Foolery

Oh Hollywood, Are You Missing a Stylist?

Would you like it back?

 

 

(Original photo of the Olsen twins stolen from these guys)

The Mormor Stories: The Accident

It's been months since we've heard from Mormor.

I've shared with you most or all of her writings about her childhood (starting here), and now I will begin to share stories from her adult life.

This one is a rare story about her beloved younger sister Eileen, whom the family lost way too young and therefore was gone before I was born.

As a reminder, when Mormor writes "Papa" she is speaking to her grandchildren (my cousins, brothers and me) about her husband Carl (our grandfather), who was, among his many vocations and avocations, a dance band leader in Arcata, California, in the 1920s and '30s. Those of you familiar with Humboldt County and the northern California coast may recognize some of the locations mentioned.

           

Shortly after my sister, Eileen, graduated from St. Francis School of Nursing, she began to work as a nurse at General Hospital.

One Saturday night she was invited by a couple of friends to go to a dance at Loleta where Papa's orchestra was playing. So she dressed in her best and they started out.

As they neared the present off-ramp to the College of the Redwoods they came upon a wreck that had just happened, involving a motorcycle and a car. Two teenagers, for no accountable reason, had rammed right into a fast-moving car. Cars began to stop and someone started screaming for a doctor or a nurse. My sister rushed over, said she was a nurse, and asked people to move back. She quickly saw that one boy was so badly hurt and bleeding in spurts in many places that there was no chance she could keep him alive until an ambulance could get there. The second boy's slashes were mainly on one leg, which she hoped to save by putting on a tourniquet. No bandages were available so she tore up her beautiful new slip for the purpose.

Meanwhile, someone had raced to a phone to call an ambulance which arrived very quickly. While waiting, Eileen took a lot of static from bystanders who faulted her for not giving her main efforts to the other dying boy, so she did a few things for him that she knew were just gestures. She could not tell the people in his hearing that there was no hope for him.

As the victims were being put into the ambulance, the boy with the lesser injuries pleaded with her to come with him to the hospital. Since she was blood-stained, her dress ruined, and she was a soft-hearted darling, she went with them to the hospital. On the way, the one boy died, a fact she managed to keep from the second one by saying he thought his friend was unconscious. She stayed with him through the surgery and called his family.

Emergency treatment did save the second victim's leg, and in a short time he was able to leave the hospital. Before going he came to thank Eileen for saving his leg, maybe even his life, and for staying with him through that awful night. He also said he had no money to pay her for this, but if there was anybody around that she wanted licked, he was her man -- just let him know. Well, Sis couldn't think of anyone that she wanted beaten up, but promised to call him if anyone came to mind.

She did tell him she hoped he'd stay off motorcycles forever and ever, and he answered that he surely would as there might not be a good nurse handy another time.

The Mormor Stories: Learning to Drive

The tiny communities of the redwood country in Northern California a century ago had none of the modern conveniences we expect these days, such as a high school within each community. (My stubborn great-grandfather refused to have electricity until sometime after World War II, although that was certainly not the norm.) Roads were sparse, narrow and rough, and horse-drawn wagons far outnumbered automobiles.

But the automobile was on the rise, even in that remote and rugged forest. This is my grandmother (Mormor) Esther's story about how she learned to drive.

Earl Leventon's father was a lumberman who was very anxious for his son to go to high school, so he bought Earl a new Durant car as sort of a bribe to keep the boy in school. By that time I was a sophomore attending the nearest high school, Fortuna, and it was there that Earl also attended school. We both had to live in Fortuna but could go home weekends. Well, Earl could, but I was given enough money to take the train home about every third weekend. Anyway he invited me to ride home in his new car, which I readily accepted. Later on Earl asked me if I'd like to learn to drive the car and you can guess the answer. Finally Earl let me drive most of the way home and back nearly every week.

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

One day Ruby Patmore came to the ranch as my luncheon guest after which Earl came by to take her home and give her another driving lesson. Well, even though very few cars came by our place at that time, Ruby drove out of our lane and ran smack into a car going by. Luckily, not too much damage was suffered by either car and the occupants were not hurt at all.

However, this alerted my father to the fact that I also might be driving, so he asked me point blank if I was. When I admitted that I'd been driving to school for some time Dad forbade me to do that anymore. He pointed out that I was only fifteen, and also that an accident could take every cent he had.

Therefore I didn't drive a car again until the boyfriend (Carl) got a gear shift car. I couldn't manage the miserable Ford transmission in his former car.

Carl and Esther eventually married, parted only by her death 62 years later. There were a few more Ford transmissions in that 62-year marriage, presumably less miserable than the first.

More of my Mormor's stories are found on the sidebar, under the heading "The Mormor Stories."

The Mormor Stories: Don't Bet Against a Stubborn Swede

(Photo stolen from Paul-W on Flickr)

I can't believe it was a year ago yesterday that I first thumbed through my grandmother's folder of her true life stories in order to type one up for this blog.  It's been a labor of love, presenting these tales I've grown up with, nearly one story a week for the past year.  And yet I have learned a lot of new things, too, as I have researched to try to fill in the gaps or choose pictures to accompany her words.  I hope my readers have enjoyed reading Mormor's stories as much as I have enjoyed sharing them.

