The cookie tin

Slowly killing off parts of a day traipsing through a thrift or antique store has become something I’ve become rather fond of the last few years.  It’s easily one of the most “normal” hobbies I enjoy, and usually doesn’t need any kind of warning label or detailed explanation (looking at you, ham radio).   Sheer economics started me down this road a long time ago — haunting DI, NPS, Savers, and others was an easy and inexpensive way to find household goods, clothing, furniture, and other random stuff I needed.  Going thrifting can also be a great way to break up the tedium of running the errands needed to survive in the modern hellscape and work in a little light exercise too.

Burning a morning or early afternoon just “bumming around” as I take my time wandering the aisles for no practical reason is far more entertaining.  A recent Saturday saw me with some free time, a bit of disposable income, and the itch to get out of the house; I’d worked the prior 14 days in a row, and decided I was going to make the day MINE and just go “bumming”.   I decided I was going to wander through a pair of thrift malls I’ve come to enjoy here in Portland — I wasn’t on the hunt for anything special that morning, however as I headed out I thought of the usual suspects.  (these are a few things I routinely look for as I wander — Men’s hats, razors, bar ware, ballpoint pens, stationary, and post cards from the 1940s-1960s).

I’m old (or so I have been informed), and going thrifting or antiquing and seeing things I clearly remember from childhood or that were daily (or close to) parts of life then has become a profoundly weird feeling. It’s simultaneously fun, and consistently brings a wry smile to my face—but it also makes me deeply nostalgic.  I see these things and my mind lights up in the most acutely bittersweet way; I love finding things I’ve got a deeply personal connection to but it almost feels wrong or dirty, in some strange way. 

These things were items I saw, touched, wore, slept on, or ate/drank out of as I grew up — items that were so present in my life or those that I cared for deeply.  I love seeing them and remembering the times I had with them, who owned them, and where they were displayed or found in different homes.  Sometimes I catch myself getting misty eyed, growing tight in the chest, or forming a lump in my throat.  I look at these objects and miss the people, the places, and times those items were part(s) of.  I stand there and think of them all and it feels wrong that they are just………..items on a shelf.

One of the items on that afternoon’s shelf was a round tin, formerly home to a Hostess fruitcake.  To the casual passerby and uninformed luddite, this may look like another old tin.  It was much SO more than a mere object.  This tin was, in Grandma Kate’s hands, special.  My grandparents, like so many of the dwindling “silent generation” were children of the Great depression of the 1920s and -30s.  They knew what it was like to have little, and saved, reused, or recycled SO much, LONG before it was in vogue.  

Somewhere in the 1940s, in that spirit, a fruitcake was devoured, and the tin repurposed.   It predated me, and Gramma had one EXACTLY like this the whole time I was growing up—from well before I was a fun thought, as an infant, even as an adult, until the day she died.  It lived deep in a cupboard under her kitchen counter, lined with wax paper.  It was always filled with cookies, fudge bars, or whatever other goodies she’d created. If the tin came out, we–my brothers, my sister, my parents, friends I brought over, anyone–knew we were about to receive a special gift of a yummy treat from granny’s kitchen.

And here was one, on one of the last shelves, on the last aisle, at my last stop.    I stopped for a moment, looked twice to see if I was dreaming, and picked it up to see what was inside.  (It had exactly 0 cookies inside).   I text messaged a few important people, asking them to guess how many cookies were inside as well.   And then I left.  Rational, adult me knew I was close to the end of my FUN budget, and the afternoon was getting shorter.

I text messaged a few more people and the memories—and a tear or two—flowed.  I had to have that tin! I collected myself, shook off the fog of memories, and went back to the store I’d seen the tin in about 90 minutes later. I took the steps two at a time, made a beeline for the last aisle and nearly the last shelf, and took the tin home—but not before I stopped at a nearby grocery store and acquired a few cookies and some Andes’ mints to stash inside. 

Perhaps, if you’re extra good, you can have a cookie out of the cookie tine when you come to visit.

