvington, and in just about every other Portland neighborhood. The style was most popular in the 19-teens-Portland’s biggest residential building boom-and is seldom seen after the 1920s when builders and buyers turned their attention to the Tudor, the colonial, and other modern styles.

21_january_1912_517_e_42nd1

Here’s a shot of a classic four-square, which ran in The Oregonian on January 21, 1912.

The four square is almost always a two-storey house and is capped off with a hipped roof: a pyramid shaped top-hat that reflects the symmetry of the four walls. Sometimes the eaves extend out far beyond the walls with solid or ornate brackets (in a kind-of Prairie School style reference). Often four squares have a dormer or two up top which add a little head room to the attic and bring in some natural light.

In the purest form, the interior floor plan of the four square was also (you guessed it) a square: four rooms of equal size, which ensured a corner for each space and precious cross-ventilation.

Porches, ever-popular during the first part of the last century, almost always span the entire front wall. Interesting to note that lots of front porches simply wore out in the middle of the 20th Century. A review of building permits for the Alameda neighborhood shows a high frequency of porch demolition and reconstruction in the 1940s and 1950s. All that wood just couldn’t hold up against all that water. Sometimes the rebuilt porches, while practical and often concrete, left a lot to be desired historically. It’s not uncommon to see a lovely four square with a tiny porch roof just over the front door, with concrete stairs and wrought iron railings…clear clues to some early remodeling.

Most four square houses have some visible influence from the Craftsman style, whether inside with door and window trim and other details, or outside in the form of eave brackets, window trim, porch columns or other details. That’s just natural: the builders who constructed these houses were also building bungalows and larger houses. And the Craftsman style was popular with home buyers and home owners at the time. Over the years, as styles changed, often these details were removed or altered to keep up appearances.

A note about taxonomy: you might hear these houses referred to as “Old Portland Style.” Portland didn’t have a corner on the market for four squares…they are everywhere that homes were being built in the U.S. during this era. The Old Portland reference is a relatively new term, likely coined by realtors, that lumps together all two-storey, square, “boxy” looking houses. Don’t be fooled. Now you know: just look for four walls of equal dimension.

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