The Last Ride

My windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the afternoon cloud burst. I was headed to a house in the Irvington district in NE Portland to pick up my last ride of the day. I had clocked on at six in the morning, and being half past four in the afternoon I was more than ready to grab some take-out and head home. I pulled up to a run down house on the East side of Grant park. Surrounded on both sides by expertly manicured yards and houses boasting fresh paint, the little fixer upper looked neglected and sad. I honked my horn and studied the house as I waited. Although it was run down, it’s charm was immediately evident. The West facing windows glowed cheerily, bathed in the light of the autumnal sun just breaking through the storm clouds. The wood awning above the front porch was designed to mimic sun rays and it was easy to imagine sitting in deck chairs with either hot tea or a cold cocktail while watching the sun set over the park.

I glanced at my watch and was startled to find that several minutes had passed while I sat in reverie. I honked again, holding the horn a little longer than the first time. Another minute passed. I thought about pulling away, but I really hated to lose the fare, so I shut off my engine and walked up to the front door. I didn’t see a doorbell, so I knocked crisply on the front door. A moment later an impossibly old voice called out, “Coming, just a moment please!” When the door finally opened, a small frail women who looked to be in her nineties stood next to an ancient suitcase. She was dressed in an uncreased blue dress, clean but worn white orthopedic shoes, a white cardigan with pearl buttons and a silk blue scarf tied over her cotton ball fluff of hair. 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, I don’t move as quickly as I once did.” She smiled up at me.

“Oh, no problem ma’am. Are you Mable?” She nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. I gestured to her luggage, “Shall I take your suitcase to my car?” Something about her gaze made my cheeks flush, like she could look at me and already knew my deepest secrets, like a best friend, or an exceptional therapist. I grabbed her suitcase and started down to my car before she finished saying, “Yes dear, that would be lovely.” After setting the suitcase (which was surprisingly light) into my trunk, I jogged back up the stairs to offer her my arm for the walk to my car, careful to avoid that all knowing gaze. After settling herself into the backseat and declining the bottled water and granola bars I keep for riders, I asked where we were headed. She recited an address to me on Capitol Highway in SW Portland just across the Willamette River. But then she said, “But if you don’t mind, I would really like to cross via St. John’s bridge.” I paused a moment and said, “But ma’am, that is quite a bit further, the Marquam Bridge would be much faster.”

“Oh, I know dear. I’m in no hurry to get to that address I gave you. It’s to a Hospice care facility, and once I’m there I probably won’t be getting out again, and I’d really like to see a few of my favorite places one last time.” 

I felt my throat tighten and then pretended to adjust my phone as I quietly turned off my meter. 

“Of course ma’am, wherever you want to go.” I glanced over my shoulder, braving a look into those omniscient eyes. A wide smile spread across her face as even more wrinkles appeared. “Well then, step on it! I’ve got some places to see!” 

As I pulled out into the street Mable leaned forward in her seat and said, “I didn’t catch your name dear.” 

“Oh, I’m Sam. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet you Sam. By any chance have you had supper yet?”

“Oh, no, not yet. I was planning to grab some take out after my shift.” I have no idea why I told her that. I just felt compelled to keep talking.

“Well then, could you possibly humor an old woman and let me take you to one of my favorite places? Nothing too fancy, just a little brewery that has some family history.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to accept anything except payment….” My voice trailed off as I saw her face fall in the mirror, then quickly added, “but I’m sure it would be fine, as long as I paid for myself.” I thought glumly about the $7 I had in my wallet and hoped I would be able to make it stretch. The twinkle returned to her eyes as she said, “Wonderful! Ok, head to the Mt. Hood Brewing Company at Tillicum station. It’s right by the boathouse where I used to row!” 

I knew the little brewery well and found it charming that a pub was this proper old woman’s favorite eatery. During the 15 minutes that it took to drive to there, Mabel explained her connection to the Mt. Hood Brewery. Her story started in 1905 when her grandfather worked for a pre-prohibition brewery of the same name. When the modern Mt. Hood Brewery opened in Government Camp, Oregon in 1991, she orchestrated a big family trip with her children and grandchildren up to Government Camp to check it out. It had been winter and an unexpected snow storm ended up stranding them for 3 days. They were able to rent a few rooms at a lodge across the street from the brewery and spent the next 3 days sledding, eating, drinking and having the best vacation of their lives. When the road could finally be cleared, the families all promised to recreate the trip and had continued the tradition for close to 30 years. Mable stopped going on the trip in 2010, but the younger family members kept the tradition alive. Mable had been delighted when the brewery had opened another restaurant right by her boathouse in 2018, and even though she could no longer row, she would often meet with a few of her rowing buddies, to share food, drinks and stories. 