Walker’s

It is nearly impossible to describe the fond memories of my youth on the west side of Idaho Falls that this simple photograph conjured up when posted in a Facebook group the other night.  I can remember so many miles spent on bicycles zooming down there after a morning spent doing household chores or mowing lawns.  Whether it was at home on Cameron or at Grandma and Grandpa’s (or a neighbor’s) on Jeri, if I had $5-$10 in hand (and after some conspiring with my brothers and our friends) I was probably headed to Walkers where we would shortly descend like locusts borne on Huffy bicycles.  We had all the time in the world, not a care in it, a decent amount of spending money, and were ready to spend hours browsing the shelves searching for the perfect combination(s) of VHS tapes, video games, and snacks—and spend the time we did. 

The acute nostalgia I feel and the fondness for and of the memories I have of Walkers are not rooted solely in any of the resulting activities.  Watching grainy VHS tapes, playing “Retro” or “Classic” video games on some of the original consoles to hit US markets, or the fact that the sugary snacks probably kept a nearby dentist’s office in business was just our life at the time.  Those things are certainly present in the intense yearning I currently feel, however they are but pieces of a whole—components of a time capsule.   These adventures are but one link to times and places that are largely unknown to so many people younger than am I. 

If you have never lived in Idaho Falls, are under 35, or are new to Idaho Falls you’ve likely never heard of Walker’s, saw Walker’s in its heyday, or know little of any of the businesses that used to sit on or around the Northwest corner of Skyline and Broadway during that time.  Some of what I consider to be great parts of life on the west side during the 80s and early 90s had their homes there–IGA, Skyline Drug, Leo’s Place, Olan Mills, and Ben Franklin were all thriving.  Immediately West of that sat the expansive retail and greenhouse spaces of City Floral and Garden Center.   

The entirety of the buildings that housed Walker’s and every other business on that list has been lost to the voids of time, growth, and change.   The strip mall that housed Walkers and others has not existed in over a decade—torn down in late 2014 to make room for the Walgreen’s and its parking and streetside landscaping.  City Floral has been gone for roughly the same amount of time, closing after the Holmgren’s deaths.  Google maps reveals images of foundations and cracked pavement; structures demolished but not quite erased from the earth or memories.

It was a different time and a drastically different world. People (largely) knew their neighbors, shopped in many of the same physical stores they had for generations, and the internet was unknown or in its infancy. Relatively few homes had computers when compared to today, and the plethora of interconnected devices or streaming services were nonexistent.  The easy access to a wide variety of media we take for granted today was years away, not found on the phone in our pocket, on a laptop, or a tablet.

Your time was truly a valuable—and valued—asset.  The choices about how to spend that time, who you spent it with, and what filled that time were products of intent, not an accident of an algorithm or mass media advertising campaigns oozing from every screen you touched.  Everything about the experience was a conscious choice–who to go with, how many or what kind of movies or video games to rent, the snacks you wanted, who’s home you were going to go enjoy them all in, and who was invited.

What made Walker’s (and many of the other businesses I mentioned) truly special was not so much the ritual of going there, browsing the aisles chalk full of physical media of varying kinds, smelling the buttery popcorn that was always cooking, the flowers blooming or freshly cut from the greenhouse, or wandering the aisles of toys, candy, and scented craft supplies.  It was, hands down, the time—time in those places, simpler times, and times with the people we called friend or family. 

Beyond simple memories of times gone by, these reminiscences of Walker’s and other businesses are artifacts from a now distant era, fading into the mists of time and space, lovingly placed in a time capsule.  This capsule contains slices of time from so many lives — young, old, and everywhere between – time and, in more than a few cases, lives now gone by.

It is a place, a time, and freedom from a world that I sorely miss.

September 2025
Portland, OR

Music and Memories, Pt 6

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the sixth part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–

“Long cool woman (in a black dress)” by The Hollies
One evening a long time ago, in a jurisdiction far, far away saw me hopping into the Passenger seat of Deputy James Foster with the Bonneville County (Idaho) Sheriff’s Office.  I had the opportunity to do a ride along, and Foster was one of a handful of Deputies I knew who worked the Swing or Grave shift(s). 

