Lightning Strikes Thrice

A Rogue Storm

The thunderhead developed overnight while most of us slept, building up, like some sort of silent, ravenous beast. The storm surprised many weathermen in both how quickly it formed, and how isolated it was. According to one satellite image, the storm was nearly the size of Washington County itself, forming over the county, and dying out before it moved much further east. And as the little hamlet of Garden Home began its day, we were given a show that none of us will soon forget.

The charred remains of a Douglas Fir tree,
 only hours after it was struck by lighting
 in the large rogue thunderstorm that struck
 the area on Wednesday. the tree burned,
before breaking in half. -S. Kramer, Photograph

The lightning didn’t strike our house, though from the sound of the thunder and how quickly it appeared after the flash, I could have sworn it did. Two of my family members reported feeling a shock. It jarred me out of sleep, something between a rocket on takeoff and cannon fire, and kept me there for several hours, sitting in bed, sheets wrapped around me while creeks nearly four feet wide appeared in the street as nearly 1/2 inch of rain that fell over the course of the half hour. Then the rogue storm disappeared as quickly as it arrived: after about half an hour, the storm simply stopped, the thunder vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. The robin was the first to break the silence that followed, and it was his song that finally lulled me back to sleep.

A thunderstorm is unusual in the Portland area, but due to the warm weather we have been having, there have been a few over the past week, but this was the first one to hit this close to home...literally. At first we believed that the ruckus that roused us up was a cloud burst, overhead, and since we hadn’t lost power, the long term consequences of the storm weren’t evident. However the thunder that shook the house was the result of an actual strike, less than a mile away. Being Portland, this made instant headlines, and locating the site of the strike was easy enough: follow the news helicopters. We all see videos or the lucky picture of lightning strikes, and it’s easy to happen upon trees in the woods that were struck. However, it’s different when the lightning strike site is as fresh as this one. 

The Victims

One of the casualties was immediately noticeable: a fir tree, it’s trunk charred and the top of the tree missing collapsed as the tree was weakened by fire. FOr a moment I assumed this to be the only tree damaged: it took me a moment to notice the more dramatic of the three victims. Next to this were two sequoia trees, splintered, like a giant ax had descended on them, ripping off their crowns and splitting the trunk nearly to the ground. Shards of all three trees were scattered across two roofs. The owner of the sequoia trees seemed very quiet, but was open to chatting for a few minutes. The mulcher would be arriving soon, he explained, and he would miss the shade. Another neighbor had caught the burning fir tree on camera and was eagerly showing pictures.

                              

One door down, the lightning struck two sequoia trees
splitting this one like a hatchet, shattering it on impact,
 and and sending pieces of the tree in every direction.
-S. Kramer, Photo.

A utility truck was on site, as well as a news van, with one of the shards that was a fir tree leaning against its bumper. I imagined a newscaster dramatically holding it in front and yelling about how this was once a fir tree. I can’t blame her if she did that: the power in lightning is hard to comprehend. I have said before that waterfalls are the best way to see how mighty God’s power is, but I was forced to reconsider. I looked across to the splintered mast that had once been a sequoia tree. A ghost of it’s former glory, I assumed it would soon fall to the mulcher. No one had likely ever imagined this tree would die like this. Most trees don’t: they get disease, or get cut down, or in the case of sequoias, grow into behemoths. But very few Sequoia trees literally explode!

And So It Remains...

I assumed that all evidence of this ordeal would be cleaned up in a day, the trees cut up and turned into compost, their silhouettes only remembered in images on Google maps. However several days later, the shattered tree is still standing, as is the charred fir. Perhaps they will be left in place, or perhaps they will become compost. Regardless, I doubt that a sequoia tree exploding in ones backward is easy to forget, let alone two, while a forest fire almost starts next door. I guess it’s true what they saw: lightning never strikes twice--but in a way, this one struck thrice. -KP

How I Found My Own Rose Festival

The Festival's Last Day

The giant trout float sponsored by PGE. All
colors and decorations on the float are flower
petals, or seeds, painstakingly installed. -S.K.

      By the time I was approached by a coworker to see if I wanted to switch shifts, I had given up on seeing Portland's Rose Festival this year. I had seen it before: no big deal. When I ended up with Sunday, June 10 off--the last day of the Rose festival--I took my opportunity. It was cold and dreary, with the "Rose Festival Low" weather front hanging over Portland, dumping the rain showers that have almost become part of the festival itself. The grand floral parade, the starlight parade: all of it was done. But it wasn't too late to see what was left. I hopped a Blue Line downtown, and strolled along the waterfront, past the war ships in for fleet week: the heavily guarded American War Ship and the more inviting Canadian HMCS Regina. I saw the floats: the trout, the otter the puppy playing Golf and I stood in awe at the work that had gone into them. 

