by Beth Nakamura

This has been an unimaginably difficult time in Portland, Oregon, where I live and work.

Last week, Ricky Best and Taliesin Myrddin Namkai-Meche were both stabbed to death while protecting two teenage girls – one, African American, the other, Muslim American, and wearing a hijab – from a very violent and vocal white supremacist who was hurling anti-Muslim insults at them. A third man, Micah Fletcher, also bravely rose to the girls' defense and was seriously wounded. It all happened on the Portland MAX train -- a commuter rail that runs through the city.

One day after this wrenching event, a vigil was held. From there, I live-tweeted.


The following morning I turned to Facebook, where I posted this:

“Yesterday it struck me that fate put the best and worst of Portland together on a train, and the worst won. Then I covered last night's vigil in Portland, where I encountered Asha Deliverance, whose 23-year-old son, Taliesin Myrddin Namkai-Meche, was one of the two men murdered on the MAX train.

At the vigil, Asha was alternately, and very publicly, grieving her son and reaching out to people. There was an especially moving moment that quickly passed through my camera, where she leaned in toward a woman who approached her who was Muslim.

I walked up to Asha as she was leaving and we talked. I told her that I was sorry I photographed her, but that I thought the world should see. I don't know why I apologized. It just feels so bad in the moment, you know? She grabbed my arm, looked me in the eye and smiled. I'm guessing she wants the world to see.”

The photograph was also posted on the Oregonian’s website, where I work.

I have heard from people all over the world since the image was published.

My hope is that the feelings expressed to me by so many, many people will somehow reach and surround these two women, everyone who was on the train that day, including and especially the two girls -- children, really -- and the countless others who have been so profoundly traumatized by what happened.

I’ll leave you with the words of one woman who reached out to me. She is a 21-year-old student in Pakistan. In part, and with her permission, she had this to say:

“It’s easy to hate about a thing or person whom you don’t know … I am saying this due to increased Islamophobia about Muslims …  undoubtedly there are many things which divide us …  and I really wish we could treat each other as fellow humans rather than division …  I hope we all reunite for peace no matter how difficult it may be.”



Riverview Abbey Mausoleum, a shrine to love and loss by Beth Nakamura

Every day, Fred Kimberley, 87, makes the drive to Riverview Abbey mausoleum to check in  on his wife of 57 years. It's the same trip he's made more than 2,000 times before. 

"Two days ago, it was 5½ years," he said of Patricia Kimberley's death at age 78, pointing to the fresh bouquet of pink roses gracing the glistening  marble niche that holds her ashes. 

"What finally did it was the Alzheimer's. Her mind just ... " he pauses, searching for the  words, "... closed away." 

For Fred, the daily visits help fend off a loneliness he admits has plagued him since his wife's death. He brings fresh roses with him at least once a week.

"I miss her," he said. "She was a wonderful person, a beautiful lady, and I loved her.

"I still do love her."

Stepping inside the mausoleum, it's easy to forget that lying behind the mahogany trim and imported marble slabs are more entombed bodies than there are residents of Oregon City. More than 35,000 lives are represented here, 50 marble-lined corridors of them.  

The mausoleum, which turns 100 this year, is one of two in Portland. There's Wilhelm's, over in Sellwood, and Riverview, tucked away in hilly Southwest Portland -- hidden, you might say, in plain sight. 

"Some people have driven past the road here for 30 or 40 years and never stepped foot in here," said Robert Griffith, one of four brothers who operate the mausoleum, which has been in his family since 1918. 

The mausoleum holds more than 1,800 veterans, including one John O'Brien, an itinerant newspaperman and Civil War veteran who died in Forest Grove in 1931, according to one Civil War related website. 

One needn't be grief stricken to visit this shrine of love and loss, which offers free tours. 

The 16 foot-tall  corridors feature more than 30 stained glass windows and marble imported from seven countries. There's a room devoted entirely to dead children. There are handwritten cards, dangling from towering walls and written to loved ones who've been dead over half a century. There are flowers, mostly plastic, but some of them fresh, fragrant, alive. 

The cavernous structure – think of it as a cemetery, with benefits – has a crematorium, funeral home and a chapel, which hosts services of all faiths. 

"People grieve very differently," said Timothy Proctor, a funeral director and embalmer at the mausoleum.

"There's no right way to handle it."

Fred Kimberley visits every day. He's not the only one.

"Some people make weekly pilgrimages. And I am sure some people would come a lot more if they were more mobile," Proctor said.

On a recent Monday, Fred has been sitting for about a half-hour on a bench a few short feet from the niche that contains Patricia's ashes. There, he talks to her. The couple never had children. He tells her he loves her, tells her about his day. Small things, mostly. 

"I tell her that I'll be joining her there and that we'll be angels together. And we'll be together forever."

The daily vigils have allowed Kimberley to get to know the mausoleum workers and, under the unlikeliest of circumstances, friendships have formed. 

"I had 'em over for Thanksgiving two years ago," he said of mausoleum staffers James Stirling and Nick Kravchenko. "And Christmas." 

