Foolery

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)

The Mormor Stories -- Monday Wash

I've been fighting a losing battle with laundry this week -- aww, who am I kidding?  All of my life!  But I was reminded of this story of Mormor's, and I'm planning not to complain about laundry, or gas prices, or heat, or ANYTHING.  For a few days.

Martin, Esther (who was later to be Mormor), Art, Eileen, and Elise (who would be called Momone, rhymes with "hominy," by her grandchildren)

My mother was addicted to washing on Monday so, when the water pipes to the ranch house became frozen, some other means of washing had to be worked out.  So my father hooked up our old white horse, Lad, to a sled on which he heaped two tubs, some wood and kindling, soap, a scrub board, two iron bars, and the dirty clothes to top off the load.  Then away we went down to the Eel River which bordered out place.  There we helped Dad make a circle of stones while I carried water to partially fill one tub.  Then Dad built a fire inside the stones, laid the bars across, and put the tub on them.  Then Dad went home and Mom began washing as soon as the water got hot.  I filled the second tub with rinse water.

After the job was done and things put back on the sled, I happily had the privilege of driving old Lad home.  I must confess that I doubt if I could have turned him away from the trail -- he knew where his barley box was!  Anyway, all this happened more than once, and that was a far cry from our automatic washers of today.

The Mormor Stories: The Little Girl Who Helped

(Photo stolen from Nikolay Chigirev)

In honor of a long holiday weekend, here is a very long Mormor story.

*     *     *     *     *

The road to San Francisco went by our ranch when we first lived at Camp Grant, because the Redwood Highway along the south fork of Eel River was not yet constructed.  The road was not a very good one; it was rough, full of slip-outs and slides here and there, and with sharp turns and steep hills.  It was especially bad in stormy weather.

Late one rainy afternoon a fine-looking car drove by the place, apparently on its way to San Francisco.  We noticed it because there were not many cars in the area, and people usually didn't do much traveling toward night, especially if it was stormy.

About eight-thirty, as we all were sitting by the fireplace, there came a knock at the front door.  My father opened it and there stood a bloody, muddy, soaked-to-the-skin man who immediately said, "We've had a car accident.  Will you help us?"

"Of course," said Dad.  "Come in."  Then the man told us his name was Dusenbery, he had his brother with him, and also an older man who was a banker from New York who was interested in buying redwood acreage.  He said he couldn't see very well in the darkness (cars had poorer headlights in those days) so he drove into a slip-out on a sharp curve.  The car slid over and rolled down the hill, stopping up against a tree.  The men were thrown out of the car and he, after determining that he had only a broken arm plus scratches and bruises, began to feel about and call to locate the other two.  Finally he found the banker whose chief problem was a bad scalp wound that was bleeding profusely.  There being no first aid kit there wasn't anything he could do for the man, and he feared greatly for the banker's life.  Then he called and called as he slipped and slid around on the muddy hillside but could not find his brother.  He knew it was up to him to get help, remembered passing our farmhouse, so somehow he found his way to our place.

Mother had hurried to get hot water to wash blood and mud off Mr. Dusenbery, and then tied a long dishcloth around his neck to hold his broken arm.  She tried to get him into dry clothes but he was in a hurry to go with Dad.  Our hired man, Ed McDonald, was asked to walk to South Fork to order a train complete with doctor and nurse to come from Scotia Hospital to our Camp Grant siding.  After Ed was given some identifying papers to prove that the train, etc. would be paid for, Ed took off for South Fork.  (I'll bet he felt more important then than at any other time in his life.)  Luckily, the station master was there, who then ordered the train, phoned the doctor, and was able to tell Ed that the train should be at our siding at about two o'clock that night.

Meanwhile, my father put a lot of dry hay on the bed of the spring wagon, put in several blankets and a pillow, and covered it all with a watertight canvas.  Then he hooked up the team (they probably thought he'd gone crazy to go out in the rain at that time of night), got an extra lantern and a ladder that might be used as a litter or sled, called Mr. Dusenbery, and they were off.




