Saturday night I was downtown
Working for the FBI

Swings and Graves was where much of the ‘fun’ I wanted to get in on happened, so I eagerly jumped at the chance to go out in the car with Foster for a night. Foster was in his early or mid-30s, hilariously funny, a pretty big smartass, an engaged proactive cop, and a product of the 1960s and 70s.  Many nights I spent with him in the mid 1990s saw us prowling the dark corners of Idaho falls and the (Bonneville) County, having fun bantering as we looked for miscreants and listened to classic (1970s) rock.

Bootlegging boozer on the west side
Full of people who are doing wrong
Just about to call up the DA man
When I heard this woman sing a song

One evening we were somewhere on the far east side of town when the radio belched static, followed by the voice of a dispatcher. Calmly, but quickly, the dispatcher gave another deputy’s callsign, then ours, followed by the details of the call: “345, 342 Robbery in progress, Speedy mart, 3490 E Sunnyside Road.  Cross streets Ammon and Sunnyside Caller stated they were being robbed and hung up on the call taker”.  That location was just a few miles from where we were; Foster slammed the gas, then hit the lights and siren as my adrenaline surged.  I took the radio mic out of its holder to respond to dispatch.  I thumbed the talk button and announced we were en route, then looked over at Foster, who was grinning as wide as I was.  He looked over for a second, before announcing “this needs music” and flipped the volume on the old Chevy Caprice’s AM/FM radio.

Then suddenly we heard the sirens
And everybody started to run
A-jumping out of doors and tables
When I heard somebody shooting a gun

For the uninitiated, many calls that come out of Dispatch as “In progress” are not routine calls for service like a barking dog or an annoyingly loud stereo.  Things that have the ‘magic’ words “In” and “Progress” means whatever caused someone to call in (think things like Burglaries, Robberies, Stabbings, and other bits of naughty behavior) is a higher priority call—usually the highest. “In progress” shenanigans are going on RIGHT NOW, are a HOT call, so you need to be there as fast as you can safely get your happy, shining ass there because life is in danger. This night though…..there was no robber—just a garden variety shoplifter who desperately needed a new 6 pack of some cheap beer and a timeline that had some stellar music.

August 2024
Portland, OR

Music and Memories, Pt 5

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the fifth part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–
 
“Horse with no name” by America
After some intense memories, this one might seem small and insignificant.  It’s not, but the kind of memories and emotions that it conjures up are decidedly more upbeat.  One morning a long time ago, in a jurisdiction far, far away saw me strike out across Idaho as I headed to Boise for a weekend drill with my Military Police unit at Gowen Field.  I was on the move just behind the rising sun on that beautiful and brilliantly clear morning. The sky was bright blue, and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen—just an endless blue sky, the scents of desert, and the noise of highway 26 passing under my tires as I drove West through the desert.

On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings

It was 199something and I was 18.  I looked damn good in my BDUs and shined black combat boots, was armed with a government issued excuse from school, and was enjoying my freedom from the public school system.  For some reason lost to so many years, I pulled over on the shoulder of the highway “out in the desert”, somewhere around The EBR I Historical site.  Maybe I had to stretch, maybe I wanted to wave at my Dad, working away somewhere at the Site (then the Idaho National Engineering Lab), or perhaps indulge in some open air relief—I don’t recall. 

The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot, and the ground was dry

What I do recall—as clear as the sky that bright, shining morn— was getting back in the car, putting the old blue Buick in gear, and nosing back into the westbound lane as this song came on.  I’d heard the song a handful of times before, but this time it just hit different.  The brilliant and clear sky, the quiet morning (save the hum of the road under my tires), and the desert life all around combined with lyrics just gave the morning an ethereal quality that’s stayed with me for the better part of 30 years now.

You see I’ve been through the desert
On a horse with no name

I drove—alone and with family members–that stretch of road many times in the 80s and 90s as I grew up in Idaho Falls.  Most of those trips were heading to see family in Central Idaho, though quite a few were to get to Drills on Gowen field as well.  I didn’t drive it for decades after I left Idaho, until one summer weekend in midst of a vacation and road trip with my Partner Cara.