He's chatting with Stirling, who's crouched on the floor, leaning against a nearby wall. They're going back and forth about a golf game they both happened to catch on television the previous  day. The corridor is dimly lit;  the tones,  hushed. Behind them, beams of sunlight stream in from a set of glass doors several feet  in the distance. 

Tomorrow, Kimberley will  spend the day with Kravchenko, who works with Stirling in maintenance.

"Nick and I usually get together about once a week," Fred said.

They'll head out to Welches, where Fred owns some property, and take the same drive along the Salmon River that Fred and Patricia used to enjoy. Later, they'll stop for ice cream cones. 

Then, as he does every day, Fred will return to the mausoleum to visit Patricia. It's a routine that has given structure to the widower's life. 

"When I wake up every morning, I have something to look forward to," he said.

"She knows she's not alone when I'm there, and I like being with her, to give her comfort. It's comforting for both of us." 

-- Beth Nakamura

A jewelry box, my mother, and the time that was not to be by Beth Nakamura

A few weeks ago, I was on assignment touring some log cabins on Mt. Hood. In the midst of all that storybook beauty,  I was unexpectedly flooded by a wave of melancholy, remembering my mother and an old log cabin jewelry box I gave her when I was a kid. A few days later, I wrote this essay.

It was a little wooden jewelry box in the shape of a log cabin, tucked high on a shelf at Sears. I was 9 years old and instantly lost in the charmed world the scene evoked: Painted flowers spilled from small window boxes like brightly colored candy. A log bridge led to the front door, a stream of painted water passing beneath. The box itself was lined with cheap red velvet and had tiny river rocks glued to its roof. I loved seeing the glue, loved the artifice of it, as if its every imperfection somehow made it more attainable –- as if a little glue and some paint could make that life mine. 

The jewelry box had a water wheel and, if you turned it, played "The Lonely Goatherd" from "The Sound of Music." If winding that wheel prompted it to shout, "Throw yourself at me! You know you want it!" I'd have probably done it right then and there, although I'm not sure I'd have known what to do exactly.  

A small wooden bench sat glued to the corner in front of the house. Standing in the store aisle staring up at it, I imagined myself sitting there, nestled safely in that dreamy, moss-covered world. My family may have been unraveling around me, but that box provided momentary shelter from it all and transported me to a softer place.

I knew immediately I would give it to my mother for Mother's Day. Remarkably, I remember buying it. I remember, too, how proud I was when I gave the jewelry box to her. 

I told her that when I grew up we would live in the cabin and be old together, just her and me. Think about that. A 9-year-old kid willing to hole up in the middle of nowhere with an elderly woman. 

Twenty years later, that's pretty much what happened. Only instead of a log cabin, the setting was a makeshift hospice in a dusty back bedroom of the house I grew up in and where she still lived, the ceiling visibly slanted from a do-it-yourself conversion from a dilapidated back porch years earlier. 

My mother had lung cancer. Doctors gave her six months, give or take. I was making good on a promise made long ago, that I'd be there when the time came and if she needed me.

The time had arrived. 

My mother was sifting through a lifetime of experiences, and focusing on regret. Like so much from my childhood, the jewelry box was long gone, given away years ago to a sister-in-law.  For reasons that remain a mystery, the memory of that discarded gift had her in its grip. Intimacy came hard for my mother and as she grappled with what remained of the sum of her choices, grief seemed to manifest in life's B-sides. Smaller moments replayed in her mind and she wrestled them down, one by one.

Giving away the jewelry box? It felt, to her in those moments, as though she squandered love itself. No big thing, I told her, shooing away her grief as I cupped a handful of berries and fed them to her, one by one.

I'm not sure whose idea it was to take a trip to Maine in those final weeks. My sister found a condo in Portland and, as if swept up in a collective last gasp of the dying, we rallied. Excited and worried, we made the trip from my mother's house in Massachusetts. 

She'd lost so much weight I could carry her to the car. Her arms and legs, little more than skin and bones, dangled on either side of me like a sleeping toddler's. 

Nausea was her constant companion, and she heaved off and on the entire way. By the time we got to Maine, about an hour's drive from her house, I convinced myself the whole plan was ridiculous, if well-intended. 

We saw an old antique store and pulled over, hoping solid ground and a little browsing – my mother always loved a good flea market – might rouse her. But she was too sick to leave the car. You go, she told us.

I've long since given up trying to fully wrap my mind around what happened next. As I tell my own kids, there are questions and there are answers -- and sometimes there are questions without answers.

I hesitated as I got out of the car and dragged myself into the store; the last thing I wanted to do was look at antiques. But I sensed there was something in it for her, a vicarious, pleasant experience I could provide her.

(Looking back, it all seems so absurd. My dying mother is heaving in the parking lot in the back of a car and I ... go shopping?)

The antique store was full of maritime memorabilia and nautical items: old anchors and wooden steering wheels and amber glass hanging from the ceiling. None of it held my interest, but like a dinghy unmoored in fog, I aimlessly wandered. Mostly I worried about my mother lying in the car. She wasn't alone out there – my cousin and then boyfriend kept her company – but still. 

