From time to time, we hear about bear sightings in Portland’s Forest Park—but bears in Montavilla? That is what the Oregon Journal of October 9, 1920 reported. The story was based on the recollections of an unnamed man who had lived in what is now Montavilla since 1860. That is 29 years before the earliest Mount Tabor Villa lots went on the market, and the birth of the neighborhood officially began.

“The old-timer” —as the Journal reporter said—had lived in a log cabin that he built himself. Pointing to the intersection of Glisan and 80th, he said a bear family once lived in that wooded area.

He enjoyed watching the bears playing in the early morning. But sometimes, he would return home to find it ransacked by the bears.

It is hard to prove, but it is at least possible.

Records show that this general area was part of the black bears’ range. And, certainly, it was once heavily forested—the black bear’s preferred habitat. Written documentation of black bears in this general area goes back to the journals of the Lewis and Clark expedition. An April 2, 1806 journal entry mentions four of the expedition’s men killing an elk, some deer, and a black bear near the mouth of the Sandy River.

With a cursory search of Portland newspapers, I found numerous articles mentioning local sightings of black bears from 1869 to the present.

So, there is no doubt that we live in what was once black bear territory, now pushed back to the periphery of our cities and beyond. And even 160 years ago, they were already a rare sight.

Forests are the black bear’s preferred habitat. The old timer spoke of firs so tall and plentiful that it was almost a year before he knew about Mount Tabor and Rocky Butte. Maybe an exaggeration, but trees—including firs—were native to this area.

The Big Burn of 1846, spreading from Mount Scott almost to the Columbia River, destroyed much of the pre-existing thick forest. But did this fire burn trees in the area around today’s Glisan and 80th? That’s hard to say.

But fir—as well as hemlock and maple trees—still existed in this general area, as the Oregon General Land Office’s 1854 map shows.

Another account indicating forests in the general Montavilla area is found in Wilber Kerns Newell’s 1934 memoir. Writing of the “big wind” of January 9, 1880, he noted that so many trees were knocked down that he and his young friends could walk from Base Line Road (now Stark) all the way to Rocky Butte “without once stepping off fallen tree trunks.”

Why did the Oregon Journal run a five-paragraph story about a man’s recollections about bears in Montavilla? Were readers really that interested in bears? Judging by the stories about bears that span decades, they were.

Most coverage focused on black bears (Ursus americanus), although grizzlies (Ursus arctos horribilis) were also mentioned. Black bears—the ones still living near cities—were more populous. The grizzly population had dwindled to the point that in 1937 the last survivor was killed in Wallowa County.

Although the Ursus americanus is commonly referred to as the black bear, these bears also come in varying shades of brown. Sometimes, however, brown bears are described as if they are separate species. It was the black ones that sometimes wandered into Portland and other Oregon towns and cities.

The dangerous side of black bears was also a regular news feature, including ferocious mauling of humans and attacks on livestock.

Besides sightings, newspapers reported hunts for both sport and bear control. They identified bears ransacking fruit orchards and attacking sheep.

A particularly detailed story about an urban bear hunt ran in the Oregonian of September 8, 1962. A young bear was sighted near Reed College and was tracked by 20 policemen, a Humane Society officer, and neighbors. They chased the bear through the neighborhood but were unable to capture the bear alive. A police officer shot him when he stopped to drink from a backyard pond.

Given the keen public interest in the wild bear-urban interface, Portland newspapers also reported sightings and killings in other Oregon cities and other locations throughout the U.S.

Public interest in bears was not limited to wild bears. Newspapers also ran stories about performing bears—including boxing matches between declawed bears and strong men.

And then there was a stuffed black bear displayed on the ground floor of Portland’s City Hall. By 1909, this moth-eaten specimen was offered to any taker.

The dangerous side of black bears was also a regular news feature, including reports of ferocious maulings of humans and attacks on livestock. A newspaper article described how a man named Giuseppe was clawed by the bear he kept in a makeshift pit in Marquam Gulch.

Given the size, strength, and ferocity of the black bear, it is shocking to read that bears once performed on the streets of Portland. The Oregon Journal of June 6 and 7, 1923 reported on the performances of organ-grinder Cesare Zenzold and his dancing bear.

Given the known ferocity of bears, newspapers also highlighted the adorable antics of bears in the Washington Park zoo and applauded Little Teddy, the black bear at the Jantzen Beach amusement park in the 1930s.

The Oregon press sometimes portrayed bears as cute and friendly characters in song, story, and verse. Both the Oregonian and the Oregon Journal ran illustrated children’s stories in the early 20th century that featured playful bears.