This story of Mormor's bridges a childhood memory and a grown-up one. It reminds me how stubborn, resilient, and kind she was as a grandmother; she apparently had these qualities as a young parent, too.

We are very near the end of her tales of childhood in California's redwood country, and will soon venture into memories from her adult life.

My father liked both his paper and his snuff so I'd often have to go to the store at Dyerville after school for both of the above.  On one trip I was admiring the new bicycle that Christmas had brought to Donald Morton (of which he was very proud) when he offered to teach me to ride it.

Lesson number one was nicely begun when along drove Mr. Nichols, our next door neighbor, in his shiny new automobile.  Seeing me so far from home later in the day, he offered me a ride home.  Torn between two happy choices, I finally chose the car.  It did have such nice-smelling leather seats.

Years went by and it was our son who had a bicycle which he used for delivering papers.  One day I told him about my earlier aborted lesson and how I'd always felt that I could have learned to ride a bike that day.  Mal happily bet me 50¢ (he was in the money because of his paper route) that I couldn't ride his bike over to the school and then go in and out and around the basketball standards two times in that same afternoon.  Of course I took the dare but neglected to ask how to brake the thing.  So the first thing I did was to tumble end over Sunday on the neighbor's lawn when I tried to use the curb for a brake.  Suffice to say I recovered from that as well as Mal's laughter, rode the bike over to the school, and then in and out the standards; all this under my son's watchful eyes.

I collected the 50¢ and reminded Mal never to underestimate the power of a woman, especially that of a country gal.

Needless to say I sent him on little errands the next week until the 50¢ was back in his pocket.

All of Mormor's stories to date are on the side bar categories under "The Mormor Stories."  To start at the beginning of my grandmother's stories, click here.

The Mormor Stories: Off to the Races

(Art by Catherine Jones and available for sale at art.com) 

According to this site, the value of a dollar in 1918 was equivalent to $15.08 in today's money.  Keep this in mind as you read this story of Mormor's from 1918 (if I did my math correctly).

On one of our Fourth of July trips my father's cousin, Alfred Anderson, took us to Bear Creek in his new car.  A community picnic was being held as well as baseball games, races, horseshoes, and games for the little ones.

When the race for twelve year olds and younger was called I eagerly ran to the starting point where quite a group was gathered.  I was lucky enough to win, was given $2.50 as prize money, and promptly shared ice cream cones with my brother, Art.  Another race was for twelve year olds and older.  Art urged me to enter because I was exactly twelve and he saw prospects of more ice cream.  This race attracted some young women so I had to really ramble, but I won and got another $2.50, so Art got his ice cream cone again.

The last race was an obstacle race and open to anyone, girls or women.  We were shown the course which involved running around things, running backward, hopping on one leg, and going up over stumps.  Once more Art kept urging me to enter, even though there were quite a few grown-up entrants, so away I went.

I was in the lead and just climbing up on a stump when my mother spotted me and yelled, "ESTHER PATRINA HOLMGREN, HAVE YOU GONE CRAZY?!  COME HERE!"

Well, I couldn't obey and still win, so I kept on, just calling I'd be there in a minute.

Well, I won, Art got another cone, and I hurried to explain things to my mother.  You see she'd been putting away the leftover food from our picnic table and didn't know what I'd been doing.  She was glad for me that I'd won $7.50, but I must admit I felt quite humiliated when she yelled at me in front of all those people.

By my calculations (questionable, certainly) her total prize money would equal $113.10 in today's money.  Well, last year's money, anyway -- this year's money is too volatile to tell.

The Mormor Stories: Carl's Work Avoidance Technique

I knew my grandfather Carl, whom we called Papa, to be a serious and honorable man, and I think he truly was.  Self-sacrifice was his way.  Diligence was his middle name.  So it was particularly delightful to learn that he was not a perfect angel his entire life.  From my grandmother's stories, here is this little story about Papa.  I have changed only the way Mormor referred to Papa -- from Papa to Carl.  Because while her grandchildren had no problem with it, it's a little weird for you folks to read about a pre-teen called "Papa."

When your grandfather, Carl, was a young boy, he and his brother Harley got jobs weeding carrots for Mr. Costa who lived out on Arcata Bottom.  They were paid 10¢ for each long row.

One day, when it was quite warm, Carl got tired of working, and anyway he had heard that there was an abandoned rowboat somewhere along a dike that he would like to find, fix up, and use.  So he left in spite of Harley's protestations.

Carl walked and walked and walked along the dike for nearly two miles, but nowhere did he find a boat.  However, when he was about to turn back in disgust he saw what looked to him like a scarecrow floating among the reeds and trash.  For some reason he poked the thing with a stick and, to his horror, discovered that it was a man's body.  You can imagine how fast Carl got out of there.  He raced to the nearest farmhouse where the people phoned the sheriff.  Finally the sheriff arrived, the farmer's pickup* was hired and they set off.

After a bit they had to walk down the dike with the sheriff continually asking "how much farther?" and Carl just guessing "another hundred yards."

