The Oregon Trail(James brown) The Oregon Trail

In late October 1978, I drove our 5-year-old Ford station wagon, nick named the blue banana, north on Interstate 5. It was packed with the last of my life’s accumulated clutter, even an old bed headboard with mattress roped onto the roof. Other indispensable junk that survived the moving cleanup had already made the trip north, to our new home, Salem, Oregon.

Leaving California, I passed the new Oregon welcome sign. The governor had recently changed it from “Welcome To Oregon”, to “Welcome To Oregon Enjoy Your Visit”.

As my car traversed the turns in Oregon’s timbered hills in the Cascade Range, I looked up and saw a passenger jet high above, also heading north. My ant sized car to them probably included others like me, part of another periodic wave of lemmings taking their California home equity to Oregon. Like most of my fellow lemmings, we were scurrying to an economic cliff.

I’d just resigned from the best job I’d ever had, previously or subsequently, Senior Appraiser at Santa Clara County Assessor’s office. Not only did it pay well, have expansive health care benefits, an overly generous retirement plan, 4 weeks of vacation annually, so many holidays it was difficult to keep track of them, sign out privileges, mileage reimbursement checks, job security, a designated parking space, Id’ just been promoted to "Senior Appraiser", a position 28 others had vied for but only I had gotten.

Why leave an employment pinnacle? Like most of life’s major change decisions, it was complicated. Proposition 13, recently passed by irate California taxpayers, fundamentally changed my job. Our 5-year prior home purchase had drastically increased in home equity, the local grade school had recently closed, the agricultural Santa Clara Valley I grew up in had metaphorized into Silicone Valley, but those were excuses.

The truth, at age 34, I was old, 4 years past the age Jerry Rubin said one could be trusted. I wanted to stay young, to seek adventure, move to the mythical Oregon, a place the governor advertised as, “Please visit, but don’t stay”.

In Oregon, I did experience new adventures including facing the edge of an economic cliff. Unlike most of my fellow lemmings, however, I didn’t fall into the abyss but the view was an adventure I'd rather have missed.

The wife and kids were already in the brand-new house we purchased with 50% down using only half of our cashed-out California equity. It was in a subdivision called Dorchester on a Salem hill, nick named California Hill by locals due to the number of fellow California lemmings who relocated there. It housed ex-Californians but also up and coming locals, especially nouveau riche construction contractors who developed nests for the lemmings.

The only cautionary sign was our purchase price. The original subdivision developer had gone bankrupt. The new developer built cheap and flipped houses for a quick profit.

Unlike many fellow lemmings who came to start the business they’d dreamed to do, I had a job. I'd been hired as a commercial appraiser by the Marion County Assessor’s Office after exaggerating my appraisal background, limited to appraising residential properties.

Salem’s economy was heavily influenced by state government employees, a staid group socially awaiting government retirement. They were conservative socially, leftist politically, economically thrifty due to modest salaries and provincial.

Unlike California where few were state natives, most were not only born in Oregon but so were their parents and grandparents. They appeared reserved enough to be perceived as unfriendly by outsiders but were probably simply awkward when confronted with strange foreigners, especially Californians.

California Hill was different. It was hip. The neighbors congregated at backyard barbecues, drank beer and wine while the steaks cooked, even in the rain and had football and basketball TV viewing parties. It was a hearty party, almost like California suburbia. Within 2 months we were “established”. The kids were in school, the house was filled with new furniture, I had a job, friends were made, we were settled. The new Oregon adventure was a cake walk.

Unknowingly, we were at the edge of an economic cliff, an abyss.

Although hired by the chief appraiser of Marion County I didn’t understand some “little things” about my new job. The major adjustment was my paycheck, 40% less than Santa Clara County’s It was the little unanticipated adjustments that shocked.

The assessor's office was not computerized because it didn’t have a computer. Mathematical calculations were done on mechanical devices.

Long-distance phone calls were forbidden. The punishment for making one was dismissal. Unfortunately, some areas of the county required a long-distance phone call to contact. The result was, to meet a property owner outside the local calling area, required the long walk to one’s car, a drive out to the distant area and a cold call with no way of knowing if the property owner would be there.

