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. I moved with my wife and baby from Lawrence to Portland, Oregon. That summer, in celebration of our return to Oregon, my sister 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 at the Clatsop County auction. This was a revelation to me. I knew little about the way that the county sold surplus land. I thought, If could buy a home site cheaply at an auction. I could build a cabin of my own design at the beach.

The following day, I drove the 35 miles up the coast to the county seat, Astoria. I found the map room on the top floor of the old Clatsop County Courthouse. I spent the day there, digging through musty maps, looking for potential sites on which to build a cabin. There was an old Swedish man 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 repeatedly 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 in a place called Arch Cape. which I planned to visit the following day. 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’s a fine old house, well made,” he said, “It even has a view.” He described its location and said, “It has been empty since old man Bishop died.“ I asked why it was abandoned. He said, “It’s in a slide zone.” 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 not interested. After all, I was soon to be an architect, and 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. I was held up by traffic at the stop sign onto the highway. While waiting, 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 house. “What the hell!” I said out loud and turned right, heading to the east end of town, where the old house was located.

I found Grand Avenue, where the old Swede had said. It ended with a steep embankment. I later learned that the land had fallen about 25 feet in a major landslide 20 years earlier. Standing there at the end of the road and looking where the Swede 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 the house 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. When I could see that I was in front of the house. I crawled up through the thicket, over the remnants of what was the front stairs to the house, and into an open space next to it. From here, I could see it was a sturdy-looking two-story bungalow. Because the stairs to the front porch and entry had slid away, access to the house was 9 feet above the ground. I looked for another way to gain entry and found the back door. The stairs to it had collapsed also, leaving that door 4 feet above the grade. 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 sinks, toilets, and a couple of windows. There were utensils, clothing, and living room furniture scattered on the main floor. In the basement were the remains of a wood furnace and old tools. Thieves or family had taken anything of use. The scene was more orderly on the second floor. The two bedrooms were fully furnished. The dresser had clothes in it. It appeared as though the previous owners had suddenly abandoned it. On the dresser were items that looked to have been left there when the owner emptied his pockets. In the top drawer of the dresser, I found calling cards, among them was a notice of Mrs. Bishop’s death. There was no sign of moisture damage. The roof had not leaked. I later learned that Mr. Bishop had died in the bushes below the house. He apparently had completed shingling the roof when he fell from it. The interior of the house had handsome Douglas fir trim around doors, windows, and the archway between the living and dining rooms. While there was damage by vandals, the house was in reasonably good condition. “What a mess,” I thought, as I worked my way back through the brambles to where I had parked my car. “No way would I want anything to do with this inaccessible wreck of a house.” I thought, as I drove back to join the family for dinner in Cannon Beach. I told them about the land I had found. I did not mention the old house.

Over the following winter, I thought about it. Hearing of storms on the coast, I would wonder how it 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 wondered why, when all of the houses to the west of this one were destroyed in the slide, this one had survived without damage. I began to feel an obligation to it, as if it were an abandoned child. I yielded to my curiosity and made a series of phone calls. These led me to an old man named Anderson. He was living in a nursing home and was delighted to talk with me about the “Bishop house”. He proudly told me that, as a teenager, 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 can you be so sure?” He replied, “Its built on Soapstone.“ “So what does that have to do with it?” I asked. His response was brief and succinct. He said, “Soapstone don’t slide.” That was it. Based on the certainty with which Anderson made that assurance, I filed the papers with Clatsop County to initiate an auction.

When I filed my papers, I was warned that it would take time to clear the title. It took about two years. The county had to find any surviving members of the Bishop family and make the house available to them for back taxes and penalties before putting it up for auction. Finally, a card came in the mail informing me of the date on which the house was to be sold at auction in the lobby of the Clatsop 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 $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. I was certain that there would be many others bidding for the house. I had to have a strategy to guide my bidding. My plan took shape on that two-hour drive. I decided not to enter the bidding until all but two bidders had dropped out of the competition. I would then jump in with a substantially larger increase in bid 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 when I arrived. 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 lunchtime. He raised his gavel as he said, “Then if no one is bidding 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 as he proclaimed, “Sold.” He turned to the people remaining and said, “Now let’s go get some lunch.” He and all the others filed out. I sat there alone in wonderment. I now own that old house. My life plan had just changed dramatically.

END Part 1