This is a column that Dad wrote about his experiences during the 1962 Columbus Day Storm.  It was published in the Lake Oswego Review October of 2005.


     Hurricane Katrina left no doubt.  Unchecked and unleashed, the power of Nature has no equal.  In minutes it can erase life, uproot a landscape and stamp out any signs of where man has been.  Attempts to control it by anything we might invent are just a waste of time.  When Nature goes on a rampage, the best advice is to get out of the way.  
     Many people in Katrina's path down in the Gulf Coast knew she was aimed at them...and ran.  Others didn't - or couldn't -  but were warned.  Modern day technology told them what to expect. 
     Those of us in the Pacific Northwest weren't so fortunate 43 years ago when we were hit with a monumental weather upheaval of our own.  We simply didn't see it coming!
     It literally squashed us with full force and knocked us to our knees.  The date was October 12, 1962- a federal holiday.  
     Hurricane Frieda was born out of the Pacific near Wake Island...and somehow, after wandering through the Gulf of Alaska it perched itself on the West Coast.  This is what became known as the Columbus Day Storm.  Columbus Day will be observed next Monday.  
      This huge depression picked up a head of steam in northern California. And, like a roller coaster car at the bottom of the first dip (with the effect of a slingshot), it didn't slow down until it reached British Columbia.  It really ripped its way up through Western Oregon and Washington.  Forecasters called it a "Meterological Bomb".  And it was!  We had no clue.  Nobody seemed to know anything about it until the trees started to crash down around us.  
      I remember it all too well.  I was the weatherman on staff at KPTV, Channel 12 here in Portland.  I worked the late shift the evening this unwelcome monster dropped in on us.  I had just pulled up and parked on 21st Street near West Burnside.  It was shortly before 5:00 pm.  I opened the back door when a gust of wind almost took it off its hinges.  Strange! I went to the newsroom and checked the teletype printer - nothing of real significance... yet.
     Somewhat later, lights in the building flickered a little like visual Morse Code, and I heard loud talking from one of the offices upstairs.  I went to investigate and found several people looking out the big front windows at Multnomah Stadium just across the street.  High winds had peeled inch-thick 4'x8' plywood sheets off the roof and flipped them into the air like giant flat toothpicks that smashed big auto-dealer showroom display windows down at street level.  
     Some utility poles snapped and swayed on useless power lines.  A gust of wind on the Morrison Street bridge anemometer, we later found out, was recorded at 117 mph.
      Then the truth hit us. It was getting dark.  And we had no electricity - which meant we were out of business - the business of communication.  We all wanted to get on the air and do what we were supposed to do - be a source of information for the public.  But we had on effective generator strong enough to provide power to a television transmitter. That type of technology would come later - it didn't exist in those days. So, the logical thing to do was go home.
     Telephone service was not entirely gone, and I finally got through to my wife in Lake Grove.  She was okay, just scared, and the same for our children. They had all spent the last hour at the height of the storm huddled under the dining room table - and of course, there was no electricity.  The wind was now susbsiding and I had to get home.  Before I hung up, I said, "I'm on my way."  But, as I soon found out, it was quite a bit easier said than accomplished.
     A KPTV engineer and I lived in the same area, so we decided to travel together.  Many roads were totally blocked by big tree limbs, pieces of houses, and abandoned cars - with hardly any clear streets - most covered with thick mattresses of fir boughs.  The landscape looked like the aftermath of a war-time bombing run. The night sky by then was as black as the inside of a cave.  Without headlights, travel would have been impossible. 
     My friend and I had left KPTV around 7:00 pm, shortly after the storm had reached its  apex.  We finally pulled into Lake Grove about 8:30.  I dropped off my storm companion and went up the street to my own driveway on Upper Drive.  It was choked with debris. I bulldozed my way in.  There was no moon that night, but I heard some noise, went inside the house and there was my family - we were together and well.  My wife had a couple of candles going.  We all talked for awhile to get rid of our anxiety, then went upstairs to bed.  We had to put our lives back together... but we needed daylight to do it.  Tomorrow!
     In the morning we took stock and like everybody else, had no idea how long we'd be without power.  I found my camping stove - and a quick trip to the service station produced one of the last gallons of white gas.  We then became the kitchen for half a dozen of our neighbors.  To save the freezer food, I found some dry ice at the grocery store.  Wherever I went, everyone traded information - some from phone calls - others from battery powered radios.
     Hardly anyone throughout the outlying Metro area had electricity.  That translated into 470,000 homes.  Power restoration crews had to start from the ground up.  We learned that wind gusts the night before had peaked at over 160 mph along the coast.  Inland, through the valley, sustained winds had reached just under 90.  The death toll from the storm was 46 and along with that 50,000 homes were destroyed.  Property damage topped out at $235 million.  In today's figures it reads $6 billion. 
     Downtown Portland had most of its power restored within two or three days.  That meant it was back to the Channel 12 newsroom for me...and we all had our work cut out for us.  There was more than enough information to pass on to an anxious public. 
     Dealing with any kind of assault from Nature is far from pleasant.  But 43 years ago we proved the Pioneer spirit was still very much alive and in good form. And, to this day I don't think there's any doubt Oregonians know how to tap into its strength.
     The Columbus Day Storm of 1962... it's one of those events that burns a permanent place in your memory. Forget it? Not if you lived through it!   