Thanks to hard work and a decent severance, I had the cash and time for a vacation to Idaho Falls with her after getting laid off.  We were headed back for her home in Boise on that very same stretch of road.  It was a warm summer morning when we left my Parents house in Idaho falls–though nowhere near as early as it was on the day I recalled above.  Nearly 30 years on, “the desert” started a bit further west of Idaho Falls, and seeing the growth that part of Idaho Falls had witnessed over the intervening years was…odd.  As we got further out of town, into the desert proper, a storm started to blow in and began dropping light rain on us.

We talked as we rolled down the highway and toward the storm; the sky grew darker and I rolled the windows down.  Petichor, dominated by the smell of wet sage, blew into the open windows and made the interior of my truck smell heavenly.  We stopped at a rest area—that same one right next door to EBR I—where we got out to stretch our legs.  We played in the mist, explored the picnic area, marveling at the smell, the desert landscape, and the memories of adventures past that came.

It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert, you can remember your name

And then we drove onward toward new days, new travels, and new adventures to be had.

‘Cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain
La, la, la, la, la, la

August 2024
Portland, OR

Music and Memories, Pt 4

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the fourth part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–

“Our House”, by Madness
I can’t remember the first time I heard this English Ska tune….It was sometime in the early or mid 1990s I think.  I was listening to a Walkman as I pedaled down a long forgotten street in Idaho Falls and it came across the air, sandwiched in a set of whatever else was on that day.  As I pumped the pedals of my bike and listened to the lyrics, I thought that they were an unintentionally superb approximation of my life.

Growing up on Cameron Avenue saw our house in almost the middle of the block.  Any given day might have seen our house crowded with all of us, kids playing downstairs, and something was always happening as people went about the business of their young lives.

The lyrics, coupled with the happy tune of the song, make for a potent time capsule and a flood of memories of an idyllic time and place to be alive.  Though growing up on Cameron wasn’t perfect and a house with 6 people can be a less than peaceful place, I miss those times and that house fiercely.  I would not trade those years for ANYTHING.

I remember way back then when everything was true and when
We would have such a very good time, such a fine time
Such a happy time

One day not long ago saw me at my desk in my office.  I needed to find a location for a job I was handling some details for, and had been using google maps.  After finishing up, and on a lark, I googled my parents—our family’s—old address on Cameron in Idaho Falls.   I’d almost forgotten about this timeline view, and my heart swelled into my throat as browsed through the available dates — July 2021, September 2015, August 2011, and June 2008. 

Curious, I clicked on the oldest option and there, in a slightly grainy photo was our house!  It was a brilliant summer morn, with the brilliant Idaho sky shining down, and a handful of wispy clouds in the western sky.  The house looked almost exactly the way I remember it from all those years ago, minus some trees and shrubs.

Our house, in the middle of our street

The lilac tree by the old red wooden gate on the South side of the house was in full bloom, and the crab apple was bright and bushy.  The MASSIVE aspen in the back yard was peeking over the roofline, as was the giant spruce in a neighboring yard.  The big pine tree that once rose from the Northeast corner of the front yard was gone, as were the waist high evergreen shrubs that ran along the front of the yard and driveway.  The pair of tall Arbor Vitae trees that shot out of the Southeast corner were gone as well, pulled out with the shrubs sometime in the early or mid-2000’s.  The flower beds along the front of the house were full of brightly colored blooms and my mom’s assorted knick knacks were visible between them all.

Our house, that was where we used to sleep

The driveway was still slowly falling apart on the right side, and a blurred black sedan sat quietly under the basketball hoop.  I’m pretty sure (given the date and vehicle description) that this was my Brother’s car.  I wondered what my parents were doing–both of them were still working at that point.  I thought of my Brother, and wondered if he was asleep in the basement, or in the kitchen lazily pulling the door of the ‘fridge open in midst of grabbing a snack.  I thought about whether the gentle breeze made the backyard smell of flowers or the faint scent of pine as it wafted past, and tried to imagine how the still of the living room (just inside the big front window) sounded.  I can still hear the silence of the near empty house, disturbed only by the ticking of Mom’s clock on the wall above the Piano.