I walked over to a glass case at the center of the store and peered inside. What caught my eye was so remarkable that I can still muster the swell of feelings -- the flutter in my heart, the tightening in my chest -- when I spotted it. There among the nautical bric-a-brac and pieces of sculpted driftwood was the jewelry box, as dreamy and folkloric as I remembered it.

I plunked down thirty dollars – I'd have paid a thousand -- and hurried to the car to give it to my mother. None of us could believe it, least of all her. We marveled at the synchronicity of it all, and wondered if this was the jewelry box. 

Maine was everything Maine is, all coastline and sunshine and lobster, of course, which we boiled up in the condo.

My mother barely left the bed the entire weekend. But she had a view of the ocean, which soothed her. And she had the jewelry box, which never left the nightstand by her bed.

The morning she died, a couple months after the Maine trip, I was with her, camped out on an adjacent bed in case she needed help in the middle of the night. The cancer had metastasized to her bones and the pain was so debilitating that the pre-measured doses from the morphine pump were no longer enough. 

Hospice had an on-call nurse, whose help I leaned on as I tried and failed to find my way through the crisis. I was hesitant to increase the amount of morphine, even as my mother's moans grew louder. But nothing else was working.

"You want to make the pain go away, right?" the nurse asked me. She could hear my mother's moaning from the other end of the phone, and there was a sense of urgency in her voice. Yes, I told her. I want to make the pain go away. She walked me through the exact steps, none of which I remember now. The extra dose of morphine quieted my mother and that quiet settled over the room. It was early November and unusually warm for New England. I remember the sun was shining.

I left the room and went out into the rest of the house for about 15 or so minutes. When I came back she was dead.

The hospice nurse later told me they often do that, the dying: They wait for you to leave the room. 

That was over 20 years ago.

Adulthood unfurled itself with the requisite markers: marriage, children, an entire career. There's so much of my life she never got to know or see.

After all these years, her memory is akin to a gilded object just beyond reach and, I tell myself, out of my price range. Miss my mother? Who can afford it?

This story amounts to the sifted remains of my mother, and the memories console me. So there's that.

That, and the jewelry box.

From the day we stopped at that Maine antique shop, the box never left her bedside. Now it rests on mine.

-- Beth Nakamura

This kid stuck with me long after Comic Con was over. So I tracked him down. by Beth Nakamura

Nick Porter at Wizard World Comic Con12050.jpg

There's a lowbrow pageantry that hangs in the air at Wizard World Comic Con. Between the rows of aging celebrities angling for a photo op and the endless parade of characters, it is, depending on your budget, worth the price of admission for the curiosity factor alone.

I was only at Comic Con on Sunday, at the tail end of the three-day event. For my money, that day belonged to Nick Porter, 18, who made the trip in from Kelso, Washington with his parents, Steven and AnnMarie Beltzer. They've come every year to Comic Con. But this was the first year Nick found the courage to dress up in costume.

Nick came to Comic Con in a zombie get-up, complete with bloody, gaping holes carefully molded onto his skin and a blood red stained athletic T-shirt and pants. His dad Steven did the makeup.

By Comic Con standards, Nick's costume was standard issue - a run of the mill zombie in a room full of superheroes. So, yeah, just another zombie, right?

But there's a catch.

A childhood bout with meningococcal meningitis led to the loss of Nick's arms below the elbow and his legs above the knee. He lost much of his nose to the disease. His upper lip is also gone, along with most of his teeth. Nick's had countless surgeries already. His parents are hoping to get his jaw reconstructed and get some teeth implants for him. He'll need more surgery on his nose, too. He was 21/2 when it happened.

AnnMarie says looking different hasn't always been easy on Nick. He has arm and leg prosthetics, but they're uncomfortable, and cause his body to overheat. He usually forgoes them in favor of the wheelchair.

"Little kids will walk up and say 'Oh my God, what's wrong with him?'" she said. "I just try when I'm with him to be the buffer."

"You can almost say you get used to it, but there are those times you wish you could keep him from it."

At Comic Con, "He doesn't stick out," she said. "There's so much craziness going on around him, he's just one other person who wants to take a picture with them."

"He took on the role and he went with it."

Nick didn't have much of a goal in mind with his get-up. It was, he said, "Just to freak everybody out. Just to have fun."

Nick's parents trailed a few feet behind him and watched as Nick swaggered through the venue. They rolled his wheelchair, just in case he needed it. He didn't.

"It was the first time he stayed out of the chair all day," his dad said. "He didn't get so tuckered out, which is a great thing."

"I felt glad about myself," Nick said. "I sort of did it for myself but also for other people. I think they were, like, surprised by what I could do for myself."

Nick's parents said dressing up like a zombie gave Nick the opportunity to connect with people, and gave his social muscle a needed workout. 

"The way his day went for him made my day complete," AnnMarie said.

"I was beaming all the way home. And it was, like, an hour drive."

-- Beth Nakamura