“There are two ways of being happy:
We may either diminish our wants or augment our means — either will do — the result is the same; and it is for each man to decide for himself, and do that which happens to be the easiest.
If you are idle or sick or poor, however hard it may be to diminish your wants, it will be harder to augment your means.
If you are active and prosperous or young and in good health, it may be easier for you to augment your means than to diminish your wants.
But if you are wise, you will do both at the same time, young or old, rich or poor, sick or well; and if you are very wise you will do both in such a way as to augment the general happiness of society.”
— Benjamin Franklin

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Once Port Townsend was a City of Dreams, a place of great opportunity for resourceful and creative young folks with big dreams and lean wallets. Right next to the nicest house in town you might find a ramshackle tract house with an unmowed lawn and a junker car rusting in the blackberries. There were plenty of empty rooms, sheds, garages, and places to park a trailer or pitch a tent. There wasn’t a lot of cash circulating around town, so the owners of these nooks and crannies welcomed a little help with the rent, some fixing up, or maybe just the opportunity to have someone around to talk to.

Of course most of these low budget, do-it-yourself housing solutions did not meet all of the requirements of the Uniform Building Code, Health Department Standards or Fish and Wildlife Guidelines. Survival in these situations depended on the goodwill of neighbors and the willingness of local officials to sometimes look the other way.

These low-rent situations were a godsend to folks in need, whether temporary or terminal, and a refuge for artists, musicians, New Age visitors from the beyond, tree planters, driveway auto mechanics, writers, do-gooders, jugglers, back-to-the-land, off-the-grid, hippy libertarians, zen monks, single mothers, organic gardeners and many others with aspirations too numerous to list who chose to diminish their wants in order to live out their dreams.

In Ben Franklin’s America, the pursuit of happiness replaces property as a foundational value. The wealth of the nation is measured by the happiness of the people rather than by land values and the accumulation of possessions.

Hard Times Kept PT Real

One of the best economic indicators of the times was the Food Co-op. Even in the early eighties on a typical weekday the Co-op might only net sixty-five dollars in sales. On the weekends receipts were usually over one hundred dollars. All of the labor was done by volunteers so that the prices could be kept low. Lots of folks depended on the low prices, especially single moms who could get the Co-op worker’s discount by babysitting for another mother while she worked at the store.

The food selection was pretty basic, lots of bulk foods and so not much produce. The organic growers were still sussing things out, so some of the produce in the coolers was wilted and disfigured. Co-op shoppers who didn’t know better often assumed that was how organic produce was supposed to be. There were times when the store would be out of basics like milk or bread, but there was always rice and beans and folks made do.

The winter’s winds and rains kept Port Townsend real. Most of the Victorian houses were in various states of disrepair, hard to heat and rented by the room. In winter the kitchens were curtained off with blankets and the housemates gathered around the wood stoves until it was time to trip upstairs to cold rooms to sleep in long johns under piles of blankets. The sheds and garages could be damp places in which to camp on wet winter nights.

After a day’s work it could feel too much effort to start a fire and better to go visiting instead, especially around dinner time. When the arctic winds whipped through the Port tossing boats every which way, a boat jockey might head to the Town Tavern and nurse a cheap beer or two into the wee hours of the night.

The Boomers Come to Town

America lacks generational continuity — our young people tend to graduate and get out of dodge as quickly as possible. In the seventies and early eighties, swarms of young people wandered up and down the West Coast looking for a place to land. Port Townsend had all of the essential amenities: lots of young folks, a sufficient number of tolerant townspeople, cheap food at the local co-op, cheap places to sleep and sometimes someone warm to share the night with.

It was an easy place to visit, but a hard place to stay. The regional economy was hard hit by the decline in jobs as the logging and fishing industries slowly went bust. In the dark of winter when the tourist dollars quit rolling around town there was never quite enough money to keep everyone working. Folks made do, worked for less than prevailing wages, rented out rooms at less than market value, helped each other out when they could.

The sixties didn’t arrive in most of America until the seventies. Along with the peace, love and rock and roll came the drugs, sex and rock and roll. As long as the young folks kept things on the down low, the town’s live and let live attitude prevailed. If things got “too messy”, “too loud” or there were “too many comings and goings at all hours”, the police would get a call and come restore the peace — usually without hauling anyone off to jail.

Dens of Iniquity and Community

Danny Yesberger’s place is probably the most famous of the seventies’ party houses. Back in the day his house was considered out in the country even though it is off San Juan not far from the golf course. It was a funky, yet charming A-frame, with rustic outbuildings and a natural amphitheater out back where local musicians played.

Danny’s house was also one of the early group houses. He shared the rooms in his house and his outbuildings with other young folks, some of whom had nowhere else to go. One of the most beautiful sights in his neighborhood was when Danny’s horses would break loose from their pasture, and five or six of them would race down San Juan Avenue as if there was no tomorrow.

The Town Tavern was more than just the den of iniquity it was sometimes made out to be. A group of psychology students from Oregon State founded the Tavern as a place to experiment in communal living. Community members worked twenty hours a week tending the bar and serving food in the deli in exchange for beer and room and board.

It was a sometimes dysfunctional family with a commitment to serving the community at large. The Tavern’s deli served an Everything Sandwich and a bowl of soup that made a substantial meal at an affordable price. The Tavern Co-op members tended to their share of the town’s drunks and had a couch upstairs for people with nowhere left to go. They kept the big old stoves in the tavern and deli cranking hot. They kept the beer flowing and the good times rolling, especially when the region’s best bands came to town.

In hindsight, free beer and rock & roll were not the healthiest long-term lifestyle choice, so it is not surprising that the Town Tavern experiment eventually ended.