Bereft of anything pressing, I typed in my Grandparents’ address on Jeri Avenue and selected the oldest option for their address—also from June of 2008.  I clicked the link and another slightly grainy photo appeared on the screen in front of me, quality somewhat washed out by the brilliant morning sun in the cloudless blue summer sky.  A Massive grin crossed my face as I took in the sight before me; the photo was exactly like I remembered their home as they aged.  The tall evergreen hedge in the front of the house was gone, as were the piles of snow and carefully placed strings of glass C9 lights that adorned them every holiday season.  The tall Honey locust that dropped the funny brown seed pods was long gone, removed by Grandpa one year and replaced by the Quaking Aspen that showed what 10 or more years of growth can do.

And I remember how we’d play, simply waste the day away

A blue sedan is clearly visible parked in the driveway–the infamous blue Neon that (somehow) survived being driven to and fro, on and off road, by myself and every one of my siblings from the time my Dad bought it in the late 90’s (1996?) until somewhere around 2008(?).  Curious as to whether there were any other viewpoints, I ‘moved’ a little up the street (North of). Two details not visible at first came into view: The man door to the right of the garage roll up door was ajar and………..the red fence that had surrounded their yard for longer than I had been alive was plainly visible from the North side of their house.

The memories came flooding back again, mostly into my brain, but also in the form of a slow leak into my eyes.  I had so many questions—who was there, what were they doing, what did that early June morning see everyone at Gramps n Gran’s doing?   An open door at their house usually meant someone was up and about, working in the yard or taking in some fresh air on the patio behind the single car garage.  Was Dad helping Gramps with some project, or were they just relaxing in a pair of lawn chairs on the patio out back?  Was granny doing the wash or sitting in the den, relaxing in one of two recliners that sat side by side since time immemorial?

Our house, in the middle of our street

Portland, OR
August 2024

Music and Memories, Pt 3

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the third part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–
“Cats in the cradle” by Harry Chapin
Once upon a time, 30 or so years ago, a church leader of mine accused me of “Having wisdom beyond your (my) years”.  While I was not sure what exactly that meant at the time, looking back now I can’t argue with that at all–for better and worse.  Once upon a time, sometime in the mid 1990’s, this came on a classic rock station in Southeast Idaho that I liked. 

It was a warm, sunny fall afternoon and I was arriving at the JC Penney store, for some practical work experience as part of the Sheriff’s Office Explorers.   The afternoon’s “work” saw me and a friend dressed in plain clothes and skulking about the store with one of our advisors—the trio of us stalking shoplifters and other retail miscreants.  I was a little early, so I sat in the car I’d borrowed from my parents for the trip across town to enjoy the warm sun.

What I’d really like, dad, is to borrow the car keys.  See you later, can I have them please?

I flipped on the car’s AM/FM radio and enjoyed some of the warm sun.  As I listened, I thought that the relationship described in the lyrics of the song might have described me and my Dad. We did not always have the greatest relationship as I was growing up and I wondered—with some trepidation—if the progression of that relationship in the song would describe us as the years passed.   The lyrics washed over me and a wry smile spread across my face.

As the time to head into the store closed in, and I wondered what the future held for a moment.  I was anxious to start adult life….but did not want to be as removed as those men seemed to be.  Before I knew it, time had passed and I had grown older.  I moved away from my home and started a life that took me far away.   As my Grandpa got older, he frequently asked me “when do you think you’ll make it this way again?”.  As life went on for all of us, and as I moved from Idaho to Utah to Oregon I didn’t always know.  Every time he asked I swallowed the small lump that always formed in my throat and promised I would try to get home soon.  A line from this song filtered out of the mist every time he or my Dad asked that question…

When you coming home, son?  I don’t know when
But we’ll get together then, dad You know we’ll have a good time then

In 2022, after my Grandpa had passed away and my dad survived a life-threatening COVID-19 infection our relationship changed a great deal—for the better.  One weekend, as he rested and navigated the lasting effects of long COVID, we had a chance to talk on the phone.  I had a very demanding job at the time, and only had time for 2 decently long (week or so) vacations a year because of it.  He asked me when I’d be home again.  More lyrics came out of the mist:

I’d love to, dad, if I can find the time
You see, my new job’s a hassle, and the kids have the flu
But it’s sure nice talking to you, dad
It’s been sure nice talking to you

I put the phone down and wept.  Just like I am doing as I write this.