There was no need for the Assessor to worry about improper use of the office copy machine. It was in the county clerk’s office. You got the Assessor’s written permission and then had the county clerk make a copy for you.

I was required to drive a car to work to inspect property but had no assigned parking space. The city, to encourage downtown shopping, forbid on street parking for those employed downtown with a legion of parking police to hunt down violators. I had to park my car almost a mile away from the office, an office that was an abandoned service station.

There was one last irritant arriving at work, but a major one, Bruce. Bruce was fellow commercial appraiser who took the governor’s saying, "Visit, don’t stay", personally. He hated Californians who relocated to “his” Oregon. He was not alone. “Natives” like Bruce, born in Oregon, whose ancestors came by covered wagon, killed the Indians, and stole their land, considered outsiders a direct threat to “their” Oregon, especially if they were from California, like me. It did no good to protest I was born in Wisconsin, I had California stamped on me because I grew up there.

The natives were correct. Oregon was changing, changing rapidly with immigrant lemmings like me. My questioning why I didn’t have an assigned parking space and bringing up other observed office inanities, he took as personal insults against “his” Oregon. If I made a perceived condescending question about the office or Oregon, he would start a conversation about the demise of the "real" Oregon because of foreigners.

Bruce got emotional over little things like politics, had personal enemies, and people on his enemies list who he punished with high assessed values and resulting property taxes for property they owned.

I had mixed feelings toward Bruce. On my Christian cheek, I felt sorry for him. He obviously was upset about what was happening, was correct his world was disappearing, and I did like Oregon the way it was despite not having an assigned parking space, a flaw I could overlook. His rants s and raving were obvious character weaknesses of an unstable mind facing collapse of “his” world. It caused him stomach indigestion.

My pagan cheek, however, sparred back against his anti-Californian innuendos. No, in hindsight, I tormented Bruce.

When he could overhear, I’d point out little stupidities of provincial Oregon as exhibited in the assessor’s office. Unlike California’s assessor mapping book system, Oregon had a hodge podge of assessor maps to identify parcels, originally keyed off survey Townships that had been subdivided incomprehensibly. Someone in the mapping department had tried to reorganize this with new parcel numbers but only came up with a system that was even more complex.

I needled Bruce, the assessor’s mapping had enough potential parcel numbers it could subdivide all of Oregon, all of USA and even all of the solar system into 6,000 square foot lots.

My best torment was when he made a comment about Oregon’s pioneers and California’s 49ers gold. He proclaimed, “Oregon was settled by people who wanted to work hard for the good life. Those who wanted to get rich quick skedaddled off to California for the gold.”

I replied, “Bruce, that’s an interesting point. It explains why Oregon’s population is a little slow mentally. It has experienced a brain drain, those smart, skedaddled to California and the dim witted stayed behind.”

Oregon Assessors, like in California, are elected by the voters. Due to civil service protection laws, the Assessor has difficulty firing staff after an employee gets past their 3 month probation period. In California this included the chief appraiser, but not in Oregon.

In Oregon, the chief appraiser is a political, unprotected position. Shortly after I arrived, the November election resulted in a new assessor and, therefore, a new chief appraiser, in January.

The new assessor was a retired military officer. I figured he couldn’t be worse than the old one who required his signature to use the copy machine but worried about who he would pick as chief appraiser, a replacement from the one who hired me.

Until January, I adjusted to the office inanity, awaited for my new boss, and contemplated the possibility of getting a designated parking space.

In January the new Assessor was installed. I attempted to cotton up to him, but he was aloof. It was evident he was more interested in double dipping his military retirement pension than running the assessor’s office except for a particular secretary who was promoted to his personal assistant.

He didn’t make any other changes except selecting a new chief appraiser, one who worked on his campaign to get elected and who was the commercial appraiser supervisor. He was a county employee lifer, interested primarily in topping off his retirement status with a couple more years of county employment.

In turn, he promoted Bruce as the commercial appraisal supervisor. Suddenly Bruce was my boss.

My first thought was, In one more week I’ll have civil service status and he can’t fire me without cause which I’ll not give him.

My first response was to congratulate him, a compliment that fell on deaf ears.

