Column: The secret to cooking success

Weathering the ‘terrible tempest of the 12th’

It’s my second year at Manning’s. It’s an upgraded cafeteria with chandeliers, padded chairs and thick carpet. I’m in charge of cutting and serving desserts. Our patrons are mostly older people who live in the apartments above the stores in downtown Portland, Ore. From the prices of food here, I think these “guests” are pretty well off. It’s a treat to choose anything from the line for my dinner — well, anything except the prime rib. It’s Columbus Day, Oct. 12, 1962, and there’s a storm brewing. People blow through the doors, gasp and say, “Thank goodness you’re open. Lights are out everywhere. Wind is furious.” The manager tries to hang onto the swinging glass doors and is swung right out onto the sidewalk. The younger staff are hysterical. Moms are crying because they can’t get home to their families. The lights go out. We light candles for each table. I finish my cleanup, grab my coat and head to the bus stop four blocks away. I step out the door and lose my balance. “This wind is extreme,” I think. “I can hardly stay on my feet. Whoa, the air is full of all kinds of flying objects.” I walk sidewise with my body flat against the buildings. No cars are moving. I crawl across crosswalks, not even waiting for lights. The wind roars down the streets. At the post office corner, I grab the wrought iron fence which surrounds the building. Hand over hand, I pull my weight, picket by picket down the block, turn the corner and cling to the fence. Yippee! My bus is in front of the building. I get as low as possible, make a run for it and pound on the door. It opens. I crawl up the steps. “Man, young lady. You’re just in time,” the driver says. “I was getting ready to leave before this gets worse. You look like you’ve been in hurricane.” I FEEL like I’ve been in a hurricane. Only four other people are on the bus. The driver helps me into a seat. I watch trees whip, shingles fly and signs take wing as we travel over the river and up Hawthorne Street. My heart’s pounding. The driver drops me in front of my apartment. I lower my head, buck the wind and turn the knob. The door flies open and smashes into the wall. Nothing like entering with a bang. The headlines in the paper read: Rare Typhoon Hits Portland. I had caught the last bus out of downtown; all the roads were blocked by downed trees. I write letters to let everyone know I’m OK:

Oct. 13, 1962 Don’t worry. I’m perfectly all right. In fact, there was little damage to the school and not one of our students was injured, although there were many close calls. Typhoon Freida certainly took her toll on Portland. I was at work when it was at its worst. We were the only café with electricity in all of the downtown area, so we got all the customers and of course all the news of the outside wind storm. Funny things and tragic things happened. The big plate glass windows on a lot of stores were broken. A big shoe store down the block had its windows torn out and shoes went sailing through the air everywhere. A jewelry store had the same problem and the owners were grabbing diamonds and watches as fast as they could. Three of the corner windows shattered on Meier and Frank. One of their mannequins went flying through the air, lost her wig but kept her fur coat on until she hit the pavement five blocks away. You couldn’t walk down the street for flying objects. Big boards, pieces of metal and roofing soared like birds down the streets. People huddled in alleyways and stairwells. The two main parks downtown look like some lumberjack went crazy and slashed down all the trees. A tree by the library split in two. One half fell into the library door and the other speared a taxi cab and killed the driver. Fourteen people were killed. One of the neighbors of a girl my roommate works with was killed when a tree fell on their house. The only problem we had at work was our glass swinging doors. Our manager, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman, decided to hold onto it. A big gust of wind swept him and the door out onto the sidewalk.

When a lady wanted in, it took the door, the lady and the manager and threw them back outside. There was no controlling it. Our lights did go out for about 20 minutes.

We gave the customers candles on their tables. It was a lovely atmosphere in the middle of a horrible storm. We have no electricity or phone service and are pretty much isolated from the rest of the world. Oregon has called out the National Guard to help with mop-up. I wasn’t a bit afraid. I spent most of my evening at work on the floor at Manning’s consoling panicky girls and hysterical mothers who were caught by the storm and not able to get home to their families. Our beautiful Mount Tabor looks like a war zone. It fought the wind and the wind won. Nature’s destruction is more sad than buildings. Buildings can be repaired. Trees and shrubs take years to repair. I thank God I caught the last bus out of downtown and made it safe to my apartment.

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509.758.5260 | egeral.com T H I N K I N G O U T L O U D Sharon Chase Hoseley Chase Hoseley is a freelance writer and retired kindergarten teacher who lives in Clarkston. She can be reached at shoseley8@gmail.com.