At Dad's service, there was a time for all of us to share stories about him.  At one point, my cousin Phillip told the story of how, when Phillip was just a lad, Dad had made tooled-leather holsters for Phillip to use with his cap guns.  We all thought, oh, isn't that nice.  But then Phillip continued, telling us about the carefully designed patterns on the holsters and leg belts, and how he was so amazed that his uncle had made these with his own hands, how artistic they were, and that he still had those holsters to this day, complete with the little toy cap guns.  I asked Phillip to send me photos of the holsters so they could be included in this memorial site.  Here they are, exactly as Phillip described.  And, frankly, I'm amazed, too.  They're beautiful.

The back story here is that Dad taught himself how to tool leather during his extended 18-month time in the VA hospital in Vancouver when he was battling tuberculosis in his early 20's.  I remember him always having a leather project in the works at home... sometimes there was a cow hide soaking in the bathtub, sometimes we could hear the tap-tap-tap of the cowhide hammer on the leather tools, sometimes he would go check on the moistness of the piece to see if he could continue working on it, other times he would be sketching out a design.  We still have his leather tools. 

My husband and I visited with Dad about a year before he passed.  He was bed-ridden and frail, but was very upbeat and we all talked for a long time.  I had asked him to fill in some gaps I had in what I knew of his life.  His mind was sharp, he started talking, and he remembered lots of details and interesting tidbits.  Our visit was interrupted by the nurse, who had come in to connect Dad's feeding tube.  I must have looked puzzled, because he explained, "There's a tube going directly into my stomach, right here through my abdominal wall, and they hook me up to a tube of mush.  They won't let me eat.  There's something wrong with my throat structures, and if I try to swallow food, they say I'll just aspirate it."  Then his whole countenance turned dark for the first time that entire visit, and he said, "I miss the taste of food.  I dream of hamburgers."
Then, after just a beat, he perked up again and continued on with more memories he had of his life.

So I told that story at Dad's memorial, and asked that everyone go eat a hamburger for Dad.  

I ate mine today.  And Dad, it was delicious. 

Autobiography

(This was written by John for a class at Marylhurst College when he was 65.)

The subject was broadcast journalism.  The focus was ethics.  I was the instructor standing at a lecturn before 35 students during a free-wheeling discussion 15 years ago at Portland Community College.  Hands were shooting toward the ceiling.  The topic had touched at nerve and I was pleased with the reaction: they wanted to know and explore the integrity of the basic art of communication...one-on-one...mouth-to-ear...talking and listening.  The call for recognition and acknowledgement was totally consuming.  Then came the unexpected and off-the-wall question: "Mr. Lewis, what does it feel like to be 50?" (One student had discovered it was my birthday.)  I took it with the respect and love in which it was rendered - the student's face contained a smile and very open eyes.  Without pause...and I don't know where the response came from...I blurted, "Well, let me put it this way...when you reach 40 it's mental, when 50 arrives, it's physical."  Now, 15 years after that confrontation, I'm really tired...but fulfilled.