(Photo stolen from these guys)

It was not too easy to find the exact spot where the accident happened, but, after several stops, they finally found the place.  Dad managed to turn the wagon around, and then went slipping and sliding down the hillside to where the banker lay while Mr. Dusenbery called for his brother.  Finally he, too, was located, and was able to help his brother and Dad put the banker on the ladder; the men, by pulling and pushing him, got the banker up to the road at last.  How they got that man into the wagon is more than I know, but they did, and then started back.  Dad tried to make the trip back as gentle as possible, though he had a hard time, for those horses knew a warm barn was waiting.

When they got into the house Mother put the banker, Mr. Franchot, in an easy chair by the fire, feeling that his head wound would bleed less if he were sitting erect.  Then she cleaned around the wound and put on butterfly patches to hold the sides together.  Then, oddly enough and despite the loss of blood, he seemed quit comfortable.  Meanwhile Mother insisted that the other young man lie down on the lounge because she said his eyes didn't look right.  (It turned out that he had suffered a bad concussion and really didn't become aware of much for a week or so.)  So they waited for the train with Mr. Dusenbery sitting by the fire in a lot of pain.

Then my father came in after putting the wagon under shelter and the horses in the barn.  Knowing that he'd be using them again soon he didn't unharness them.  The horses must have felt that Dad really had lost his mind, nevertheless they accepted the extra tidbit of barley that he gave them.

Ed came back shortly with the good news that the train, doctor, and nurses were on the way.  The engineer would blow a long blast every now and then so that as soon as we heard it, preparations could start to get the victims to the siding.

I felt quite important as I was assigned to listen for the train whistle (childhood's acute hearing), so I sat by a slightly opened window so I wouldn't miss the sound.  It was cold, which served to keep me awake.  Finally I ran into the sitting room yelling that I'd heard the whistle.  So they all listened, and a bit later it sounded again.  All was a-bustle then, with my father rushing out to hook up the team, and Mother wrapping up the patients for the short trip.

They got to the siding just as the train was pulling in, so Dad had help in transferring his passengers.  They left then with Mr. Dusenbery saying he'd be back in a few days to pay my father, and to arrange about getting the car to a flat car on the siding.

He kept his promise and, after paying Dad far too much, told us his arm was properly set, his brother's concussion was lessening though he was still in the hospital, as was Mr. Franchot.  The latter's head wound was cared for, and the bruises and scratches that all three had suffered were much better.  Then he asked Dad if he could get the car up to the road and down to the siding and up on a flat car.  My father assured him he could.  So Mr. Dusenbery gave Dad another $100 and told him to go ahead.














(Photo stolen from these guys)

Since I wasn't there I don't know just how my father and Ed managed this, but several days later there was this beautiful Chalmers Six safely fastened down on a flat car that had been ordered.  The car really wasn't hurt very much; I guess the mud was soft.  Anyway I recall the odor of its leather seats when the sun shone on them and how I enjoyed just sitting in the car.

In later years Mr. Dusenbery came by several times and always insisted on giving my father a $50 bill on each visit.  He told us the banker's wound simply would not heal until the doctor found and removed from deep down in his head a redwood needle.

















(Photo stolen from these guys)

Near Christmastime the year of the wreck I was amazed to get a little package from Olean, New York.  You can imagine how I hurried to open it.  There lay, in a jeweler's box, a most lovely little lavaliere that had a central ruby surrounded by small pearls.  Accompanying it was a wee thank-you note addressed "to the little girl who helped."  It was the only piece of jewelry that I had for many years, and I wore it on all dress-up occasions.  I've kept it all these years and now have given it to Sheri, my oldest granddaughter, along with the story about it, in the hope that she'll enjoy it as much as I did.