With kids and house payment, I sweated out a week of uncertainty. My hope was even if he tried to fire me the paperwork would take a week.
I don’t know if he was unaware of the week of my vulnerability, but it passed. I had civil service protection status. Perhaps he thought firing me would be too quick a punishment and it would be better to do a longer-term torture. I didn't care. I was still able to make house payments.

My work experience became more unpleasant. The lack of a designated parking space a forgotten irritant. Bruce’s revenge was his personal close observation of everything I did. He sent me out to inspect and value every odd commercial property in the county and then follow up with his second review, looking for an error. He was trying to build up a case for my dismissal.

There was a nearby amusement park, Enchanted Forest, a theme park for children with little houses, rides, and mythical things to match the imagination of children as well as their parents, an Oregon type Disneyland.

As expected, the assessor’s existing improvement card was a scramble of rough improvement descriptions. Bruce sent me out to, “clear it all up”. I knew if I missed a plaster and cement mushroom or ride measurement, it was grounds for Bruce to seek action for my firing. I suspect, 45 years later, my improvement descriptions are still on that appraisal card, a testament to Marion County Assessor’s detailed and accurate improvement descriptions.

The hardest part of working under my new supervisor was not his bird dogging me. It was biting my tongue to keep my conversations at least neutral and not give what I considered one of my insightful and insulting repartees.

The conversations in the California hill barbecues, however, had changed significantly. The number one industry in Oregon supposedly timber or agriculture was something else, California equity. The lemmings who pulled out their home equity and relocated to Oregon dropped more money into Oregon’s economy than anything else.

In 1979 the California lemming rush ceased. All of the new subdivision homes and business park buildings built for their arrival sat vacant. Neighborhood contractors, who had made piles of money in the 70s at first didn’t panic. They opined, “Gee, 79 was a disaster, but 80 is going to be a gang buster.” Unfortunately, it was a gang buster, for their gang, as they went broke. Oregon spiraled downward into a California equity depression. It devolved to the point the contractor across the street from our house sold first his 1978 continental kit, Seville Cadillac, then his 1938 restored Chevy coop with rear trunk rumble seat, then his 1956 T-Bird convertible with detachable had top porthole windows, and finally his house at a takeover mortgage price. Salem’s population declined until 1985.

Our house, we thought we stole at $65,000, dropped in value. How much we couldn’t tell because houses simply didn’t sell. One contractor sold out his new subdivision of homes by street auction for $25,000 to $30,000 per home. He was one who got out before things got even worse.

Me, we still had half our California equity while other lemmings who started businesses were flushed back to California, broke.

I calculated scurrying back to the Santa Clara County Assessor’s office with my tail between my legs. Fortunately, I hadn’t burned any bridges there. The numbers, however, didn’t look good. Home values in California had continued to increase and what I sold for $90,000 would cost over $100,00. Property taxes would be triple what I was paying before due to Proposition 13. I would start as a bottom level appraiser at low pay grade versus what I was paid as a senior appraiser, all bitter pills.

It wasn’t the cost, however, that made me cling to my precarious Oregon perch. It was pride. How could I return as the fool who abandoned the perfect job, just after his promotion, to fall off an Oregon economic cliff and scurry back to paradise lost? I couldn’t do it as long as I still had a job and some California equity left.

By the summer Bruce and my relationship had solidified into a standoff. I kept my mouth shut, avoided him and he avoided me after he tired of bird dogging me and not finding grounds for my firing.

I did look for another job away from the assessor’s office, but the economy was so bad, a position advertised in the newspaper for janitor in at nursing home had a 2-block long line of job seekers in the morning.

Meanwhile Bruce’s stomach began to act up and he started to contemplate “retiring”. It was not a paid retirement, he was too young. It was not for disability, his ailments were mental not physical. Instead, his wife had started a secretarial business that despite the local economy was doing very well. He could retire comfortably at her office as manager.

With Bruce no longer bird dogging me, even forgetting about my existence in the office, I turned the Christian cheek and tried to help him in his retirement.

Bruce had everything set up for his retirement with the last day worked out. His biggest concern was health care. The county provided health care insurance, but his wife’s business was stressed on the cost of providing health care for a middle-aged couple.