I pulled into the parking lot as Mable finished her story. I parked and went around to her side of the car to help her out. After getting settled at a table by the window, Mable stood up and announced she needed to visit the ladies room. I awkwardly stood up to assist her, but she waved me off and quickly walked away, at a pace I would expect for someone half her age. I lowered myself back into my seat hoping that she made it in time. As I watched her, she didn’t turn down towards the restrooms, but went over to the hostess stand instead. Several of the servers seemed to recognize her and they fell into familiar conversation. I turned my attention to the scenery outside the window. A few minutes later Mable returned to the table grinning. “Ok dear, you are in for a treat! Everything’s taken care of.” Before I could say anything, appetizers started arriving at the table. There were roasted hazelnuts, marinated olives, garlic cheese bread and two types of salad. Mable then ordered a dark stout and I ordered an iced tea. “Dig in! The pizzas will be out shortly!” Mable happily started spooning portions from the dishes onto her plate, with a look of pure delight on her face. I started to protest, but the words died in my throat as Mable turned her gaze on me and silently requested that I enjoy this moment with her. So instead I picked up my plate and said, “This looks amazing. I’m famished!” We ate and talked until neither of us could eat any more. As the table was being cleared, two more servers came to the table loaded down with more food in take out containers. At my look of shock and confusion Mable giggled, “I hope you don’t mind helping me with a little errand.” 

After loading my car with the takeout containers, Mable directed me to a well established homeless camp about a block away. As we pulled up, people seemed to materialize in moments. One by one they came over and took a container from Mable, thanked her and stepped away to make room for the next person. Mable seemed to know some of the people quite well and asked about family members, their health and their pets - of course she had a bag of canned pet food stashed in her luggage as well. I was worried that we wouldn’t have enough for everyone, but somehow Mable had known exactly how much food to order. I stared at her for a few minutes wondering why I hadn’t heard about the little old lady that fed the homeless, what with everything splashed across social media. But as I looked around, no one had phones out recording and Mable didn’t seem the type to exploit people for internet points. It was simple: Mable had seen a need and had done what she could to meet it. I felt sad as I realized this was likely the last time she would ever take part in this act of kindness. She hugged a few of the people that lingered to talk with her, then turned to me and asked, “Do you think we can make it up to St. John’s before the sun sets?” I looked up at the heavily overcast sky and wondered, “Will we even be able to tell?” Instead I said, “Well, we can try!” 

As we drove up Grand Ave, Mable pointed to various landmarks that had been important to her. There was a sports shop that used to be a dance school where she took lessons as a child; an abandoned wall paper factory that her mother had worked in during the Great Depression, and a restaurant where she had worked her very first job. Apparently Mable had been fired from that job for taking food that she had been instructed to throw out and instead had brought it to families that didn’t have enough to eat. That made me smile, knowing she had always looked out for people in need. 

Further North, Grand Ave merged with Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd and Mable grew serious as she recounted the numerous protests she had participated in during the Civil Rights Era, and beyond. Even at 100 years old she had attended vigils in Grant park, holding her Black Lives Matter poster week after week among like minded families and friends. Mable stopped talking and after a few minutes I glanced in the rear view mirror. She sat there, with her back ram-rod straight, and her eyes misted with memory. Finally she sighed and said, “I really expected things to be better by now. The white patriarchy has a stranglehold on this country.” Not sure how to respond, I just nodded.

