with the threatened floating homes at left, just below the middle of the photo.
Home for Sherre and Ted Venegas is a two-bedroom two-bath house floating on the Columbia River in Portland, Oregon. They have lived here since 1993 in what people call the Moorage — a collection of about one-hundred-seventy-five floating houses moored to finger-like docks jutting out into the Columbia.
Their friend Sherrie May, too, has lived in the Moorage — for forty years, just one row away. Sherrie cares full-time for her best friend, Susan, who is unable to leave their home because of health issues.
Their homes are two among many others threatened by encroaching plans by the Interstate Bridge Replacement Program to replace and upgrade the bridge that carries I-5 across the Columbia River between Portland and nearby Vancouver, Wash., along with exits that serve Hayden Island, where the Moorage clings to the southern shore.
“I’d like to be able to stay here,” says Sherry May, “but I don’t know if it’s going to be possible.”
If the bridge plans proceed, an untold number of people could be displaced. And that’s where everything gets complicated.
Ted explains that plans for the bridge, which have been percolating for years but seem to be gathering momentum, do not take into account that the houses are people’s homes, many of them occupied by older people who have lived here for decades and have nowhere else to go.
“This is not a neighborhood,” says Sherry May. “This is a community. We’re all there for each other. If there’s an emergency or whatever, we all close ranks and help each other out.“
“People look out for one another,” Sherre Venegas agrees.
“The good thinking for the individual senior,” says Sherry May, “is you don’t move them out of their comfort zone or their home. You try to keep them in their home with familiar people around, if you can do that.”
Otherwise, she says, “Statistically, they go downhill very quickly.”
The Interstate Bridge Replacement Program has mailed correspondence to homeowners about the likelihood of mandatory relocation. The information describes such resources as “Right of Way” offices, intended to “fully aid displaced persons.”
But exactly how the relocation process might work is not clear. State, city, and project websites, and the recent correspondence to homeowners, don’t fully explain how or when homeowners might be affected or compensated.
“I’m going to stay no matter what,” Ted says optimistically, “whether it’s eminent domain or not. I mean, where am I going to go? They can give me money, but for what, an apartment? I don’t want that.”
“They’re not giving us a lot of choice,” says Sherry May. “Because either you’re able to be moved, or they’ll give you market value. The house, you own, but you’re just renting this water space. When it all comes down to eminent domain, we aren’t so sure that the water’s going to be incorporated into that deal, so it takes some equity out of the structure.”
For some homeowners, moving would be a complicated and expensive process that might be out of their reach, even with assistance.
“Our savings are gone,” Sherre Venegas says. She and Ted saved for retirement, she says, but not so they could accommodate being forced out of their home.
“When we moved in here,” says Ted, “the houses were kind of run down, right? When we first moved in here, there wasn’t a lot of people wanted to live here.”
But over the years, the houses have met a need for some people who still call the Moorage home.
“Just everything about this house was perfect for us,” says Sherre. There were two bathrooms — a bonus for Sherre, who grew up in a house that had only one for six people — and room to tie a boat alongside the deck.
“It’s not just a house,” says Ted with an edge to his voice. “It’s a way of living.”