Well, they walked and walked and walked until the law man was certain he was on a wild goose chase.  But Carl kept insisting it was just a bit farther which, coupled with his vivid description, kept the sheriff walking until, at last, they came to the place.  I'll spare you the details of how they got the body out and into a box and then into the pickup* for the trip to the mortuary.

For finding the body of Timothy O'Leary Carl was paid ten dollars -- more than he would have earned in two weeks at weeding carrots.  Harley always felt there was something very unfair about the whole business; after all, he had stayed on the job!

*Remember that this story took place in about 1915 or so, and so I don't know exactly what a farmer's pickup might have looked like in that year, but it certainly wasn't a Ford F250.

The Mormor Stories: Elmer Fulwider Strikes Again

With a name like Elmer Fulwider, you're bound to end up in a lot of stories, right?  Read about him sticking his foot in his mouth here, or go back and check out the first Mormor post, so you know who Mormor was and why I am sharing her almost-100-year-old stories with you.  And here is a story from about 1918:

Mormor -- Esther -- just a couple of years older than the time of this tale

I finished elementary grades in a one-room, one-teacher school at South Fork, which was about a mile and a half from the ranch if one walked the railroad track.  This school had no fenced yard, so we wandered about in the noon hour more or less as we pleased.

One noon two of my classmates suggested that we go down to the railroad wye to see Elmer Fulwider who was wiping an engine near the school.  Elmer said he had finished and now was going to take the engine down the wye to face it in the opposite direction so as to be ready for the night's run.  He asked me if I'd like to be his engineer on that trip and you can bet I would.  So I climbed up into the cab; Elmer showed me how to move the Johnson bar ever so gently, the wheels began to roll, and we were off down the track.  When we returned in about five minutes, there stood my two classmates wondering why Elmer picked a mere girl to ride in the engine when he could have chosen either of two capable boys.

My father didn't look on this event with any great favor so that ended any future engine trip.


(Photo stolen from this guy)

Mike [Laurie's cousin] said he'd bet he had the only grandmother who had driven an engine, even a short way.  I answered that I wouldn't bet any money on that.

Women did not yet have the right to vote, but no one had apparently set any rules about girls driving trains.

The Mormor Stories: Birth of a Teacher

It's been a while since I've posted a Mormor story.  We are nearly at the end of her childhood stories, but there are several to come from her early years as a teacher and a mother.

You can go back to the beginning of this series here; scroll to the bottom for the very first post, and an explanation both of who Mormor was and how I came to acquire these stories.

*     *     *     *     *

(Mormor as a teacher)

When I was in the upper elementary grades at South Fork School our teacher was a Mr. Carlson.  He knew, of course, how to teach the little ones to read, etc., but found it hard to give them enough time so he showed me how to teach these things.  In a short time I became, in effect, the primary teacher who was very busy from nine o'clock until two, and busier yet after that getting my own school work caught up.

When Dad realized what I was doing he was about to put a stop to it but I begged him not to because I wanted to be a teacher some day and anyway I could do as much schoolwork in those two hours as the two boys in my class could do in a whole day.  Besides that he should wait until he saw my report card.

Well, he did wait, and maybe the above was the reason I was financed to go on to school and realize my dreams.  Mom's comment was that I always had my nose in a book anyway -- might as well do something about it.

p.s.  Dad would have been a great teacher had it been possible financially in Sweden.  Maybe I carried out a dream of his.

*     *     *     *     *

This is one of my favorite Mormor stories.  It showcases her very strong will, her resourcefulness, and early signs of the wonderful teacher she would become.  I have it on very good authority that Mormor was a good teacher, because for a year (in 1943) she taught all three of her children, my mother included, in a one-room schoolhouse. Tiny Wooden Valley, a somewhat remote area of the Napa Valley, desperately needed a teacher willing to make the drive, and one who could teach kids of all ages at the same time.  Mormor came with a bit of experience in that arena.  She had seven pupils, three of which were her own kids, grades one through seven.

The Mormor Stories: Croup

(Photo taken from Monument Road by David Thomson and stolen from these guys)

Smedley got sick Monday and missed four days of school this past week; Chas took her to the pediatrician Tuesday because we were afraid she had a recurrence of Striders, which nearly caused a trip to the hospital when she was a toddler.  All I can tell you about Striders is that it causes breathing to be horribly ragged and wet and the child sucks so hard to get air that the hollow depression at the base of the throat collapses with each inhalation.  The doctor has to test the amount of oxygen getting into the child's blood, and if levels are too low the child must be admitted to the hospital.  On that occasion Smedley barely passed the oxygen level test, but she did pass, and steroids quickly opened up her breathing.

This time the problem turned out to be croup, which was odd to me because I associate croup with a horrible cough, and Smedley wasn't coughing more than once or twice an hour.  But again a steroid cleared things right up, so there go Smedley's Olympic dreams.

Sparky's cough, meanwhile, sounds like something a walrus might make.  It's been a fun week with not much sleep.  I can now put a notch in my parental belt for croup.

It's terribly frightening when your child isn't getting enough air, and having an 18-mile drive to the pediatrician can make for some hard choices.  But when I'm complaining about these things I remember this short little story of my grandmother's and I give myself a big dope slap.  From over 100 years ago, here's a tale to make parents shiver.