After Bruce announced what would be his last day at the assessor’s office, I asked how he was taking his accrued vacation days. He looked at me as the office dunce and replied, “They are writing me a big check!”

Slowly I explained to him he would be better off “retiring” after using his accrued vacation days instead of getting a lump sum because he would extend his health insurance coverage while on vacation and best of all he would earn more vacation days while on vacation.

He perked up, and had me repeat it, By the third time he was smiling. It was the first time he took me seriously. I was glad to help him.

He jumped up from his swivel chair and scooted over to the personnel office to work things out and adjust his official retirement date. When he came back, all smiles, he proclaimed it was even better. He could use a few sick days while on vacation and if he stayed working before vacation for two more days, he could extend his medical coverage another 2 months. I thought he was pigging out but bit my tongue. I was pleased for him, at least pleased he was leaving.

So it was, he had to stay 2 more days at work than expected to pig out on vacation and medical coverage benefits. Those 2 days turned out to be Monday and Tuesday at the start of September. That Monday was also when we got our mileage reimbursement check for July.

I didn’t see Bruce in on the Monday morning. He was gallivanting around the courthouse doing his goodbyes. It wasn’t until about 11 AM he rushed into the appraiser’s office; his face twisted into a rage of indignation. He strode to my desk, slammed down my July mileage reimbursement check of $18.25, and screamed, “Your mileage reported for this check is a God Damn lie!”

He then stomped to the chief appraiser’s office and exclaimed I needed to be fired for fraud, for, turning in a false millage reimbursement claim, attempting to steal money from the county.

The chief appraiser, politically astute, was calm. He was not going to let anything interfere with his golden years in only 3 years. He was just going to follow procedure, whatever that was.

Procedure came down to the mileage I reported for inspecting commercial properties on Portland Road in Salem, a distance, at most, of 5 miles from the courthouse. I’d reported 18 miles, about 8 miles more than expected for a round trip. At a 35 cent per mile reimbursement. The amount in question was $2.80.

Staring up from my desk at my inquisitors, my first thought was, Bruce has finagled a way to screw the county out of hundreds and he’s pecking at me over $2.80! Then I realized he was only there because I’d helped him come up with a way to finagle money out of the county by taking his vacation time as vacation instead of a lump sum and he’d needed to work 2 additional days to max out his plucking more from the county!

I couldn’t, however, think of why I’d claimed 18 miles instead of 10. I did know, I was careful to record exactly what miles I’d driven, at least while Bruce was still around.

Bruce stared down at me, his smile a smug, "At last I got you!" The chief appraiser waffled and waited for me to come up with a rational excuse. I racked my brain and then it hit me. The Portland Road interchange with Interstate-5 only went north, not south. I assumed the shortest return back to the courthouse after leaving the north end of Portland Road was to take the Interstate and return south toward the courthouse using I-5. Instead, once on I-5 I had to drive 4 miles north to the next freeway interchange and return to the courthouse. It was the missing 8 miles.

I looked and smirked back at Bruce away from Bruce and explained my rationale to the chief appraiser, even offered to forego the $2.80. My mileage reported was accurate, not fraud, just my not knowing local traffic patterns.

The chief appraiser smiled. i don't know if he thought it was a clever lie or true but I suspect he was relieved not to have to do the paperwork of firing someone. He replied, “Let me think about it. Probably an honest mistake. Don’t change the mileage reported. It’d cost the county more to adjust the amount than $2.80.”

Bruce’s smirk turned into a snarl as he sulked off. He was only a ghost haunting the office the next day, his last day.

At lunch I went to the courthouse telephone booth and called a headhunter in Portland. I had searched for other employment in Salem. There was nothing. I told the headhunter I’d take any job, even sales representative, my bottom rung of acceptable employment.

After listening to my qualifications she said, “Well how about appraiser”.

I replied, “Sure, what have you got.”

She said, ”I got a request for an appraiser. It's the only time I've had a request for one. It pays almost double what you’re making now. Are you interested or not?”

I exclaimed, "I'm interested, very interested!"

After the employment interview, I gave my 2 weeks’ notice to Marion County Assessor's office and started on another adventure, one that covered the USA.

It paid as much as I was making at Santa Clara County and included a designated parking space.

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