I've had quite a life: teaching inquiring young minds was just a part of it...and an experience to be treasured!

Vocal communication in some form has always been at the base of my accomplishment: it began as singing in grade school and continued on into high school, along with acting and part-time radio work at the local station.

After high school came 3 years in the Army.  Twelve months of that was spent in the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California.  My assignment: learn to speak and read Russian.  I accomplished it, and was subsequently assigned as a translator with a Military Intelligence post outside Washington, D.C.  During off-duty hours I attended nearby George Washington University, and also came in contact with a famous singer and recording artist of the 30's, baritone Reinald Werrenrath.  Dr. Werrenrath was my vocal mentor for a full year, and I entertained thoughts of further study with him and subsequent doors opening into the rarefied world of fulfillment through singing.  Practicality, however, won the debate over emotional choice, and I returned, after discharge from the service, to my base...the Pacific Northwest.  In other words, I went back home.  Almost immediately, Walla Walla beckoned me to the campus of Whitman College.  I began a year of energetic discovery free of salutes and military discipline.  Obligitory classes with their attendant term papers and exams were de-rigueur, but performance before audiences dominated: college choir soloist, male lead in a college-produced opera, featured role in a George Bernard Shaw play, and my own concert sung in 5 languages at the college conservatory.  I was hooked...pleasing people from some form of stage was what I really enjoyed...and the voice was my vehicle to make it happen.

What is it about "the best laid plans of mice and men"?  They suddenly came to a jarring halt...in a way over which I had no control.  While applying for a job aboard a salmon fishing troller based in Anchorage, Alaska, during the summer after Whitman College, an obligatory X-ray discovered a large spot on my lung.  Extremely ill with tuberculosis, I was admitted to a Veterans Administration Hospital.  Eighteen months of rehabilitation and painful medical procedures followed.  I was grateful to be alive after such a youthful joust with death.  Upon discharge I began my broadcast career at KPAM-FM in Portland in 1953.

Marriage to a nurse in my ward at the V.A. Hospital followed shortly, and later, the birth of our daughter, the first of 3 children.  The inital year of that marriage was interrupted by a 6-month stay at the Portland V.A. Hospital for chest surgery - traumatic to a person my age, and, needless to say, disruptive to a new marriage.  The ugly memories quickly passed...and new breath surged through me.  Go for it, John...adversity and pause are history!  My career took off - with a speed that, to this day, causes me to blink in disbelief.

After 2 years in radio, I joined the staff at a new Portland station, KLOR-TV, for one year as a booth announcer, and then moved to KPTV Channel 12.  I became a commercial announcer, weatherman, news anchor, producer and program host.  During my ten years there I concentrated on honing my on-camera skills as a communicator.

In 1965 I was offered a job as reporter/anchor at a Sacramento television station.  It was another avenue for growth, and my family and I moved to northern California.  That tenure lasted 18 months.  The desire to return to Portland began to strengthen.  California was wearing thin, emotionally and professionally, and I wanted to continue my broadcast career in more friendly and familiar surroundings.

I sent letters and tapes.  Two stations responded: KOIN TV Channel 6 and KXL Radio.  I chose KXL and back I came.

My background in music throughout life and foreign language study in Spanish, Russian, German, French and Italian was the prime consideration in giving me a three-hour morning classical music program to produce and host on KXL-FM.  It was a rewarding challenge I faced with confidence and joy.  A year later the station manager decided to embark on a pioneering new concept: 1967 saw the birth of a daily 3-hour solid news broadcast in Portland on KXL-AM, and I was in the labor room.  Boy, was I ever!...on the street, on the phone, at the typewriter and on the air...all the while continuing to tape the daily Sunrise Symphony program for broadcast the following morning on the FM side of the operation.  In my "spare time" I acted as public affairs director for the station, taping segments and programs that dealt with issues of significant impact on the lives of Mr. & Mrs. John Q...from politics and ballot measures to health concerns and money matters and historical heritage.  It was during this period that I fully realized that every topic is tied to the same interactive, umbilical cord.  Everything is connected.