When I was a very young baby I got my first and only attack of croup.  My folks were very frightened because I seemed all choked up.  So Dad left on Lad, one of his horses, to get a doctor.  He had to ride down the monument Road, swim the Eel River, and hopefully find the doctor at home.

Now Dad couldn't swim and the river was up somewhat, so I appreciate the bravery it took to ride Lad across the river.  This he did successfully, and found the doctor able to come up to our place.  However, he would not cross the river where Dad did, but went on down to the nearest bridge at Fernbridge.

After looking me over, the doctor told my folks I would be all right in a short time, and told them what to do in case of another attack.  Wonder what such a house call would cost today.

Wasn't my father a brave man?

The Mormor Stories: Mormor Loses Her Marbles

(Photo stolen from this site)

It's Halloween week.  YOU may be thinking of ghosts, or monsters, or Vlad the Impaler, or maybe even Larry King, though really?  I doubt it.

I'm thinking of the thing that scares me the most, OTHER than Larry King.

No, not wearing two different shoes to work, but thanks for that; now I'll have nightmares.  No, the thing that scares me the most is the focus of this short little Mormor story, just in time for Halloween.

When we first moved to Camp Grant I found a cigar box in the house that was full of assorted marbles, which I really didn't much enjoy as there rarely was another child about with whom to play.  One day, while I was at school, my little brother found the box and proceeded to drop the marbles, one by one, through the many knotholes in the floor of the wide porch that ran around three sides of our home.

Several days later it came out what had happened to my marbles, so I crawled under the house to find them.  The light that filtered through the knotholes made the spots where the marbles lay easier to find, but the six inches or so of powdery dust didn't help a bit.  I finally found about one half of my original store and, anyway, I was getting tired of dust and cobwebs, so I crawled out.

My mother, who knew nothing of this, was shocked at the appearance of her dusty, dirty daughter, so I was stripped and given a bath post-haste.

I guess the good Lord had work for me to do as black widow spider webs were all over under the house, but I wasn't bothered.  Maybe the unusual invasion of their privacy frightened them away.

(Photo stolen from this guy)

Yes, that's right.  I'm afraid of dust.

The Mormor Stories: Justice

(Image stolen from these guys)

Because it is Columbus Day, I have found a Mormor story that honors him.

Sort of.  Obliquely.

Not at all, really.

But it does reference Columbus, and therein lies the problem, actually: the reference is a tad indelicate, to put it mildly.  It's an ethnic slur.

I thought long and hard about publishing this, and finally decided to go ahead.  I hope no one takes offense.

When Papa [Carl] was earning his way through school he got a job with a piledriver crew at faraway Camp 17.  Each weekend the young men there would take a handcar and pump their way down the railroad to Korbel.  From there they would take the train (the old Annie and Mary, it was called) to Arcata, where they could visit relatives, friends, and see their girlfriends.  This way they could stay in town much longer as the train left Arcata at noon on Sunday, but a bus didn't take off until nine that night.*  Then they would be in camp by eleven o'clock quite easily.

         

(Map stolen from this site)

Well, one time a guy brought along a big bottle of wine which led to much singing as the fellows went pumping along on their return trip to camp.  As they neared a big tunnel their voices blended in verses that emphasized that "Cristoforo Colombo was a Dago son-of-a-b--"

Now the night crew working in the tunnel was mostly Italian and took exception to this song.  The cook came running out armed with a big cleaver and was backed up by the whole tunnel crew.

It took a lot of talking to convince the workers that really no racial slur was meant.  Finally the crew calmed down, but they wouldn't let Papa and his friends go through the tunnel.  So there they sat until morning, when they were allowed at last to go on.

They arrived in camp too late for breakfast but with just time enough to change into working clothes.  The day seemed mighty long for that sleepy bunch.

There should be a moral to this story -- don't --

*This is a bit jumbled, but Mormor means that taking the night bus from Arcata to Korbel, then a handcar from Korbel back to the camp, allowed them the longest visit.

*     *     *     *     *

Happy Columbus Day, everyone, and please -- thank an Italian (and a Spaniard).

The Mormor Stories: Martin's Story

I have shared my grandmother's story of her mother's passage across the Atlantic and North America, and now here is the story of her father's journey.  Humboldt County, California, with its booming redwood logging industry, was a destination for Swedish immigrants 100 years ago, and so speaking only Swedish was not as big a barrier as it would be today.

I should warn you: this story rabbit trails quite a bit, but it exemplifies Mormor's favorite phrase, "but I digress."  The story is more jumbled than Mormor's other tales, which could be because it was not one of the many spoken-word stories that she knew by heart and told frequently, or that she wrote the story down in the twilight of her life, when it was a struggle for her to accomplish everyday tasks.  Mormor hid most of her struggles from everyone, but I digress.

(Martin Holmgren)

My father, Martin Holmgren, was raised in southern Sweden in the foster home of Bengst and Charlotta Holmgren.  [His real last name was Nilsson, and his real mother's first name was Sylvia (Jacobsson).]  How this came about I am not sure.  The Holmgrens had older children who either could not or would not help financially when Bengst became ill.