The friendly bear image persisted for many decades in stories, toys, and songs. Some of you may remember “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic,” with music composed in 1907 and lyrics added in 1932.

And the teddy bear—that popular toy—goes back to 1902. The original was inspired by news reports that President Theodore Roosevelt went on a hunting trip and failed to bag a bear. But when his assistants caught and restrained a bear, “Teddy” refused to shoot it. That would have been unsporting.

Two clever stuffed-animal makers honored Roosevelt by creating a Teddy’s Bear line. It went viral in 1902. Soon, the Ideal Toy Company mass-produced teddy bears.

Was the old-timer’s story about the Montavilla bear family true? I do not know. But given the public’s fascination with bears—both ferocious and cute—I can understand why the Oregon Journal’s editors wanted to publish the story.

Perhaps bear-related stories speak of a nostalgia for the wilds replaced by buildings and streets, as the Montavilla old-timer implied.

Now, if you like, watch the video below and imagine you are that Montavilla man of old watching the bear family at the corner of Glisan and 80th: youtube.com/watch?v=uhZZT-WjAM8

By

Patricia Sanders

This is part of Montavilla History Questions Answered, a series of history related articles. If you have questions about Montavilla’s past that you’d like answered, local historian Patricia Sanders will investigate your question. Please email your questions to history@montavilla.net and we may feature it alongside Patricia Sanders’ research in a future.

In 1911, Montavilla held its first “safe and sane” Independence Day celebration. In that year, Portland joined the national effort to reduce July Fourth deaths and injuries—to both adults and children–caused by various types of pyrotechnics. In 1903, when the national campaign began, Independence Day celebrations across the country resulted in 466 deaths and 4,449 injuries. As “safe and sane” policies were adopted city after city and as safer activities replaced dangerous ones, injuries and deaths began to fall. By 1911, Portland was among the 161 cities holding safe-and-sane events.

Montavilla’s July 4th celebration began with a parade. It started at the intersection of NE 80th Avenue and NE Glisan Street, then proceeded to Stark Street. The Grand Marshall, William DeVeny (1853-1918) —Montavilla’s Buffalo Bill look-alike — led the way on horseback. This honor was typically bestowed upon a renowned community leader, and he was certainly that. He was living in Montavilla by 1899 and, from then on — as an active member of the Montavilla Sub-Board of Trade — he was in the forefront of practically every Montavilla improvement effort in the early 1900s.

Men on horseback led the parade, followed by a line of automobiles. One of the cars held the Goddess of Liberty—an Independence Day staple–and her entourage. The Goddess was elected in a contest for the prettiest and most popular young woman in Montavilla. At a penny a vote, 18-year-old Caroline Buehler was elected Montavilla’s goddess for the 1911 celebration. She garnered 12,480 votes, far ahead of the runner-up, Luly Bryson, who received only 1,768. It was “the most exciting contest held in Montavilla,” the Oregonian proclaimed, and it raised a little over $200.

Other neighborhoods—like Mt. Tabor—held their Independence Day events in public parks. In 1911, Montavilla did not yet have a park, so the day’s festivities were held at the new Altamead subdivision, which had not yet put lots on the market.

All of Portland was invited to Montavilla’s grand celebration. Newspapers estimated that from 1500 to 2500 attended.

A band was playing as people arrived at the Altamead. Master of Ceremonies, John M. Conway – of the Montavilla Board of Trade—welcomed them to a sane and safe July 4th celebration.

The program began with a speech by Robert C. Wright of Mount Tabor, a well-known attorney and a Republican politician. Instead of a patriotic speech, he addressed a current Montavilla issue. Since Montavilla did not have a purpose-built public library, the Montavilla Board of Trade was seeking a Carnegie library grant. Wright spoke against this. He spoke of the dangers of the accumulation of vast wealth. Andrew Carnegie may be a philanthropist, but he was a steel-industry monopolist. The Republican Party, under the recent president Theodore Roosevelt and the current president William Howard Taft, tried to break up industrial monopolies.

Clearly, the Montavilla July Fourth celebration was a community-building event as well as a commemoration of the beginning of America’s break with Britain. The formal program ended with the Goddess of Liberty witnessing the American flag as it rose to the tune of the “Star-Spangled Banner.”

After the formal program, it was on to the picnic and the games: races, baseball, a tug-of-war, a greased pig chase, and prizes awarded by Rev. Father James Fitzpatrick, pastor of the nearby Church of the Ascension.