The Mormor Stories: Living Near Trains

In the thick redwood groves of early 20th century Humboldt County, California, where the car was not yet king and hitching up the team of horses was a big job, walking the railroad tracks was probably the best way to get from one place to another.  It was certainly a direct route in land carved up by rivers and overgrown by ferns and redwood seedlings.  Consequently, many of my grandmother's childhood stories involved train tracks, trains and sometimes the people who operated them.  Here are four of these stories, just as she wrote them, which was just the way she told these stories to her grandchildren at bedtime.


(Original photo stolen from oohkumar on Flickr)

Several odd and funny incidents happened to me as I walked the railroad track from the ranch to the school at South Fork.

Rarely did I take the walk alone, but one time I had gone to the store at Dyerville for mail and snuff for Dad, so the other students had gone ahead.  The gentle rain turned into a thunderstorm that soon seemed right above me.  I got off the railroad track as soon as I could (safer) and took refuge in a small subway below the track.  There the county road ran beneath the railroad as did a small creek, which was separated from the roadbed by a four-foot high cement wall.  I leaned against the wall as there was a place above where not quite so much rain could come pelting down.  In a moment the lightning struck very near, and its concussion and possibly the steel in the cement combined to knock me flat on my face into the muddy roadbed.  You can be sure that I lost no time getting out of there in spite of the rain.  When I told my folks what had happened they warned me never to seek shelter there as I could have easily been killed.


(Photo stolen from The Big Jiggety on Flickr)

Another time when I was alone I saw a hobo walking toward me but at quite some distance away.  I got the strongest hunch that I'd better get off the track and out of there, so over the bank I slid and on down to the river bar.  It was wide and open but I lost no time in crossing it and getting to the trees nearby.  I decided not to follow the old road that wound through the pepperwoods but to cut across the fields as the shortest way home.  I also figured if the hobo had followed me he would think I'd taken the road.  I arrived home safely, out of breath, and really unable to explain my flight.  I can tell you, though, that that guy would have had no luck trying to catch me.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

When we moved to Camp Grant the Northwestern Pacific Railroad tracks were being built through our land.  The supervisors and foremen ate lunch at our place so we got to know them all quite well.  Often they'd give me a ride to school whether by engine, caboose, flat car, handcar or speeder.

One time I was riding on a noisy speeder having been given a ride by one of the supervisors.  All of a sudden there was a loud whistle blast right behind us.  Engineer St. Louis had somehow sneaked his engine up real close without our hearing it.  The supervisor threw the speeder off the track while I lost no time sliding down the bank.  Then we saw St. Louis laughing his head off.  Ever after you know who kept a sharp eye to the rear.  I'll never understand how such a huge thing could be moved so close so quietly.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

St. Louis obviously enjoyed his little jokes because he also had some fun at my cousin Bill's expense.  The track had very few places wide enough to allow one to get off the railroad and be a safe distance from a passing train.  There was one small canyon where Bill, Carl (Bill's brother) and I were standing when St. Louis covered us all with steam shot out from the engine.  Bill began to scream and swear, all the while shaking his little boy fist at St. Louis.  Just Bill's fist stuck up out of the steam, which evidently amused the engineer no end.  Ever after it was a game with him to try to catch Bill in a narrow spot and cover him with steam.


(Original photos stolen from this guy and this guy)

The Mormor Stories: Saturday Night Dance

(Original photo stolen from JAM1978 on Flickr)

We take so much for granted these days.  It's easy to think of the obvious -- television, Tivo, computers, even electricity.  But what about how to spend your occasional unfettered Saturday nights?  We THINK we could get along with a strong candle and a good book, but really?  Could we do without a Miles Davis or Grateful Dead disc playing in the background while we read?  Or a scented pomegranate candle, maybe?  And who among us would be jonesing for a Starbucks coffee or (like Yours Truly) a big balloon of Trader Joe's Two-Buck Chuck diesel red?

Now read this account, and ask yourself if you really long for those days of simpler pleasures.  You still may.