Therefore Dad worked at various jobs such as peat digging, brickyard work, and in the beet sugar mill as soon as he was out of school.  Later he learned to make shoes and had quite a few customers when he was called into the army.  (To digress a moment, he was the best shot in his company and expected that all his children-to-be would do as well.)  During that six month period he lost his clientele, so began to think of some other way to earn money.

Laurie jumping in here a moment: I had always been told that my great-grandfather Martin was a draft dodger from the Swedish army.  Huh.

At this time his friend and second cousin, Alfred Anderson, had been offered a job in his uncle's mill in Carlotta [Humboldt County, California].  Alfred asked Martin to go to California with him, and it was so arranged.

(Alfred Anderson)

Their money ran very low in Nebraska as they hadn't counted on the U.S. being so big.  Therefore they got jobs there and began to learn English.  Dad [Martin] worked on a railroad, and later for a farmer who gave my father English lessons, mostly from a newspaper to which he had subscribed.  I'm proud that he did well enough that he could apply for his first citizen papers in six months.

I neglected to mention that Dad and Alfred crossed the Atlantic in December 1899 in a very bad storm.  The sailors got sick; Dad did not, so he earned some money doing the crew's jobs.  Otherwise, he might not have had the money to get as far west as Nebraska.

One day when he was working in a field Martin saw in the distance a black funnel-shaped cloud.  He'd been told to hurry to shelter if that happened, so he ran the horses toward the barn.  They insisted on stopping at the water trough as per routine, so Martin got hit with quite a few large hailstones on the way to their stalls.  Then Dad joined the rest of the family in the cyclone cellar.  After a bit he was about to open the trap door to see what was happening outside, but was stopped when all the rest screamed, "Don't open the door yet!"  Later he found out that there had been very little damage nearby -- just a neighbor's poor cow had been carried a short distance and her leg broken when she was let down with a bump.

[The cow story filled my imagination from a very young age, and to this day when I think of tornados, I worry about the cows.]

I don't know where Alfred worked but do know they arrived by ship in Eureka together.  There they had a choice -- either eat, or use their last bit of money for two train tickets to Alfred's uncle's place at Carlotta.  They chose the latter, and luckily got there just in time for the evening meal.  Both went to work in Mr. Larson's mill the next morning.

Dad found that hauling the bolts to the mill paid quite well so, as soon as he saved enough money, he bought a team and began hauling.  Later, Swedish friends began teaching my father how to fall the huge redwood trees, and told him that was where the money was.  Soon Dad became a faller and found a partner.

Meantime, my mother was working at a beer garden near her home in Sweden, for she was saving money to join my father.  You see, they were engaged before Dad left for America, and both were saving for Mom's passage to Eureka, where they were planning to be married.

(Alis "Elise" Karlsson)

When she arrived she wanted to work a while in order to have a dowry, so she had jobs at the Swedish Western Hotel and at the Russ's Fern Cottage.  However, it was difficult for Dad to see her because of transportation problems, so he persuaded her to come to Carlotta, where she worked for the Larsen family.  There Mom discovered the dangers inherent in falling trees the size of redwoods, and refused to marry Dad until he quit his falling job, which he did, and they were married in Eureka on October 12, 1904.  Then they rented a small place on Monument Road above Rio Dell, and Dad did hauling to augment their income.  (I was born there the next year with Mrs. Rickter officiating since the doctor didn't get there in time.)

My father found the most work in Fortuna, so we moved there, and he rented several places until we moved to Camp Grant in the fall of 1912.  Dad leased the ranch at first, but finally bought it.  He sold it to Jim Patmore in 1950 (I think) but reserved the right to live in the cabin we had built there.  Dad and Mother lived there until her death in 1953, at which time my father moved to a cabin on Art's place at Miranda.  He spent the winters with us in Monterey until a massive stroke made rest home care necessary.  Dad died in 1965 and is buried beside Mom at Sunrise Cemetery on Newburg Road in Fortuna.

[My great-grandfather Martin died about two weeks after I was born, so I never got to meet him.  "Momone," my great-grandmother Elise, had been gone a dozen years by then.  I have been to their graves several times.]

The Mormor Stories: Carl and the Indian Canoe

There are very few stories about the early life of my grandfather, Carl McDonald, for a couple of reasons.  First, his early life was apparently less than pleasant, dominated by a cruel stepfather.  Second, Papa was a very reserved man with his grandchildren, at least most of the time; telling stories was not part of his social makeup, as it was with the girl who would become his wife, my grandmother Esther.  Esther, therefore, was in charge of family lore for both of them, and so most of what I know about my grandfather was filtered through my grandmother, Esther, or "Mormor."

This story concerns a time when young Carl had left home, sometime around age twelve, and it is my favorite story of Papa.

When your Papa was beginning the eighth grade he lived up on the Klamath River with a family that had a big dairy there.  He was to help with the milking, the butter-making, and various chores before and after school.

The Indians there taught him many things: how to fish, how to paddle a canoe, and how to fight.  By the way, he was one of the two white pupils in that school.

In order to get to school, Papa had to pole the canoe (an Indian dugout) up the river quite a way before starting across to the other side.  This was because the current was very swift and, in winter especially, it was dangerous, too.  But Papa managed and duly graduated from the Terwer School.

