Amazing oral histories from early Portland pioneers

One of the best ways to learn about the early days of a city is from the surviving oral histories of the settlers. Here are some wonderful snapshots of early Portland.

Horace McKendrick:
In my day, Portland wasn’t this trendy spot with folks sipping on their organic lattes. No, sir. It was rough, rugged, and raw. They called it the “City of Roses,” but the only roses I saw were the ones Aunt Agatha tried (and failed) to plant in that godforsaken clay soil behind her rickety old shack.

Mabel Cunningham:
Oh, please! Roses were the least of our problems. Do you know how many saloons we had in this town? More than churches, that’s for certain. And every other day, some poor bloke would wander off, completely lost, thanks to a combination of strong whiskey and these confounding streets. North? West? No one knew which way was up!

Ernest “Three-Toes” Thompson:
All this talk about roses and saloons! When I settled here, Portland was nothing more than a glint in a trapper’s eye. And that Willamette River? Might as well have called it the “River of Broken Dreams.” Tried to set up a fish stand once. Guess how many fish I caught? Zero. Nada. Zilch. Hence, the nickname, “Three-Toes.” Don’t ask.

Penelope Drexel:
I lived a stone’s throw from that river, and honestly, Ernest might have been onto something. Every time a ship came in, all these grand promises of trade and commerce floated about. But more often than not, it just brought in a fresh batch of drifters and dreamers, most of whom left when they realized the biggest trade in town was in tall tales.

Jedediah Smithers:
You youngsters and your complaints! When I arrived, there wasn’t even a proper road. And the trees! So many trees. Everywhere. You’d walk two steps and boom, there’s a tree. You want to build a house? First, clear out fifty trees. Want a view of anything? Nope, trees.

Fiona Greenway:
Trees or no trees, the biggest challenge in early Portland was the mud. Oh, the mud! Sticky, clingy, and everywhere. Lost my first husband to the Great Mud Slide of ’52. Found him a year later when the mud dried up, still clutching onto his beloved pie from Martha’s Bakery. Dedication, that was.

Chester “Chuckles” O’Hare:
Mud, trees, saloons… y’all are forgetting the biggest spectacle: the annual Moose Parade! Every year, without fail, a herd of moose would stroll right down Main Street. Why? Nobody knew. But it became an event. Kids selling “Moose Juice” (just regular apple juice) and grandmas knitting moose hats. Honestly, it was the most exciting thing we had.