Astoria Column’s True Centennial Celebration

Many years ago,

in my different lifetime as a teacher,

I stood in front of Astoria High School creative writing students,

ready to begin a one-period workshop

on the subject of Astoria’s famed column.

The class was populated by the most motley, marginalized, indigent, rebellious, cynical, underdog, stoned, musically-gifted students of my career. There wasn’t an honor’s student among them because honor’s students regurgitate, not create.

First, I asked students to raise hands if they had a Column story.

Every hand shot up.

I gave the prompt: what’s happened at the Column?

Eyes ignited. Whispers.

Nodding heads turned toward friends.

Mischievous smiles.

Suppressed laughter and not so suppressed laughter.

Something had struck deep,

Astoria’s Id,

its true identity,

awakened.

Ten minutes to write.

Ten minutes to edit with partner, rewrite.

Share aloud.

Some important logistics:

The metal door that led into the 125-foot-tall Column hadn’t been locked at night since it opened in 1926. The Column’s caretaker cottage had been deserted for years, perhaps decades. The road up to the Column wound a half mile; headlights of patrolling cop cars could be seen flickering to trespassers. A dozen trails provided easy escapes into surrounding woods Teenagers visiting the Column after hours arrived on foot or the cops would spot their vehicles in the parking lot. There were no cameras, no neighbors.

The sharing began:

My uncle was conceived in the Column

My grandparents walked naked up the stairs and he proposed on the platform

Makeouts, cunnilingus, fellatio, fornication, hand jobs

Firecrackers, sparklers, flashlights

Raves with lightsticks

Hide and seek

Moons at full moons

Sneaking out in pajamas

Hurling Jack O Lanterns to the pavement

Acting out the “I’m Flying” scene from the Titanic movie

Camp outs

Losing virginity

Satanic rituals

Mock weddings

Sword fighting with plastic swords

Playing army

Acid, weed, wine, meth, liquor, cigarettes

Acoustic punk rock shows

Circle jerks

Crossing streams

“I was up there at dawn this morning Mr. Love, writing in my journal for your class.”

Screaming Shakespearean soliloquies echoing up the tower

A cousin threw himself over

A distant relative hung himself off the spiral staircase

Ring around the rosies of Oregon’s great phallic symbol

of Pacific Northwest imperialism and genocide

Stories kept unfolding,

each one topping the next one for absurd transgression,

unknowing acts of Dadaism,

or the creative and silent FUCK YOU!

to the hometown they all hated.

They tore down the Column every night they prowled.

They didn’t know a lick about its history,

neither did their dipshit social studies teachers.

They used the Column for foreplay,

a stripper pole.

I was hearing something unprecedented.

There was no way I was stopping the storytelling.

They relished in their trespassing.

Too bad the Mormon principal wasn’t there to observe.

Chamber of Commerce President as well.

They rendezvoused from miles away.

They met up by plan or accident.

Rain, snow, sleet, under the stars, 90 MPH winds.

Nothing could deter them.

Nothing like being laid in the Column when it sways.

I thought I’d heard it all.

The room verged on explosion.

Then, he read last,

the sullen punk rock kid who didn’t want me to call him by his real name

because he hated his alcoholic, deadbeat father.

So he invented a new first, last name

and it ran a close second to the perfection of Bob Dylan.

“Mr Love,” he said, “I took a dump off the Column.”

“You what?”

The room fell silent.

“The railing was tricky.”

“What?”

“I ate a can of creamed corn for the occasion.”