Years later his job involved supervising the instruction of the schools on the Klamath so, one day, he drove to a certain river crossing and honked his car's horn.  This was supposed to alert an Indian who lived in a cabin on the other side, who would then come to take passengers across in his motorboat.  Well, this day no one came, so Papa just took the Indian dugout which was left there for emergencies and paddled himself across.

As he neared the other side the Indian, who had been asleep, came out, beached the canoe, and asked, "Injun feller teach you paddle canoe, ain't it?"  Papa answered that Wahkel Harry had done so long ago when they were in Terwer School together.  The Indian's face lighted up as he told Papa that Wahkel Harry was now their tribal chief.  Ever after Papa was referred to by the highest compliment the Indians could give him -- Guvment Man.

(Photo stolen from this site)

I have searched the internet for information about Wahkel Harry, with little luck.  While there is at least one photo of him which exists among the collections of Humboldt State University, it is not available on-line.  There was an article with a photo printed about him years ago, because I read it, but it has not been archived on the internet either, apparently.  "Wahkel" is the spelling my grandmother assigned to the name, although I have also found "Waukel," Wo'kel" and "Waukell" in reference to the area.  I'm fairly certain that Wahkel Harry was a member of the Yurok tribe.

(Photo stolen from this site)

The Mormor Stories: Adam and Eve

Living five easy miles outside of a town of 6000 residents, we have always tried to be conservative with our trips to town. With gas as high as it's been this year we're especially careful. Reading over the following story from my grandmother's writings reminded me that no matter how tough it might get for us, it can never be as tough as it was for her family, living in the wilds of Humboldt County, in the heart of California's coastal redwood forests, in the early 20th century.

When we first moved to the ranch there were no stores nearby; it was a long journey to Scotia or Fortuna for such things as clothing, cloth, pans, etc.  Therefore two peddlers who came by several times a year were most welcome. They always stayed overnight at our place as we were the local inn. These men carried their goods in a sort of van that had shelves on both sides and an alley for walking down the middle. It was pulled by the usual team of buggy horses.


(Photo stolen from this site)

I don't know the peddlers' names as everyone just called them Adam and Eve. Adam cared for the horses and did any heavy work, while Eve (who was no pansy) sold things and kept books. He had met with an accident at some time that left him with half of an arm, and the other hand had just a thumb and forefinger left.

The part we liked best was after dinner, and after the selling, the peddlers played the guitar and sang the songs of the day to the assembled neighbors by our fireplace. This is one of the ways I learned the old-time songs such as "Red River Valley."


(Music stolen from these guys)

The Mormor Stories: Hey Lady . . .

I think this is the third time I've used this photo, but I actually have a story that works perfectly with it. No, the child on the right in the white dress isn't a girl, nor is it pro golfer John Daly -- it's my great-uncle Art, my grandmother's little brother. They were fine playmates for each other, most of the time, in a world without play dates, or organized soccer, or dance class, or Big Brothers/Big Sisters, or even electricity. Most of the time they played nicely, but Esther (Mormor -- for the introductory story click here) had a wicked streak, apparently. Here is another story -- a short one -- in Mormor's own words.

As my brother, Art, grew out of babyhood he became a bit more of a playmate for me. One day I finally persuaded him to play "Lady" with me, so I dressed both of us in long dresses, ladies shoes, and hats. We set up part of the side porch as our house, complete with orange crate furniture. What Art didn't realize is that it was nearly noon so Dad and the hired men would be coming to the back porch to wash up before dinner. I thought it would be funny if they saw Art in all his finery so I asked him to go around to the back porch for something. He did and ran straight into all the men, who roared with laughter at Art's appearance.  Guess who ripped off the dress and never, never would play "Lady" again?

The Mormor Stories: The Stagecoach Stop

Road travel in my lifetime has been so insular: you get into your car and drive, stopping only to gas up, eat, or sleep. But 100 years ago travelers relied on the kindness of strangers along the way, from help getting unstuck to bed and board in a family's home. It's difficult for me to imagine the level of blind trust in strangers that was required of a person making such a trip, or of the families taking strangers into their homes. (At the end of Mormor's narrative I have a short story to tell, so stick around.)

*     *     *     *     *

When my parents first moved out to the ranch at Camp Grant my mother quickly found out that it was used as an inn and was the first night's stop for the stage on the road to San Francisco. The Redwood Highway along the south fork of Eel River was not yet built, though there was a one-way road (trail) to the various ranches along that part of the river. (This served your great-grandfather's place, Neil and Karen.) Also the road over the hill from South Fork to our place was not yet complete, therefore the stages had to ford the river and come up though our pepperwood grove to reach the house.

My dear mother never knew on three nights a week whether she would have just the family, the hired man, and the stage driver for supper, or a whole car full of people to feed, bed down, and serve an early breakfast.

About this I recall several things: how busy I was helping Mama make beds, setting the table, and doing the everlasting dishes afterwards without any conveniences to make it easy.

Also I remember one stage in particular -- a high, seven passenger black Packard that I believe was driven by a Mr. Smythe. When it was raining sometime the stage would get stuck in the pepperwood road, so my father would go down with the team and some boards to pull it out. Often I went along to report back to Mama how many to feed that night. Papa would be paid $1 for getting the stage going again, and Mama got $1 from each passenger for two meals and bed -- imagine!