In the summer of 1972 a call came from Keith Allen, a radio broadcast instructor at Portland Community College.  The message was: "We need a television production instructor.  Are you interested?  Let's talk."  Again, a new avenue of discovery was offered.  I said, "Yes, when would you like to meet?"  That fall I began my first year as a college instructor and embarked on a nine-month curriculum of teaching wide-eyed, would-be television production hopefuls the aesthetics of lighting, staging and camera movement.  I also took on the added task of teaching a course in broadcast journalism.

In the fall of 1973, I resigned from KXL and returned to television - my first love.  The place was Oregon Educational and Public Broadcasting Service (now known as OPB).  My job was rather formidable and demanded a full output of all the skills I had gained in preceding years.  The program was called "Feedback", a live 30-minute public affairs program that included viewer call-ins...and it aired five nights a week.  I was the researcher, producer, writer and host: each evening a different topic with different guests.  I  thrived on it for four challenging years.  During this time, OPB was becoming more diversified, and the decision was made to televise the Oregon Legislative Session in 1977.  I became involved as associate producer and anchor for 2 1/2 to 3 hours of daily coverage - most of it "live".  The scenario was repeated in 1979 and 1981.  In the interim between sessions I produced, wrote and hosted magazine-format public affairs programs and lengthy documentaries.  OPB's expansion saw the addition of more staff to meet its new commitments.  But this required a great deal of money, and a Development Department was created to generate support from viewers.  I became involved as membership director.  I had produced for the system, I believed in its mission, was in accord with its product and was eager to help it raise money.  The public has responded magnificently over the ensuing years to our appeals for financial support.

It was in this capacity that I finally hung up my hat as a broadcast communicator.  In January of 1993 I stepped off the carousel.  I had done just about everything the industry offered and demanded, and had accomplished it with energy and integrity.

Yes, it's been quite a career.  I have not once regretted my dedication to it and will forever carry the memory and privilege of having touched a great many lives.

(...and from a brief summation and self-evaluation of this same Marylhurst College class:)

I did not set out in my professional commitments and achievements accidentally...they were planned and executed with defined purpose over a dedicated span of 40 years.

There were no formal courses in radio and television writing and production techniques when I began my broadcasting career...only a few observational writings by the giants of our time...what seemed to work...and what didn't work.  We were all trying to find answers in the same time-frame: from the loftiest at the network level to the lowliest, locally.  We all agreed on one basic premise: "Communicate conversationally with proper grammar and you won't miss the most important ingredient."  I had that point reinforced, countless times, when I met "the big boys" at several national conventions of the American Federation of Television & Radio Artists.

Listening to one's peers at both the network and affiliate levels has been an invaluable experience in this broadcaster's life.  I have tried to manifest these observances and practices in my profession and in this autobiography.  

I hope my kids and grandkids gain something from it.  It is a legacy I lovingly leave to them.

I once asked Dad to tell me his favorite childhood memory.  To tell me one time that stood out as a bright spot.  Here's what he told me ("Danny" was what he called his grandmother, and "Pappy" was his grandfather; they owned and ran a small restaurant "Cain's Cafe"):

"I remember I was just a young boy, living with Danny and Pappy in Walla Walla and going to elementary school.  Every day right after school I worked in the restaurant until bedtime. One day, while I was working, Danny walked right up to me and took me by the hand, and she had a big bag in the other.  She led me into the restaurant kitchen where the cooks were working frantically.  We ducked around the busy people, and Danny grabbed a steak, then some potatoes, an onion, some green beans and an apple pie.  She put all this stuff into her bag, and she marched me right out of the restaurant and down the street to our house.  Then she cooked my birthday dinner right there at home.  In our own kitchen, in our own house."

It wasn't until decades later that I put two and two together.  Every year, on each of our birthdays, Dad would always cook us a steak dinner at home.  Now I know why.