The celebration ended in the evening with a band concert and fireworks rising, safely, over the unbuilt subdivision land. Even the weather cooperated for the sane and safe celebration. It was, after all, a perfect, balmy day in contrast to the killer heat wave that plagued the eastern half of the United States.

It was a grand—and safe—Independence Day in Montavilla.

By

Patricia Sanders

Title image digitally restored

This is part of Montavilla History Questions Answered, a series of history related articles. If you have questions about Montavilla’s past that you’d like answered, local historian Patricia Sanders will investigate your question. Please email your questions to history@montavilla.net and we may feature it alongside Patricia Sanders’ research in a future.

The Lincoln Memorial through the lens of 1922 media

Sunday, May 21, 1922, was going to be another sweltering day in Portland. So, 89-year-old Civil War veteran James Downing decided to read his copy of the Oregonian under a shade tree in his backyard. He had just returned from the Montavilla Methodist Episcopal Church morning service, where a fellow veteran had told him about an illustrated story on the new Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. In his eagerness to see it, Downing skipped the front-page news about the Ku Klux Klan and Oregon politics and went straight to the magazine section.

There, he studied the photos of the gigantic statue of Lincoln and the temple-like building that housed it. He read, once again, the stirring words of Lincoln’s Gettysburg address inscribed on a huge marble tablet. Memories of those war-torn years came flooding back. How often had he shared his Civil War experiences with fellow members of the Montavilla McKinley Post of the Grand Army of the Republic? He also recalled his early days in Portland, when he went downtown to view the huge panoramic painting commemorating the bloody battle at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

This little story is, of course, fiction. But the facts are true.

James Downing (1837-1927) was a real person who served in the Civil War on the Union side. As a young man, he enlisted in Missouri’s 3rd Cavalry. He did live in Montavilla, arriving in 1890 and opening a grocery store here. In 1891, he became Montavilla’s first postmaster. And he was a member of the McKinley Post of the Grand Army of the Republic, a national association of Union Civil War veterans. And he attended Montavilla’s Methodist Episcopal Church on SE 80th Avenue until his death.

There really was a huge panoramic painting in downtown Portland illustrating the Battle of Gettysburg. The circular painting occupied a purpose-built structure and was open to the public from 1887 to 1892.

There really was an article about the Lincoln Memorial in the May 21, 1922, edition of the Oregonian, as well as many column inches on page one devoted to Oregon politics and the Klan. And, yes, the newspaper really did predict a high of 85 degrees on that day.

James Downing was one of eight Civil War veterans whom I could positively identify as still being alive in 1922 when the long-awaited Lincoln Memorial was finally built. As far as I know, none of these veterans attended the dedication ceremony in Washington. So, like James, they would have experienced it vicariously through the Portland press.

Today we get our news through a variety of media, but in 1922, it mostly came in print and photos. Although, as we’ll see, that was beginning to change.

Portland newspapers were covering the Lincoln Memorial story by April 23, 1922, a little over a month before its dedication on May 30. The April 23 edition of the Oregon Journal informed readers that the Memorial was on an axis stretching from the Capitol to the Washington Monument to the recently dedicated U.S. Grant equestrian statue and finally to the new Lincoln Memorial. The alignment connected a critical institution and persons in American history.

In the May 21, 1922, edition of the Oregonian, readers could view a half-page of fuzzy images and a little text in the magazine section. They marvel at the weight of the Lincoln statue—175 tons. They could see that the Gettysburg Address was carved into a huge white marble tablet.

Two days before the dedication ceremony, the Sunday Oregonian of May 28, 1922, informed readers that the 2,000-foot reflecting pool had taken ten years to build and was designed to symbolically join the Washington and Lincoln monuments. The article explained the symbolism of the Lincoln building: 36 columns represent the states that existed in Lincoln’s time; the festoons above the columns acknowledge the states in 1922. The reader learned that the Lincoln statue was 19 feet high and that sculptor Daniel Chester French took 4 years to complete it.

In its August 20, 1922, edition, Oregonian readers were treated to a photo of the Lincoln Memorial illuminated at night by an Army searchlight.

The printed press, with its words and images, was not the only way to convey information about the Lincoln Memorial. New forms—such as movies—had been appearing since the late 19th century. In June, 1922, the Pantages theater in downtown Portland screened a film about the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial, which the Oregonian described as “impressive and inspiring.”