*     *     *     *     *

Mormor was my mother's mother, and the events of this story took place nearly 100 years ago. But my father's mother's home, here in the Valley at about the same time, was also a stage stop.


(Photo stolen from the Wells Fargo blog)

Their ranch in north Chico was the final stop for stagecoaches bringing wealthy people from San Francisco to Richardson Springs, a spa retreat in the hills just north of Chico. San Francisco is about 160 miles from Chico, and the Valley is very hot and dusty, so you can imagine the shape the passengers were in when they reached the ranch. Wealth and position likely dictated that these elegant passengers dress up, not down, for their trip; living in San Francisco, they were probably freezing when they left and were wearing warm clothes (a huge mistake for the Valley, then or now).

(Photo stolen from this site)

Richardson Springs was quite close to my great-grandparents' chicken ranch, so the passengers were almost there and didn't require a meal or lodging, but they certainly must have needed cold water and a privy stop. My grandfather sold eggs to the resort, which the stage driver picked up at this stop. Those eggs represented important income for the family, who were dirt poor.

Richardson Springs Resort burned down in 1921, and while it was rebuilt and continued to operate for years, the depression and World War II hurt the hotel's business considerably. There was to be no chicken egg gold mine for my great-grandfather, and the family remained dirt poor for a few more years.

Two different parts of my family tree with very similar life experiences.

The Mormor Stories: Swimming in the Eel River

In honor of the fantastic performances of Michael Phelps and the U.S. Olympic Swim Team this week in Beijing, here are three of Mormor's stories about swimming.  Mormor's family lived at the edge of Humboldt County's Eel River, and the three kids learned to swim in its waters.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

My brother, Art, and I were allowed to go swimming in Eel River (which was one of the borders of our ranch), so eventually we thought we were good enough at it to show off for our mother. One afternoon Art and I coaxed her to come down to the river to watch us swim. We equipped her with cushions for comfortable sitting and an old black umbrella for shade.

At first we just swam up and back in water only about four feet deep. Then we told her we could swim under water too, so we showed off our prowess in that area, being careful not to stay under water very long. We knew if we frightened her about this it would be the end of our swimming.

On the other side of the river a ledge ran out over a pool that was about eight feet deep, and it was there we had practiced our diving. We should have known better but couldn't resist diving off of the ledge. Fortunately, Mama didn't know how deep the water was, and all was well until I stayed under for a few seconds after my dive. Dear Mama rushed out into the water to save me (as she thought), though she couldn't swim at all. Luckily I surfaced before she got out more than a few feet. All the time Art was yelling, "She's all right! I can see her swimming!"

Needless to say, you can guess who didn't get to go swimming again until we faithfully promised that we would never, never go over to the other side of the river. That was a mighty hard promise to keep, but we did until we were teenagers, and better swimmers, too.

But clearly, Mormor, it was a good idea that your mother banned you from that diving ledge, because what have we here? The following tale obviously occurred at an earlier date, and nearly resulted in a tragedy . . .

A ledge over a deep pool in the river near our ranch nearly was my brother's and my undoing, as both of us could easily have lost our lives there. About eight inches of water ran over the ledge, but still it made quite a good diving board from which to practice our skills.

One time Art dove and must have hit his head on a rock, for I could see him just lying on the bottom of the pool. So I dove down and fished him up by his hair. (I didn't know a thing about holds for my own safety.) Just as I got him back nearly over the ledge, Art began to come to and fight, so it was all I could do to finish pulling him up over the projection and still keep his nose out of the water. Very soon Art began to cough and spit up water, so all was well.

We didn't dare tell anyone about it.

Finally, skipping ahead a few years to Mormor's teen years . . .

(Photo stolen from alaspoorwho on Flickr)

While I'm on the subject of swimming, one night we teenagers had a swimming party and marshmallow roast at a favorite hole in the river at South Fork. As we were sitting by the fire the boys began to tell how they'd stolen watermelons from a nearby farm. One story led to another until Elmer Fulwider began to tell how he had sneaked up the cherry tree row almost to Old Man Holmgren's house to get the best cherries. Immediately there was loud laughter and it was a few moments before Elmer realized Old Man Holmgren's daughter was sitting right beside him!

The Mormor Stories: Well, I Never!

Since the dawn of time, the elderly complain about the ways of the young.  It's difficult now, after growing up with punk rock and MTV, to imagine that anyone could ever have considered early 20th century pop culture to be daring or tasteless.  Yet the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I can remember Mormor telling this particular bedtime story as she sat on the edge of one of our beds.  It's not one of her most colorful tales, but I remember it because her eyes lit up and her voice sparkled when she spoke of dancing.



(Photo stolen from these guys)

Along with the other customs we inherited when Dad leased the ranch at Camp Grant was the holding of dances in the summer, as well as in the winter.  The summer affairs were held every two or three weeks, depending on the weather, and were out-of-door dances since someone had constructed a dance platform down in our pepperwood grove.  It had quite a good floor helped by liberal amounts of candle wax rubbed in by sliding a bale of hay over it.  This platform even boasted a mini-shell for the musicians.