Local Low-Rent Entrepreneurs

At best, Port Townsend’s low-rent entrepreneurs operated in a quasi-legal gray zone. Their lives were cluttered with midnight water heater floods, backed-up sewer pipes, leaky roofs, late rent checks, truckloads of left-behinds to haul away, doors coming unhinged… as they struggled to maintain the balance between things falling apart and things getting fixed up. There was always a fine line between the benevolent low-rent entrepreneur and the slum lord. In a matter of months renting to the wrong person could quickly turn a tolerably nice rental situation into a slum.

Fred “The Head” Epstein became a master of the art of dumpster diving. He distributed his ill gotten hoard of past-the-pull-date foods to friends and neighbors. Anyone who has never peeked into a dumpster would be surprised and appalled at the treasure trove of goods consigned to the local landfill.

There’s a magic to diving beneath the floor sweepings and rotting lettuce down to where the good stuff lies. It’s not enough to lean into the dumpster to fish things out — true dumpster divers go all in. Fred would surface from the dumpster with the most wonderful assortment of food that was perfectly good once you wiped away the sour milk and floor sweepings.

His friends and neighbors might be gifted with two dented cans of tuna, a loaf of bread, six quarts of yogurt and twenty pounds of mint-flavored chocolate where someone got careless with the mint extract. Fred’s friends would eat the tuna and find five other yogurt-eating friends. The mint-flavored chocolate would pass from house to house until it ended up in a two-gallon bucket on the other side of town where it sat for five years.

Fred’s dumpster diving career was cut short when the Port Townsend Safeway decided to protect Fred from himself by asserting its right to throw away perfectly good food. The mint-flavored chocolate finally went to the chickens who turned up their beaks at it.

Besides being a predecessor to the local Food Bank, Fred went on to become a Port Commissioner and one of the innovators in the low rent, do-it-yourself housing solutions. His two-story houseboat was one of the area’s most famous land yachts. He openly bragged about how he got around the building codes by planting his house on top of an old boat hull. It’s no wonder he got caught dumpster diving — Fred had his own ideas about how things should be and never hesitated to tell anyone what he thought.

Jan Anderson was a little man with a big heart. With his little trailer he moved big boats and put them in places where no one else could go. Whenever he got stuck in an impossible situation he would unhitch his trailer, go home, have a drink of wine and think his way through the next move. As for insurance, he would tell you, “The day I drop a boat that’s the last day I work. That’s your insurance.” He was the boat mover that working people could afford. Without Jan many boats would never have made into the water or to their final resting place.

Jan was also the founder of the Funky Boatyard. He rented property from the Port and sublet it to small businesses which otherwise would not have had access to space at the Port. He also had property with affordable rentals. In his later years he had the misfortune to attract meth addicts to his property. These were good people until they became afflicted with meth. Their souls turned black and they were no longer safe to have around. As the drugs have become more toxic, the risks of sharing your good fortune with others have become greater.

Bird on a Wire

There was no one quite like Niels Holm. He managed his brother’s property, which included the Ace of Cups, the old Food Co-op and Puffin Shoe Repair. Along with Aldrich’s and the library, these businesses formed the heart of the Uptown District. In the pre-internet days a lot of business and socialization took place in these establishments or out on the street where folks loitered drinking coffee.

Niels’ Zendo House was probably the most famous and sometimes infamous of the group households. In the front of the house was an austere meditation room with an adjoining tea room. The walls were lined with straw mat-covered benches with a narrow aisle in between. The meditators sat on extra-firm zafu pillows. With Niels, meditation was a serious business — not some groovy, lackadaisical, New Age experience. He had genuine Buddhist credentials. He was a personal assistant to Suzuki Roshi at Green Gulch Meditation Center.

When he was young, Niels traveled across India in a loin cloth with a begging bowl. He had a fabulous time. Everywhere he went people wanted to take him home and feed him. They had never seen a white sadhu before.

The hardest part of his trip was that he got fat from all the food. “When I got the other side of India I went to the port to ship out. The guys on the ship didn’t know what to think when they saw some long haired guy in a loin cloth come walking up the plank.”

Niels felt that houses built to code lacked character. He used to say to anyone who would listen, “I can’t build that way. Those houses are all the same, they have no soul. You know soul like the black musicians say, when someone has put everything they have into a song.”

He had a pet crow named Woody. Niels would get into his truck and drive the three blocks from his house to Lawrence Street, where he would wait on the street for Woody to “appear out of nowhere” and land on his shoulder. He loved to impress the innocent bystanders loitering on the street.

Woody’s devotion to Niels became a problem when the jealous crow started attacking Niels’ wife every time she tried to get close him. One day Woody would no longer put up with Niels’ attention to his wife and flew away.

Now and then, even years later, Niels would see a crow up in a tree or on a telephone wire and wonder if it was Woody.

Today’s Stories Are Not Yet Told

It is fine to reminisce about the times when Port Townsend was a place of greater opportunity, but what about now?

Housing costs have soared out of reach, rentals are nearly nonexistent, the sheds have been converted to bed and breakfasts, more requirements have been added to the building codes and city ordinances, and we seem to be plagued with a rash of emergency pandemic restrictions that never quite go away. Has happiness become as hard to catch and hold as the crow up in the tree?

It may seem that way because of the quasi-legal nature of do-it-yourself affordable housing. No one who cares will talk about it lest their friends or neighbors lose their right to a place to live.

Someday, the people who are out there catching happiness for themselves will tell their stories about today.

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“The Constitution only gives people the right to pursue happiness.
You have to catch it for yourself. ”
— Benjamin Franklin

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Top Photos:
Niels Holm in foreground at left works on one of his unconventional and soulful creations.
At right is the finished structure.