At Edgefield, during its seven-decade run as a poor farm, a remarkable array of personalities congregated under its roof: sea captains, captains of industry, school teachers, ministers, musicians, loggers, nurses, home builders, homemakers, former slaves and slave owners. There were Germans, Italians, Japanese, Chinese, Native Americans, African Americans; Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, and Buddhist. Frankie of "Frankie and Johnny" notoriety was there. The one common thread among them was, at one time (and perhaps others) in their lives, each needed a "leg up."
Many of the residents, or inmates as they originally were called, supplied the labor for the 300+-acre farm. Overseen by a succession of well-seasoned, college-educated farm supervisors, Edgefield was a model of agricultural efficiency and production. The fruit, vegetables, dairy, hogs, and poultry raised on property was sufficient for feeding the population at the poor farm, as well as the county hospital and jail. Many years, surplus quantities were canned and sold on the open market.
Perhaps the greatest challenge for the farm supervisor was maintaining an adequate and capable labor force. Field "workers" were constantly coming and going and of course none were hired for their farming expertise. Outside labor gangs were periodically contracted-farm students, prisoners, prisoners of war, even some of Oregon's first Braceros (migrant workers from Mexico)¬-to supplement the on-site force.
The Great Depression was one notable period when the labor supply was not an issue. In the early 1930s, when so many people needed "legs up," Edgefield's population swelled to over 600, nearly double its normal number. Closets were converted and residents put three or more to a room in an ongoing effort to accommodate the great demand. The poor farm's basement quickly emerged as a veritable bazaar made up of booths operated by the legions of unemployed craftsmen and artisans living upstairs. The pool of talent and services available in those basement booths drew faithful patronage from Portland customers.
In the 1940s, when World War II put Americans back to work, Edgefield's population shrank considerably, and those who remained were many Depression-era residents who had reached an advanced age or state of incapacity to prevent their departures. To better suit these needs, in the Post War years, Edgefield took on more of a role of a nursing home and rehabilitation center, though the farm operation continued through the 1960s.
In the 1970s, Edgefield saw fewer incoming patients as private nursing homes and in-home care became more accessible with the rise of Welfare and Medicaid. A shrinking population and a complex of aging buildings in need of daunting repairs forced the decision to close the old poor farm. In April 1982, the last patients were relocated and the place was locked up, though not too securely.
For the remainder of the 1980s, the elements and vandals¬-mostly bored teenagers¬-wreaked havoc on the property. Burst pipes sent water everywhere, windows were broken, every surface was spray painted with graffiti, and everything not bolted down was stolen. The place that for decades had been a refuge for thousands of needy souls was now a liability to the county. Arrangements to demolish the building were put in place.
It would have happened, too, if it weren't for those pesky Troutdale Historical Society folks who decried such a move a "foul and unjust fate!" These courageous and resolute history-minded folks waged a five-year fight to save. Once victory was theirs, however, the bigger battle began: Who wants an old poor farm, anyway? A listing with a New York auction house prompted exactly no bids.
Enter brothers and Portland sons, Mike and Brian McMenamin. Amongst the ruins of Edgefield they saw a fabled gathering spot, a village populated by artists, artisans, gardeners, craftspeople, musicians, and folks from surrounding communities. The people holding the purse strings didn't see it.
General confusion reigned am