My father had the job of providing ice cream, candy, gum and soft drinks, which he ordered from Scotia ahead of time.  He had only to go to the railroad siding on our place to pick up the stuff in the early evening on the appointed date.

Who took the admissions, if any, or who arranged for the musicians I never did know.  Music usually consisted of a violin and an accordion, and they played country style music.  I recall seeing folks dancing, waltzing, and doing the two-step.

Of course, I begged to go down to the dance with my father, partially because of the excitement, the music, and the ice cream.  Dad, bless him, was always generous in the latter regard.  Also, because there were benches around the platform, I could peek through to watch the dancers.

One night when I was standing on the ground behind the benches watching the people whirl around, I heard two elderly women talking about the dancers.  One said, "Isn't that awful!  Just look at the way Grafford Myers is dancing!"  The other woman tut-tutted too, and said she thought that particular dance was called "The Rag."  Well, then I looked most carefully at Grafford and his partner, and I thought they were doing beautiful dips and whirls, so I couldn't understand why the ladies said such things.

So I went back to my father and told him the whole story.  Dad just laughed and told me to pay no attention to them -- some people would criticize The Lord Himself.

The Mormor Stories: Fourth of July

What, another Mormor story, so soon?  Well, the first part is a little story that Mormor wrote, and after it, in honor of independence Day, a story from the other side of my family.  First, from Mormor . . .

         

Though my father was a naturalized citizen he always celebrated the Fourth of July
as a loyal American by going some place for a picnic, and by ordering ice cream and soda pop from Scotia.  As we started out we stopped at the station in South Fork to pick up these goodies.  Of course, Mother had used the previous day to cook all kinds of picnic food.

Dad didn't own a car at first, so we traveled in the spring wagon to nearby places like the Green Point Ranch or the Patmore place near the base of Old Baldy.*  Later, my father's cousin Alfred Anderson came out from Rio Dell to take us where there were public picnics planned for the day, such as at Devoy's Grove, Lane's Flat, or Bear Creek.

(I recall very vividly my excitement when Alfred drove up in his new Hudson Super-Six.  It was black and had real leather cushions that smelled so good in the hot summer sun.  Later he had other cars, but none so impressed me as that Hudson.)

*I often Google Mormor's site references such as Old Baldy and Devoy's Grove, and very often find no references.  They may very well be archaic names which have faded in the past 100 years.

*     *     *     *     *

Meanwhile, a couple of hundred miles (and about 30˚F) away, the residents of Chico, a hot and dusty Northern California valley town, were enjoying the holiday as well.  On one of those long-ago Independence Day picnics the Pierce family were at Children's Park, by the Bidwell Mansion in Chico, for the festivities.  There were fireworks as the light faded, but something went horribly wrong on this evening.  An errant rocket strayed into the crowd of onlookers, and killed a child.  The toddler Helen, the youngest Pierce child who would one day become my great aunt, became separated from her older sisters in the ensuing confusion and horror, and stood screaming as crowds of people rushed past.  Helen remembers being lifted up onto a picnic table by a man who was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of touching a strange child.  Deposited on the raised table, she was safe from being trampled, but was still alone and no happier.  Her sisters found her and scooped her up, whisking her to safety.

My aunt told me this story this spring, and since she is, at 90, the last remaining Pierce trying to remember an episode from her toddler years, it is unverifiable.  However, her mind is as sharp as a tack, and her early memories were seared by the death of her mother at just about this same time; I tend to have faith in the very few memories she has brought forth from this era.

I hope all who visit Foolery today fully enjoy the holiday weekend ahead, in safety and togetherness with the ones you love.

The Mormor Stories: Dances in the Time of Prohibition

My grandmother, Mormor, was a decent, upright citizen and a lady.

However.

No one could get a twinkle in her eye over something daring, something naughty, quite the way Mormor could.  She was a fascinating mix of exemplary behavior and a taste for trouble.  This story of Mormor's captures her mischievous spirit quite well, and the asides are all hers, not mine.  Also, please keep in mind that she told this story to children when we were barely old enough to know what alcohol was.*

(Photo stolen from Matthew Harris on Flickr)

As a growing girl my folks allowed me now and then to go to the public dances nearby with the Lou Reid family, so I learned to dance quite young.  Midnight supper was to be eaten in the hall with the Reids no matter who might ask me to be his supper partner.  (Later on I was allowed to go to dances with the boyfriend of the moment, so usually ate supper in his car.  However, I always managed to include another couple to eat with us.  Foxy Mormor!)

To digress a bit, this was in the Prohibition era, so the dance was a fine sales place for moonshine liquor.  I was told that the procedure was to lay a dollar bill on a certain stump in back of the dance hall, leave for a few minutes, and then come back to pick up a full bottle.  The secrecy was because the government revenuers might show up any minute to arrest the liquor makers.

Well, one night they did just that as Fay Myers rounded the corner of the hall hugging his bottle.  Then the chase was on.  Someone turned on his car lights that shone right on Fay, and the officers took off down the dusty road after him.  Somehow Fay escaped into the woods nearby with his bottle intact.

I shall always remember Fay's bow legs sprinting down the road with three men after him, and how we kids laughed at the whole proceeding.

*Foxy Mormor! (and that aside is all mine)