The first winter we were on the ranch at Camp Grant my mother discovered that we were, by custom, supposed to hold dances now and then at our house.  This because we had a big living room and a large dining room that had good floors for dancing if well-smeared with candle wax ahead of time.  Mom didn't mind the wax, but she adamantly refused having a bale of hay to work in the wax; she said that shoes will soon do the job.

Midnight supper, consisting of box lunches and coffee, also became my mother's job.  It was no small task, for she never knew how many to prepare, and the nearest store was miles away.  I got to stay up way past my bedtime for I could help Mom, and besides, who could sleep with an accordion and violin being played very loudly so dancers in both rooms could hear?

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

After I'd finished my little jobs one winter night, I sidled into the dining room to watch, and was quite thrilled with it all.  Then along came Jinx Hall, a young man of about twenty, who asked me why I wasn't dancing.  I answered most seriously and truthfully, "Jinx, I don't know how."

"Well, we'll fix that," he said.  "Come on."

So we went whirling about with my toes touching the floor only now and then.  We must have made an odd-looking couple because my nine-year-old frame only reached to his top vest button.  But it was heaven for me and, after that dance number was over, he gravely thanked me and brought me back to my corner.

You can bet I rushed into the kitchen calling, "Mama, Mama, I danced!  I danced with Jinx Hall.  He asked me and he thanked me too!  Isn't he beautiful?"

"Yes, he's a nice-looking young man," said my mother, "And it was kind of him to ask a little girl to dance."

"Oh," I said, "I'll never, never forget this night."

"But now," said Mama, "Come down to earth and help me wrap the sandwiches."

I've loved to dance ever since that evening.

p.s.  As an adult I still thought Jinx Hall was a most handsome man.

The Mormor Stories: Bringing in the Cows

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Bringing the herd in to be milked is almost always easy.  There are very few real ups, but then there are not so many downs, either.  Here in the flat flat North Valley, with good strong fences and the promise of grain in the barn to entice the cows, bringing in a docile herd was almost always a piece of cake.

My grandmother's experience nearly 100 years ago, in the wilds of redwood country (probably with no fencing), was a different matter.  Here is her story.

One of my jobs on the ranch was to round up the dairy cows for the evening milking.  They wandered all over the flat at Camp Grant and might be just anywhere.  My father put a bell on one cow which was supposed to help me locate them, but really didn't, because hills on both sides of the flat caused the sound to echo and re-echo in a most unhelpful way.

One afternoon I had looked for the herd at one end of the area with no success so I half-ran to the upper end as it was getting late.  Finally, about a half mile from the ranch I located the cows peacefully feeding in a meadow on what we called "The Island."  They were in no mood to go home, so I had quite a time rounding them up.  The way back was a trail that led through a thick redwood grove which made it seem darker and later than it may have been.  When we were part way through the grove I heard the most awful scream and right away thought of our hired man's telling of seeing panther tracks a few days before.  Since the scream seemed to come from my right, I quickly rushed over to the left and ran up to get into the middle of the herd, figuring the animal wouldn't find me among them.  And, anyhow, the cows were bigger and juicier than I was.  The screams kept on and I was terribly worried that the animals would panic and outrun me.  However, they didn't, and finally we came out into the open again where I could see much better and felt much safer.

As we got to the lane leading to our barn I met my father who had started out to look for me.  I burst out with my tale of fright and Dad promised to go up the next day to shoot the panther, providing that he could find it.

Well, it turned out that the screams I heard came from two small trees scraping against each other when a gust of wind blew them together.  No one teased me about it, and I soon figured out why -- somebody else would get the job of finding those wandering cows.

(Photo stolen from jessthespringer on Flickr)

The Mormor Stories: Elise Comes to America

June, 1902.  Taking you back to the very beginning of Mormor's stories: the true tale of her mother's brave journey, alone, into a country bigger than her imagination could stretch.  Waiting for her there were her fiancé and his cousin (the only two people she knew in America), and American English, a language she would never really learn.