In 1922, broadcast radio was also emerging as cutting-edge technology. The Oregonian of May 30, 1922, announced that speeches by President Harding and Chief Justice Taft delivered at the Lincoln Memorial dedication ceremony would be broadcast in the U.S. from the Naval Aircraft Radio Laboratory in Anacostia, Washington, D.C. By this time, both the Oregonian and the Oregon Journal had recently begun radio broadcasting, but it’s unclear whether the Naval broadcast signal made it to Portland. It is clear, however, that the “radio craze” marked a new era of electronic communication and would change the ways we receive and process the news to this day.

As the “radio craze” caught on, a store selling radios opened in Montavilla in 1927 at the corner of 90th and Stark. Mr. H. A. Hall’s store—built in the shape of a radio—was such a sensation that police were called in to control the turnout.

For veterans of the long-ago Civil War, the new era of electronic communication must have seemed a strange new world indeed.

By

Patricia Sanders

This is part of Montavilla History Questions Answered, a series of history related articles. If you have questions about Montavilla’s past that you’d like answered, local historian Patricia Sanders will investigate your question. Please email your questions to history@montavilla.net and we may feature it alongside Patricia Sanders’ research in a future.

On April 30, 1913, Montavilla residents gathered at the northeast corner of Burnside and 82nd Avenue to attend the grand opening of Fire Station No. 27. For years, the community had fought for professional fire protection. At last, it had arrived.

The need was evident as early as the early 1890s. The neighborhood was not yet part of the City of Portland, and it was on its own when it came to fighting fires. In June 1892, the residents of Montavilla’s first subdivision—Mount Tabor Villa Addition—met in their newly-created town hall to form their own volunteer fire brigade. The June 30, 1892, edition of the Oregonian reported that 56 people signed up as members. They elected officers. A committee would help raise funds for firefighting equipment. A “grand ball,” held in the town hall, raised “a handsome sum of money,” according to the Oregonian of July 20, 1892.

How often the Mount Tabor Villa Fire Company was activated is unknown. But the Oregonian reported that on the night of May 15, 1895, the brigade was called to action and partially succeeded. They were unable to save the Carlson house, but they did prevent it from spreading by throwing wet blankets onto the roof of the house next door.

Over the next few years, Montavilla’s population grew as new subdivisions were platted. Houses and commercial buildings multiplied. Better fire protection was needed. This task was taken up in 1902 by the newly formed Montavilla Board of Trade, a neighborhood improvement organization. The board’s first effort was to assess various types of fire extinguishers.

In 1902, the need was clear. In September, a Rockwood fire spread west to Montavilla and destroyed a number of houses. In October, the nearby Oriental Hall on Mt. Tabor also succumbed to flames.

William DeVeny—Montavilla’s Buffalo Bill look-alike and secretary of the Montavilla Board of Trade—advocated annexing Montavilla to the City of Portland. “For all the fire protection that we now have,” he proclaimed, “we might as well be located in the woods, many miles from the city limits.” With annexation could come local, professional fire protection.

Many Montavilla voters opposed annexation, but it finally won in 1906. Now officially part of Portland, surely Montavilla would get better fire protection as well as Bull Run water, which would boost Montavilla’s insufficient water supply, a needed resource for squelching flames.

Portland fire protection did not come quickly. In 1908, Montavilla joined the nearby Mt. Tabor and Center neighborhoods to petition the Mayor and City Council for local fire protection. They failed. In August 1909, Montavilla resident Seth Lind lost his house on East Madison Street. A month later, the Montavilla Board of Trade pleaded with the City to at least provide 1,000 feet of fire hose and a hose cart. Again, they were turned down.

City protection was still lacking when fire broke out on July 4, 1910 in one of Montavilla’s main commercial blocks. Despite the date, the fire was not caused by fireworks. It started at 4:30 am when confectionary store owner, William Armstrong, lit his gasoline stove to heat some water. He stepped away for a moment and the stove suddenly exploded, filling the store with flames. From his store in the wood-frame Leander Lewis building at the northwest corner of Stark Street and 80th Avenue it spread north to adjacent stores on 80th and west all the way to 79th Street. Soon most of that block was in ruins.

Lacking a local fire station, Montavilla residents rushed to the scene to help. They started removing goods until the rapidly spreading fire made this too dangerous. Now, residents could only fight the flames with garden hoses and buckets. At one point, the refrigerator plant in Giles’ meat market exploded, carrying the sound for miles.

By the time two east-side fire-engine companies arrived, 15 buildings lay in ruins.