Portland, OR
August, 2024

Music and Memories, Pt 2

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the second part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–

“Families can be together Forever” by Ruth M Gardener
Unburdened by the process of growing old and learning the complexities of the world, I belted this out as a hopeful child who wanted—literally—to be with my family foreve

I have a fam’ly here on earth.
They are so good to me.
I want to share my life with them through all eternity.

I have a complicated relationship with the denomination that this arose from, to say the least, but still treasure the memories this tune conjures up.  As I sit at my desk, ready to start my workday on a sunny fall morning, I can still picture Sundays past spent sitting in idyllic, sun bathed meeting houses singing this with joyous, hopeful abandon. 

I always want to be with my own family, And the Lord has shown me how I can. More memories of being in those times/places surrounded with friends and family, all of whom were singing with a similar lack of restraint, add additional weight/depth to the memories—and some mist to my eyes.

Portland, OR
August, 2024

Music and Memories

There are a litany of stories and numerous studies that detail how and why music ignites memory and fires the physical pathways in the brain responsible for that memory.  There are an equal number of stories, studies, and publications about the benefits of music in a therapeutic context; This is especially true when looking at the use of music therapy for people with differing cognitive issues.

I happened to catch a story from NPR on this very topic on the way to the office this morning; It got me thinking about songs that flood my brain with Memories or Emotions.  It is EXCEPTIONALLY hard to narrow the list of potential entries down to a manageable number for a relatively quick blog post.  However, after some intense consideration, here is my list of the songs light up my brain the brightest:

“Families can be together Forever” by Ruth M Gardener

“Cats in the cradle” by Harry Chapin

“Our House”, by Madness

“Long, cool Woman in a black dress”, by The Hollies

“Horse with no name”, by America
 
“Endless” , by The Birthday massacre

So what makes these songs light my brain up like the 4th of July?  Simple!  It’s the memories that surround them–the places, the times, the faces surrounding me and the events that they were a part of.  Though the part these songs played in my life was often just a sliver of time not more than 5 minutes long, their impact continues to this day.

Most of these—all but one—are from my childhood and involved or made me think of members of my family.  Four came around as my life came upon times when it saw a sea of change, or as the lives of the people I loved changed. 

I started writing this with the intent that I’d just bang out a short list of songs that light up my brain.  I quickly realized this plan wasn’t going to work out that way, as my brain exploded with memories and emotions as I wrote more and more.  Instead of one mammoth post, I’ll be breaking this down into a series of 5 posts.  Enjoy!

Portland, OR
October, 2024

Roses in the sand

I went to a Portland burner thing one night, a while ago.  I had my lammies in my ranger bag and someone noted the plastic and cloth rose on them, and asked what that was about.  Not wanting to tell the story at the moment, I said “it’s a long story” and went about the business of that night.  

That story starts on a bright Monday morning.  This may have been any other slightly shitty Monday, except for the date.  It was Monday July 14, 2014 and the last 48 hours had been the hardest 48 hours in my life–in a lot of lives that touched mine.  We had some clean up still to do at Seabase and planned to return that morning.

I wasn’t sure about going back; I am sure I was still in shock.  Kate asked if I’d like some company, and I enthusiastically said yes.   I spent the morning trying to summon the physical and emotional energy to go back to where it all happened.  As I prepared myself, I thought about leaving something at the makeshift memorial that had reportedly sprung up.  I wasn’t completely sure whether to be angry at the fact a memorial had popped up or relieved that people were starting to process their grief.  I don’t think I really even knew what, exactly, to make of what I had been through or was feeling just yet.  I did know that I wanted to do something nice for those who knew the dead man, and especially for my friends and loved ones who had been as close to what happened as was I.