My mother, Elise Holmgren (born Alis Karlsson) was born in the province of Skâne in southern Sweden.  After she finished school she met my father and they became engaged.  To Dad there didn't seem to be much of a future in Sweden as there wasn't enough family money to send him to a university, so, when an offer of a job in California came, he set off.  Both he and Mom were to save money for her passage to join him as soon as possible.  Finally the great day arrived and she sailed off for America.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

She was afraid she'd get seasick, so a friend of Dad's gave her a small bottle of brandy with instructions to take a small swallow every morning which, he said, would take care of that.  Well, the Atlantic was calm in June and many passengers spoke Swedish so Mom had a great time.

She made the transfer from Ellis Island and to the train for Chicago with not much trouble, but there her difficulties began.  A clerk in Liverpool had sold her a ticket on a slow, old milk train that wound up through the Dakotas, far from the direct route by Union Pacific to San Francisco that she had paid for.  Of course, the clerk kept the difference in the fare price.

As the train poked along it stopped at every tiny station.  Then Mom discovered there was no diner or sleeping car so she knew something was wrong, but couldn't do anything about it for she spoke no English.  All she had to reassure herself was asking the conductor, "San Francisco?" and seeing him nod, "Yes."

After about two days of this the train stopped for water and a few men passengers.  Mom had her window open a bit and heard one of the men swear lustily in Swedish.  She threw the window open wide and called out, "Can you speak Swedish?"  One young man looked quite startled and answered that he did, and could he help her in any way?  He came up into her car and heard her sad story.

He, too, assured her that the train was going to San Francisco, and that he was traveling on that train to a place called Sacramento, which wasn't very far from her destination.

At the next station he found some food for Mom and even rustled up a pillow.  He said he was an electric engineer who had just finished a job on a dam and was going to a similar job up the San Joaquin River in California.  Mom told him that she was going to Eureka where she would be met by the man to whom she was engaged.

For the rest of the way the engineer saw that they both had regular meals with little treats, for he was becoming quite enamored of the unexpected passenger (Mom was a cute little lady).  He told her he was going to write to her, and hoped she'd change her mind about that guy she was meeting.  He told her how to transfer from the train to the boat in San Francisco, which worked out very well.

Once on the ship her troubles began again, for the ship was small, the waters near the shore are rough, and Mom got most dreadfully seasick.  She said she got to the point that she didn't care if she ever saw Dad or her folks or Sweden again -- she just wanted to die.

Finally the ship put in at Eureka, and a very tottery little lady was met by my father.  He took her to the Western Hotel, which was run by Swedish friends of Dad's.  Mom said she slept for a day and a half, but not before deciding that Martin looked very good to her, and he really was The One.



When Dad came to see her the next weekend the hotel owner hurried to ask him who Mom knew in Fresno.  Of course he wanted to know why she asked him that, and she answered that my mother had gotten two letters from there in the past week, and they were in a man's handwriting.

Well, I guess they had quite a quarrel about it, which ended with Mom's promise to write the engineer and tell him she was going ahead with her plans to marry Martin.

Which she did on October 12, 1904, after working two years to build up a dowry in the European fashion.

The Mormor Stories: Salmon Fishing on the Eel

Somewhere between work and home tonight I came down with a head cold, soon to be avian flu or rabies.  Until that kicks in I have some blogs to check on, some fermented medicine to administer to myself, and a movie to watch (since I rented it about eight years ago, I may as well).

I had all kinds of plans for my blogging activities tonight, but I'm taking the easy way out and writing up another Mormor story.  In light of this week's federal and state decision to ban all salmon fishing this year on the California coast, and I think in the rivers, this story seems appropriate.


Esther's (Mormor's) little sister Eileen and baby brother Art

Long ago it was not against the law to spear salmon on the Eel River -- just don't do it at night.  But what with school, chores and supper, not much daylight was left in which to fish.  So my brother, Art, and sister, Eileen, strapped a flashlight on a long spear and took off for a big riffle near the ranch.  Though it rapidly became dark they felt they were in the clear because our land deed stated we owned to the middle of the river.  Therefore they were fishing on their own property and no Fish and Game officer could arrest them.

