You’ve ridden past it a thousand times. As the first caffeinated tendrils of your pre-ride coffee slithered into your slumbering muscles it has whispered into your peripheral vision. Framed on the North by the line of your helmet, on the East by the lens of your glasses, and on the South by the gentle bow of Willamette Boulevard. You’ve lazily gestured to the teammate on your six as you’ve arced left to avoid the rattlecanned VW beetle parked out front, half in half out of the bikelane. Like the misshapen mole you noticed the last time you shaved your neckline in the mirror, it looks suspicious. You think, I should take a closer look. But fuck, that would pose more questions than it would answer. So you don’t. But you should.
When your stem is pointed home post-ride you’ve seen it, lit by that low-angled, gauzy light you can’t find anywhere East of Mt. Hood. After 80+ miles in the hills flogging the 27t cog, nose now on your toptube, eager for home it has been the backdrop for countless sexual fantasies. A flash of tanned leg disappearing into running shorts. The University of Portland cross-country team. A lone hottie on on legs instead of wheels. And as your neck snaps to the left to follow the bob of glutes and promise, it’s just behind them. The John Mock House.
University Park. Mock’s Bottom. Mock’s Crest. In the 1850s it was all a part of the original 317-acre land claim given to John Mock’s father, Henry. John walked with his family to Oregon on the eponymous trail when he was 13. He made dysentery his bitch. When the Mocks arrived, they staked a claim on the gentle knob of land bordering the crags above Swan Island (nee Willow). Back then there was nothing. An expanse of potential and that’s it. Trees were put to bed. A cabin was built.
Young John went on to put fingers in all the right pies: Mining, transportation, real estate. Mock clocked ends. But still he slept between the same humble timbers he and Pa Henry hewed when they first arrived. But rock beats scissors. Scissors beats paper. Fire beats log. The original Mock log cabin was reduced to embers in 1889.
When it was time to rebuild, John Mock had modestly grand plans. Three stories. Six bedrooms. Gingerbread dripping from the eaves. A turret just to be nasty. Who designed and built the house remains a head-scratcher. Some say it was local Polish contractor Julius Koschnitzky. He lived nearby, and he had the chops.
The interior of the Mock house is the money shot. For those of you who prefer Antiques Roadshow to RedTube, you already know that the Povey Brothers of Portland were the John Holmeseses of late-19th century stained glass. Some call them the Tiffanys of the West. Which is only slightly better than being the Debbie Gibsons of the West. Mock commissioned 18 stained glass windows from the Poveys, one for every inch of his turgid manhood. Some still survive intact. WARNING: If your Povey Brothers stained glass lasts for more than a century, please consult a hot conservator.
Mock was also a lover of the fresco, which was the manly 1850s version of the Fresca™. He would get so Fresco’d out on lo-cal, carbonated citrus that he would have whatever talented artist was savvy come and paint intricate scenes on his ceilings. And that is where we get the word fresco. True story.
So the next time you take Willamette to go West, young man or woman, stop to admire one of the last houses to have some guy’s name still attached to it. I won’t say a hero, ’cause, what’s a hero? But sometimes, there’s a guy. And I’m talkin’ about John Mock here.