The Oregon Journal estimated the total damage of the fire as $35,000. Fortunately, most businesses had insurance. Toll’s shoe store on 80th, however, was one of the uninsured, a $5,000 loss. Some businesses lost machinery as well as goods. And residents living above the stores lost clothing, furniture, and family heirlooms. These and other details of the devastating effects of the fire were reported at length in the Portland press.

Fortunately, injuries were minor. The destroyed buildings could—and would—be rebuilt, but this time with concrete and brick, not wood.

Surely now, the City of Portland would grant Montavilla a fire station. Just one day after the conflagration, the intrepid William DeVeny sprang into action and started circulating petitions for a Montavilla fire station. The Oregonian supported the petition, stating, in its July 9 edition, that “the narrow escape of the suburb from being completely destroyed has emphasized the need for a fire station and engine in the central portion of the district.” Montavilla also needed more water mains and fire hydrants: that campaign would begin in the fall.

Despite these efforts and the clear need, Mayor Simon and the Executive Board refused to grant Montavilla a fire station.

In 1911, the Montavilla Board of Trade launched another petition campaign, hoping to be more successful with the new Portland administration. By this time, Montavilla could argue that its new water mains could supply water for firefighting. The Oregonian again supported the effort, noting in its July 10, 1911, edition that the Mount Tabor fire station at E. 61st and Stark was too far away. This was demonstrated in August 1911, when Montavilla sent an alarm to that station, and its three horses refused to pull the engine over the hill.

In October 1911, signed petitions were presented to Portland’s new mayor, Allen G. Rushlight, and the Executive Board. They agreed to appropriate funds for a Montavilla fire station in the coming year. By June 1912, Battalion Chief Holden—an architect as well as a fire chief—had drawn up plans for a Montavilla station. Construction was underway by August.

The trend at this time was to use motorized vehicles, but Holden’s design would work for either horses or engines. The Montavilla station began with horsepower, but a few years later, switched to motorized trucks.

On April 30, 1913, Montavilla’s Engine Company No. 27 opened at the NE corner of Burnside and 82nd. That day, citizens were welcome to inspect the brick and concrete building, listen to a fireman’s band, and hear speeches by Mayor Rushlight, Montavilla booster William DeVeny, and others. 2,000—surely relieved–citizens attended. Finally, Montavilla had its own fire station.

Four years after the Montavilla fire station was threatened with closure. In 1917, the City of Portland decided to reduce its firefighting budget. That meant selling horses, replacing them with motorized vehicles, and eliminating three fire stations. Since Montavilla was one of the three, it seemed doomed. But the Montavilla Board of Trade fought back, arguing that Montavilla—with its 1,936 houses, 50 businesses, four schools, seven churches, and a population of 15,000—deserved local protection. The Board also protested the plan to replace horses with engines, arguing that motorized fire trucks could not traverse Montavilla’s many dirt streets. City Commissioner Bigelow pointed out that fire engines using heavy chains could get to places horse-drawn vehicles could not.

Montavilla Station 27 survived the City’s economizing effort. But horses would be replaced by motorized trucks. The new vehicles, bedecked with flowers, were displayed in the 1920s Rose Parade.

In the 1920s, the men of Engine 27 sometimes joined other firefighting units to quell blazes outside Montavilla boundaries. A headline-catching Rocky Butte fire on July 23, 1924, is one example. After spreading east, the fire headed west to 82nd Street. Before the fire was extinguished, it burned an estimated 800 acres. It took nearly 100 people to beat back the flames. Fortunately, the damage was mainly limited to grass and brush.

During the Depression years, firefighting forces were reduced for economic reasons. The Montavilla fire station lost two crew members.

Montavilla Fire Station No. 27 continued in service until 1953. As part of Portland’s fire station replacement program, it was shut down, and a new fire station—engine 19—was built at 7301 E. Burnside. It serves the Montavilla, South Tabor, Madison South, and part of the Mount Tabor neighborhoods.

The old Montavilla fire station was demolished, and the property—plus the two adjacent lots—became the site of a Carter Oil gas station in 1959. In 1986, the three lots were occupied by Sigler’s Auto Sales. Today, it is home to Cars to Go.

Montavilla was lucky to get its own fire station. As usual, in this feisty suburb, it took a community.

By

Patricia Sanders

This is part of Montavilla History Questions Answered, a series of history related articles. If you have questions about Montavilla’s past that you’d like answered, local historian Patricia Sanders will investigate your question. Please email your questions to history@montavilla.net and we may feature it alongside Patricia Sanders’ research in a future.