     In spite of this, I wasn't content. I had missed the festival, and the parade that the float's had joined in was gone, leaving the floats out of context. I needed more. I decided to hop a TriMet bus: any bus. The ride itself was less than thrilling, but in the process, I happened upon a treasure in North Portland and in the process of fleeing the festival, I ended up celebrating it after all.

Roses of various colors, blooming
along the edge of the Peninsula Park Rose Garden -S.K.

Peninsula Park Rose Garden, North Portland

     The park is over 100 years old, completed in 1913, and has changed very little since, proving to be a popular gathering place during the 1920s and 30s. It's rose garden is significant to the history of roses in Portland, as it was the location where the official rose was cultivated. Despite all this, it's overlooked during the festival, neglected by the Rosarians, in favor of its younger, more popular cousin in the west hills. But my visit to this one felt unique somehow: the air temperature perhaps, or how the low   clouds affected the lighting and color. There were only a handful of other people in the garden and this near emptiness made it feel private, but not lonely. It was welcoming in a way. I wonder if perhaps I left downtown on that Line 4 bus for a reason: to find this. 

From the rim of the former quarry, looking
over the rose garden. The garden was
completed in 1913, making it Portland's
oldest formal rose garden. -S.K.

It sounds sappy, but it's difficult to describe how it felt to stand there in the late spring mist, gazing over a garden full of the very flower that people miles away were celebrating by waiting in line for carnival rides and navy ships, or braving the crowds at the International Rose Test Garden. This garden had one thing that set it apart: solitude. It felt tranquil and unspoiled. The roses were arranged by variety and color, laid out in a geometric pattern, divided by grassy lanes lined with neatly trimmed hedges. Umbrella-like trees were placed strategically, and in the middle was a pool at least thirty feet across, with a fountain shooting water twenty feet in the air, the pool reflecting nearly black against the stormy sky.

     I descended the ancient brick staircase into the former quarry housing the garden, and walked down each row, around the fountain, under the umbrella trees. A steady rain fell in the garden, but I paid it no heed, I walked around the garden in a virtual daze, taking picture after picture: the brilliant reds, oranges and yellows. In one corner, roses started out as coral buds, paling to an almost white as the flower opened. Across the garden, a signpost explained the history of the park, dating back over 100 years.

A Wooded Island among Houses

Roses climb up a lamppost along
the rose garden's perimeter. This
scene is repeated in the Washington
Park's Rose Garden as well. -S.K.

     Setting out across the park, roses were everywhere, hiding behind maintenance buildings, climbed up signposts, and surrounded the park's unique bandstand. Locust trees, firs and flowering shrubs lined a central lawn. At the opposite end of the park was the community center, an inviting structure with two wings and a pool hidden behind it. Next to this is a grove of firs with a play structure made of timber polished by years of use, and pipes painted blue. The park hasn't been updated to the soulless manufactured playgrounds that many parks on the west side have. It even managed to retain its sea-saws, a rarity in modern parks. Elsewhere in the fir grove is a picnic area of concrete squares, and tables arranged to resemble pieces on a chess board. All of this in contained in about three blocks, and it stands out like a wooded island among the aging neighborhoods.

     There are two bus routes that connect the park with the urban core: 4 and 44. I hopped a 4, and returned through the alleys of Northeast Portland, I wondered at the rose bushes lining the street, neglected by passing traffic. In preparation for the Lewis and Clark Expo in 1905, the city had planted roses along many streets. Were these them? Could they have lasted this long? 

And so the festival ended.

The fountain, located in the center
of the rose garden, makes a very
nice center-piece. -S.K.

     The bus crossed the Steel Bridge, passing the protected Navy ships, the carnival, and the floats. All impressive, all fun exciting traditions, but It felt stale to me. I had seen it, and I was genuinely impressed. But my re-discovery of that rose garden was refreshing. Only a handful of people saw what I saw when I saw it. The floats will be remembered in pictures, and I will continue to marvel at the detail they put into them. But the memory of the Peninsula Park roses in the rain is different, and for me that scene is the true meaning of Portland's Rose Festival -KP