You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

SOAP STONE DON’T SLIDE

(Part 1)

I resigned my post at the University of Kansas in the Spring of 1972, and moved with my wife and baby from Lawrence to Portland, Oregon. That summer, in celebration of our return to Oregon, my sister, Kappy, rented a cabin in Cannon Beach. Our two families headed off for a week of relaxation on the sand. On the third day, when, for me, relaxation had turned to boredom, I took a walk around town. On a back street, I passed a site where a young man was building a house. I stopped to talk with him and learned that he had purchased the site from Clatsop county at an auction. This was a revelation to me. I knew little of the county’s sale of abandoned land. I thought, I could buy a home site cheaply, I could design and build a cabin at the beach.

The following day, I drove up the coast to Astoria. There in the top floor of the county courthouse, I found the map room. I spent the day digging through dusty maps to find county owned land available for purchase. An old Swedish man was working in the map room. He was very helpful, guiding me to various maps and explaining how to file the papers in order to initiate an auction. He was adamant in his instruction that one needed to attend the auction and defend his interest against other bidders. At several points in the course of the day he asked if I would be interested in a house. I explained that I was an intern architect and wanted to find an undeveloped lot on which to build.

By the end of the day, I had been successful in finding several lots south of Cannon Beach. As I was leaving I stopped to thank the old Swede for his help. Again he tried to interest me in the abandoned house. Not wanting to offend him, I feigned interest. He launched into a description of the house. “It a fine old house, well made”. he said. “It even has a view. He described its location. It has been empty since old man Bishop died.“ he added. I and asked why it was abandoned. He said “It’s in a slide area.” I asked how much money the county would accept as a minimum bid. He paused and then said, “Probably around five hundred.” “Five hundred dollars?” I asked in amazement. “Yup, about five hundred dollars,” He replied.

Despite this remarkably low initial bid, I was still not interested. I wanted to design and build a unique beach cabin, rather than take on the reconstruction of an old house. In any case, with such a low initial bid, there were certain to be many bidders running up the price.

I began my drive back to Cannon Beach. As I stopped on Marine Drive, I paused. I checked the time. It was 4:30. There was still an hour and a half before I would be expected to arrive for dinner. I could turn left and head back to help with dinner preparations, or I could turn right and look for that abandoned $500.00 house. “What the hell.” I said out loud and turned right heading to the east side of Astoria, where the old house was located.

Grand Avenue ended with a steep embankment. I later learned that the land had fallen about 25 feet in a major land slide 20 years earlier. Standing there at the end of the road and looking where the old man had said I would find the house, I could see only large conifers and blackberries. I was about to give up when I noticed the cornice of a roof peak behind a large hemlock. I decided, having come this far, I would look at it. However, since the road in front of it had slid away, there was no direct route to reach it. I worked my way through the blackberry brambles, down the bank, and along what had once been the street until I could see the front of the house. I crawled up under the thicket, over the remnants of the front stair, and into an open space next to the house. From there, I could see it was a sturdy looking two story bungalow. The front stair had slid away, leaving the front porch and entry, 9 feet above the ground. I looked for another way to gain access and found the back door. The stair to it had collapsed also. The door was about 4 feet above the ground. I piled some of the broken stairs in front of it, and climbed over the debris into the house.

Vandals had ransacked the place. They had smashed the sink, a toilet and a couple of windows. There were utensils, clothing, and furniture scattered around the main floor. However the interior of the house was not damaged. The old growth Douglas fir floors and original natural wood trim around doors, windows and archway between living and dining room were in good shape. The scene on the second floor was more orderly. The bedrooms were fully furnished. The dresser had clothes in it. On the dresser were items which looked to have been left when the owner emptied his pockets. Calling cards were there, including one that was a notice of the death of Mrs. Bishop. It appeared as though the previous owner had suddenly abandoned the house.

There was no sign of moisture damage. The roof had not leaked. There was a separate door to the basement, there I found the remains of a wood furnace and old tools. Thieves or family had taken everything of value.

While there was damage by vandals, the house was in reasonably good condition. “What a mess” I thought as I worked my way back to where I had parked my car. “No way would I want anything to do with this inaccessible, slide prone house.” I drove back to join the family for dinner in Cannon Beach. I told them about land I had found. I did not mention the old house.

Over the following year, I thought about it. Hearing of Winter storms on the coast, I would wonder how the old house was holding up. I would wake in the middle of the night thinking of ways to remedy various problems such as the tiny kitchen. I began to feel an obligation to it, as if it were an abandoned child. I wondered why, when all of the houses to the west of this one were destroyed in the slide, this one had survived with out damage. I yielded to my curiosity and made a series of phone calls. These led me to an old man named Anderson. He was delighted to talk with me about the “Bishop house”. He proudly told me that, as a teen ager, he had helped his father build it. He hated to think of it empty and decaying. I asked him why that house had not slid along with all the others. “Oh” he replied. “That house won’t slide.” I asked how he could be so sure. “Its built on Soapstone.“ “So what does that have to do with it?” I asked. His rely was brief and succinct. He said “Soapstone don’t slide.” That was it. Based on that assurance, in the spring of 1973, I filed the papers with Clatsop County to initiate an auction.

When I filed my papers, I was warned that it would about a year to clear the title. It took two years. The county had to find all surviving members of the Bishop family and make the house available to them for back taxes and penalties before putting it up for auction. In the spring of 1975 I recieved an announcement that it was to be sold at auction in the lobby of the County courthouse.

I computed the costs of rebuilding the house. Given the low rental rates in Astoria at that time, I figured that I could pay no more than $11,500 for it and still break even after repairs had been completed. I could barely sleep the night before the auction. I got up early and drove from Portland to Astoria. My plan took shape on that two hour drive. I was certain that there would be many others bidding for the house. I had to have a strategy. I decided not to enter the biding until all but two bidders had dropped out of the competition. I would then jump in with a substantially larger increase than either of them had been making. My hope was that upon seeing my enthusiasm and apparent deep pockets, they would drop out of the bidding.

There were over twenty people in the courthouse lobby waiting for the auction. Twelve properties were on the auction list. As each sale was completed the group that had been bidding on it left. The Bishop house was the last item on the list. It was past noon when the auctioneer opened bidding on it. There were still ten people in the lobby. I presumed that these people were there to bid on “my house”. The auctioneer opened bidding. No one bid. He said the minimum was $500. Still, there were no bids. I thought, the other bidders must be using the same strategy that I was using. The auctioneer looked at his watch, it was past lunch time. He raised his gavel as he said “Then if no one is biding on this property we will close the sale.” My hand shot up. With his gavel still raised, he asked, “Are you bidding?”. “Yes!” I replied. His gavel came down with a bang. “Sold” he said. He turned to those 10 people remaining gallery, and said “Now lets go get some lunch”. He and all the others filed out. I sat there alone in wonderment. I now owned that old house.

END Part 1