I grabbed some artificial roses from a vase in my breakfast nook.  They were small, plastic, and  non-descript but they were…..something.  I tore one off as a memento for myself, tucked the rest of them in the pocket of my shorts, and finished grabbing the things I needed to take with me.  The appointed hour came, Kate arrived, and I pulled on boots and grabbed water.  I remember that my boots—weighing in at about 3 pounds—felt a mile long and like they weighed a ton; their weight felt oddly reassuring.  I wasn’t so reassured by the visible markings where the soles were stained with the mix of ash and mud and bodily fluid from the scene. 

JP, Kate, and I piled in his Jeep and made the drive to Seabase.  It was a quiet drive with muted discussion and a lot of silent contemplation.  It was a brilliantly sunny morning.  An unforgiving sun shone brightly on us as we arrived; a light breeze blew from the South.  Sparky still smoldered, and then started actively burning again as we worked.

I was torn: On one hand the fire struck me as a funeral pyre: a witness for the fallen.  On the other, It felt like someone ripping a barely scabbed wound WIDE open to watch flames dance across the ruins of….what felt like everything.  I thought it was disrespectful to everyone: the rangers who were involved in the initial response, those who saw Chris go in, the community at large, Chris himself, and his friends and wife.  I wanted nothing to do with any more fire and wished someone would pour A LOT more water on it and put it OUT.  The decision was made to let it burn, and the flames burned on.

As we finished loading, I excused myself and walked alone out to where Sparky had stood and where Chris had gone into the flames.  I took a few minutes of quiet contemplation at the scene of it all.  My breath was hot as the still burning fire, my chest tight, and tears flowed.  Alone still, I wondered what a great many people were probably thinking then, and have since: Why?  Why here, why then, why at this magical weekend’s close?  What the fuck?  Why couldn’t anyone be bothered to say anything about him before hand?  There was a giant lit box with Doctors and Nurses and minions and a shit load of people knew where medical and sanctuary was and there was a FUCKING PHONE NUMBER IN THE GODDAMNED SURVIVAL GUIDE YOU GODDAMNED DRUG ADDLED FUCKING HIPPIE PIECES OF SHIT!?

The blinding sun and desert breeze gave no easy answers to my questions.  I pushed my roses into the sand and walked back to where JP and Kate were waiting.  We pulled out of Seabase as the silence in the Jeep roared so loud it was deafening.  I looked back to catch a last glance, and was greeted with scenes of a smoldering fire, a dusty road, and plastic roses in the sand trimmed in red cloth that was billowing in the smoky breeze.

June 2016
Portland, OR

Sharing is caring

Invariably I get some flavor of the same question: “Can you tell me some good spots to explore”?  Mostly, these questions are innocent, routine asks from a curious passerby.  Sometimes they’re blatantly lazy (at best) or pretty sketchy (at worst) asks like “Can you give me some addresses of places you have explored”? 

They usually show up after I comment on some social media post (generally via Reddit or Facebook) about abandoned locations, photos of mine taken in similar locations, or when I say I have been to/am aware of abandoned places in whatever location I am living in at the time.

While generally born out of innocuous curiosity, and voiced by people who want to share in something that brings me joy, these questions frequently irritate me.  Maybe I’m snobby, crusty, jaded, “mean”, or some parts of all those things?  Who knows.

But Mr. Curly, why are you reluctant to share sites you’ve explored?

There are Four main reasons:
1) I don’t want the location(s) to get trashed.
2) I put in the time and work.  You should too.
3) Potential Criminal liability
4) Being informed makes you powerful

I don’t understand.  Can you explain what you mean?