After sitting on the bank for a bit just listening to the quiet ripple of the water, there finally came the great splashing that told of a salmon working its way up the riffle.  Art dashed into the water, located the fish with the flashlight, jabbed his spear at it, missed, and tried again.  This time he was successful and had dragged the fish almost to the shore, when a big, bass voice boomed out of the darkness, saying

For an instant the kids were paralyzed with fear, then they both thought of running for it, but by that time the man's flashlight had exposed them both.  In another second or so a loud laugh greeted them, and a voice said, "Hey, this is Bob.  How are you doing?"  It was the neighbor's hired man who had wondered what was going on when he saw the glow of the kids' flashlight.  He complimented Art on his catch for it was a fine, big fish, but he'd taken away any desire they had for night fishing again.

The Mormor Stories: The Valley of the Giants

Time for my grandmother's take on movie stars:

When I was in the 6th grade at South Fork we heard that a movie was being made in the redwoods between South Fork and Dyerville.  It was to be called "The Valley of the Giants" and the male lead was Wallace Reid.  I don't recall the name of the heroine.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Anyway, our teacher got permission for our whole school to watch the proceedings one afternoon if we promised to be as quiet as the proverbial mouse.  I don't remember much about the movie-making except that they went over and over each small part, and that Reid, being a small, pasty-faced man, scarcely fit my idea of a tough woodsman.

Several days later I was visiting Ruby Patmore who lived near the railroad station.  Apparently the movie group was leaving for Hollywood as they were at the station waiting for the train.  Mrs. Patmore answered a knock at her door and there was Wallace Reid, who bossily ordered  her to get him a drink of water.  "Mr. Reid," she said, "I'm just a country person, but I was taught early to say please when I wanted a favor."  The actor looked most oddly at her and finally said, "Please may I have a drink of water?"  "That's better," she replied.  "I'll get one for you."  She did, and he learned his lesson well enough to remember to say thanks.

We girls were quite impressed with Mrs. Patmore.

Years later the movie moguls decided on a remake of "The Valley of the Giants."  They used the lumbering town of Crannell as the site of the story.  Because I was teaching there I didn't get to watch the movie-making, but did eat at a special dining room with the extras.  I got somewhat acquainted with William Powell, to whom I confided that I thought the choice of big, handsome Milton Sills for the lead was much better than the earlier hero -- Wallace Reid.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

On the next Friday night I took the train from Eureka to go home for the weekend.  Who should walk up to my seat, asking if he could join me, but William Powell!  After an hour or so of chatter we arrived at the station at South Fork.  It was practically totally dark, so he was much concerned that I might not be met.  I agreed to wave Dad's flashlight to show him my father was there, which he was.  As I waved, Dad remarked that it was nice of the man to be concerned, and really out of character from what he'd heard of Hollywood men.

I heard this Mormor story many times over the years, as I did all of her stories.  But it was only as I prepared this story for my blog that I realized which actor Mormor had met.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

The Mormor Stories: The New Years Eve Flood

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Camp Grant is not a town, but more an area.  It's one of the places where Ulysses S. Grant made camp once when, as an army officer, he was stationed in San Francisco.  I forget why he went north to Humboldt.  In any case, it is a flat area along the Eel River in Humboldt County.  Those tall trees are probably redwoods and cedars.  It's a beautiful site, as this picture from 2005 shows, but a century ago it was a challenging place to scratch out a living, and it was sometimes dangerous.  Here's another Mormor story.

About two years after we moved to Camp Grant we experienced a very bad, stormy winter.  After over two weeks of rain and snow in the mountains the streams were flooding, and the whole country was soggy.