A few more minutes pass before Mable perks up and exclaims, “Oh look! We’re almost there!” Mable directed me to the parking area for Cathedral Park located under the St. John’s bridge. She and her husband, Hank, had moved to St. John’s shortly after they had married in 1938. Her husband worked as a journalist at the St. John’s Review Newspaper, and Mable had been a school teacher. She talked about how magical evenings felt, even while immersed in the mundane chores of life. She and her husband would take turns cooking dinner for their family, but she usually cleaned up while Hank helped the children with their baths and teeth brushing. He was a magical story teller and would weave a yarn that would last from the start of bath time, until it was time to tuck blankets under chins and kiss foreheads good night. Mable was usually able to join her family and listen to the last 15-20 minutes of each tale, just in time to catch the moral of the story. Even when their marriage hit rough patches, like all marriages do, all Mable had to do was listen to that night’s story and be reminded of the unshakable kindness that made up her husband’s being. Mable had been delighted to learn that all of her children had continued the tradition with their own children, knowing that Hank’s love still flowed through the stories his children now told. 

Mable and I sat on a bench in Cathedral Park, watching the sky fade from oranges and pinks, to darker shades of blue. A few minutes later Mable broke the silence by saying, “You know, they say this park is haunted.” 

“Really? The park looks kind of new, doesn’t it need to be old to be haunted?”

“Well, before this area was a park, it was just an unkempt wild area, which was fine. I’m sure the wild critters of the area liked it just the way it was. But then in 1949, a 15 year old girl was murdered under this bridge. She had been on her way looking for a job picking beans but was intercepted by a convict. He kept her here for two days under this bridge, and then murdered her. The entire community was heartbroken and terrified that something like that could happen here. My husband had to cover the story for the paper, and his eyes held a sadness that I’d never seen before. My children were all under 10, but still, I felt compelled to hover over them, scared that they too could be snatched right out from under me. It took us 20 years to figure out what to do with that fear and grief as a community, but in 1970, I was part of the fundraising committee that raised over 7 million dollars…seven million, can you believe that? But we raised that money to build this park. It opened just as my grandchildren started coming along and I spent countless hours with those babies here in this park, reclaiming the space from that unthinkable violence. So no, this park isn’t haunted, unless you count old witches like myself!” Mable cackled for good measure and I laughed along with her.

After one more look around Mable sprang to her feet and declared, “Time to go. I’m ready now.” I helped her back to my car and then headed up the street to the start of the bridge. From the back seat Mable asked, “Can we roll down the windows? Just while we cross?” With the windows down and the wind streaming through the car, Mable hooted and hollered happily out the window. I laughed and then joined in. 

The drive along the West side of the river was rather quiet. Mable had a few more places to point out, but she seemed content to just watch the scenery pass by the window. I could tell from my phone’s map app that we were only a few minutes away from the Hospice facility. I didn’t want my adventure with Mable to end, and then I realized it didn’t have to, not really. 

“Hey Mable, this has been an incredible evening. I don’t know what kind of rules this place has, but I want to give you my phone number so that you can call me anytime, and I’ll come pick you up, and we can do this again. Would that be alright with you?”

“That would be lovely dear.” I pulled into the parking spot out front and grabbed a piece of paper where I wrote down my name, phone number and even email address, for good measure. I then turned around to hand Mable the card, but she wasn’t there. Confused I stepped out of the car to take a closer look, but she was definitely not in the back seat. I know I would have heard the car door open and close. I then popped the trunk to get her suitcase, but that was gone too. “Mable?” I called out sheepishly. Confused, I headed into the Hospice facility to talk to the intake nurse.

“Hi, I’m a driver for Uber and I was supposed to be dropping a woman off by the name of Mable here tonight. Did she happen to come in already?” The night nurse studied me for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, but we definitely are not expecting a Mable.” I thanked her and started to head back to my car. The night nurse called out, “Hold on a second. I don’t know what’s going on, but for the past year we have had someone show up about once a week asking about Mable. I’m not sure if it’s us being trolled, or you, but none of the previous drivers can ever find a record of who made the call. We did have a sweet old woman named Mable here a few years ago, but she’s passed on. I’m sorry.”

Back at my car I checked the trunk again; still empty. I then opened the back door and crawled in searching both the floor boards and seats for any sign that Mable had been there. I finally noticed a small bit of fabric poking out from between the seats and when I tugged on it, out came a silk blue scarf, just like the one Mable had been wearing over her hair. As I stood staring at the cloth in my hand, the skies once more opened up and sent down a soaking deluge. I should have jumped into my car, but I found myself frozen to the spot, watching the silk turn dark blue in the rain.