1 – I don’t want the location(s) to get trashed
In my experience, the philosophy of “Take only pictures and Leave only footprints” is followed fairly well by urban explorers.  Members of other groups who can be found wandering the ruins of society do not always follow this philosophy.  This is notably true for those who desire to install and/or showcase their spray can “art”, wish to add to the ruin of the location by damaging or destroying parts of it for whatever reason(s), and those living on the fringes of society looking for living space or quiet, covert places to indulge in the addiction(s) or languish in the afflictions of their choice. 

I could provide a lengthy list of examples, but I am fairly confident that you who are reading this understand why others visiting locations with intent to do non-exploring things can (at best) ruin the opportunity for other explorers or (at worst) create HUGE public safety issues that present direct threats to the lives of others.

2 – I put in the time and work.  You should too.
For each location I visit, I’ve already spent several hours on the administrative prep work needed before I even show up. Depending on the location (and all of the associated variables that go along with each place), I’ve slogged through research such as planning/zoning record searches, map reviews, location scouting trip(s), travel planning, emergency plans, ascertaining any special equipment I need to acquire (IE a gas mask or meter), and figuring out what equipment I (and/or any partners) might need to bring along.

If I (or anyone else) just hand the results of all of this work over to you, it cheapens the significant time and effort I’ve put in, relieves you of the effort required to go out and find locations on your own, and eliminates the opportunity for you to learn how to do a variety of those things along the way. 

3 – Potential Criminal liability*
Most of what we do is, by definition, illegal.  At best, getting caught wandering around in one of these locations is likely to violate criminal mischief or trespassing laws in your area.  At the worst, these activities could get you in more severe (likely Felony level) trouble with charges like Burglary, Possession of burglary tools, or others depending on the situation, your location, and/or circumstances.

I VERY much enjoy avoiding unwanted attention as I explore—especially that which turns into government entanglements, criminal liability, or other unwanted attention.  This is doubly true if the ‘attention’ is of the variety that could cost me time, money, or my freedom (if not all 3).  I’m not about to do free work and make some Detective or Assistant DA’s investigation simple by blindly giving them most (or all) of what they need to build a case.

While I am fairly sure that no one cares enough to investigate or prosecute people wandering forgotten or abandoned spaces, I’ll happily err on the side of caution and keep those ultra specific details to myself. If you blatantly ask for specifics like street addresses, I’ll likely not reply or give you some snarky feedback.

4 – Being informed makes you powerful
The world is a fascinating place—sometimes in the best of ways, sometimes in the worst— whether it’s the natural world wherever you live, the built up environment, or the antics of groups and individual people in them both.  Knowledge is also power; Being informed about the world around you makes you a better participant in life, harder to manipulate, and wildly more interesting compared to those who are merely content to be spoon-fed information and rely on the word/effort of others, regardless of the topic.  Most importantly, it robs you of the opportunity to get to the very heart of what this hobby is about:  Exploring!  While this does not always refer to the literal exploring of an abandoned site/building in the physical sense, exploring the information regarding a site can be just as fun, in addition to being better informed. 

So how do you find the locations you visit?
There has never been one single, foolproof way that I’ve come upon.  Some of the ways I have located places include general curiosity, dumb luck, watching the news, paying attention to/looking around my environment, signs stuck in lawns, viewing publicly posted notices, researching (and then reading) land use notices or decision briefs on government websites, and reading newspapers (no, really, people do still do that).   

If you live in the Portland, Oregon area read the Willamette Week column entitled “Chasing Ghosts” for a great start. It includes some great first- and secondhand information about the reasons the property is abandoned as well as the history and prior ownership of a given location.

Do/will you share information on locations?
Maybe.  Put forth some minimal effort, get to know me a little, and things can happen.  Better yet, offer to collaborate in some way—I’d love to share this hobby with others and collaborate or explore together.  If you’re hoping I will just hand out info blindly—especially specific times/dates/addresses, I’ll ignore you and you’ll be sad.

  

*I’m not a lawyer, nor do I play one on TV.  This is not legal advice and I am not liable for your actions and any potential consequences, legal or otherwise.  You should know and understand the relevant laws, any potential penalties, and the risk(s) of legal issues related to Urban Exploration in your area before exploring.  Don’t be stupid and you’ll probably be OK.