RIP, Bill Dawson

You might have known Bill, because he knew everybody. Or you might know him from the recent profile that appeared in the Bollard. Bill was the first friend I made when I moved to Portland seven years ago. He was a jack-of-all trades, expert carpenter; he was a terrible driver, but insisted on driving, and I went along because when we’d go out to breakfast at the Q Street Diner in S. Portland, Bill would loudly and abrasively talk shit about Donald Trump. He was a favorite of every bartender and server in town. He taught me how to use a table saw, and how - with an old house - you can never assume that what’s hidden behind walls is what you’d expect, and in fact it usually isn’t. As I said in another post, I called him “Mr. 95%,” because he never could completely finish a job. I’d like to think that’s because he liked my company. I certainly liked his. RIP to a true Portland salty dog, and condolences to his partner of 40 years, Donna.

https://thebollard.com/2026/08/09/the-regulars-35/