On New Year's Eve 1914-15 my father became very concerned for our safety as the Eel River that bordered our place was rising fast.  Also, part of the river broke through on the other side, leaving our house and barn on a small island.  Dad thought he could save us by nailing two scrubs together to make a raft (about eight feet by twelve feet) which he hoped to pole across the river's bypass, which was not very deep but was swift.

Meantime he had put stakes into the river's edge so he could measure how fast it was rising, and he went there each hour all night long to check, and to drive new stakes as the others were swept away.

Of course we all were terribly frightened and couldn't sleep at all.  We got ready our rain coats and boots and prayed we wouldn't have to use the raft.  If so, Dad had built a new barn on the hill beyond the bypass, so thought we could stay there until the flooding was over because part of the barn had a dirt floor so we could have a bonfire.

Luckily about four in the morning the rain stopped, and at five o'clock the stake showed that the river had stopped rising.  By six o'clock it had begun to fall a little, and by ten the water was nearly gone from the field near the house.  It had risen to a part of the barn and to the corner of the woodshed, so you can know how real the danger was.

I truly believe that our whole family would have been drowned if we had been forced to use that raft, for the current was swift even in the bypass.  There were many willows growing there which Dad would have had to maneuver around, and none of us could swim.  I guess the dear Lord had planned some work for us to do so we were safe after all.

It took many days to dry out and clean up the place, and we're grateful that the Eel River flooding never quite reached such heights until we no longer lived at Camp Grant.

The Eel River eventually won, and Esther's parents moved "to town" in their twilight years.

The Mormor Stories: Lost in Translation

A quick Mormor story, since it is very late and I've been up drinking beer talking to Gubby on the phone drinking beer talking to Gubby on the phone and scanning old old old photos.

There are great disadvantages in not knowing the language very well when you live in an English-speaking country.  For instance, I broke out with a rash that my mother saw was getting worse despite home remedies.  So my father described it to a nice neighbor lady who immediately diagnosed it as poison oak.  She told Dad to put me in an Epsom Salts bath which would neutralize the poison.  So Dad came back, told Mother what to do, and Mom prepared the tub of warm water, ready to cure the rash.  Well, something was lost in translation because she had put in lots of plain salt.  When I hit the water and the salt got into the places I'd scratched, I screamed, and Mom was unable to hold me in the tub.  Dad came running to help and between them I had a real salty bath, yelling my head off the whole time.

Do you know there IS justice in this world -- I've never had poison oak since!

(Photo stolen from these guys)

The Mormor Stories: The Birthday Party

Humboldt County is one of the northernmost counties in California, and is famous for its redwood groves.  The sequoia sempervirens are the tallest trees in the world (the tall redwoods, not the girth-y ones down in Yosemite, which can be encircled by no fewer than 48 tree-huggers holding hands).  Into this world of columns of sunlight and fog was born my grandmother Esther a century ago.  Not much has changed there since then, except for the advent of electricity (my great grandfather got electricity in his home after the second world war, only after much badgering by his daughter Esther), the disintegration of the logging business, and the subsequent rise of both tourism and the underground marijuana industry.  Here is another of Esther's stories from very early in her life.

Rohnerville, where we lived before moving to Camp Grant, had in my estimation a real big school, with four rooms and four teachers.  I began first grade there with, as nearly as I can recall, just two English words -- hello and no.  Since I couldn't understand anyone the kids left me strictly alone, and I recall sitting on the school steps nearly in tears because no one asked me to join their recess games.  Finally the teacher, a Miss Nelson (who later became Mrs. Archie Cathey of Miranda) delegated the job of teaching me English to her little sister who was in my class.  Now, Alice was a real go-getter who took her job seriously, so I went through a series of instruction you wouldn't believe.  After I learned the English word for a thing I tried never to use the Swedish word again (a big error), and I pestered Mom 'til she used English too.  (It's a wonder she didn't drown me!)

All this leads up to my unexpected birthday party, which occurred before Alice had made me her project.  As I was ready to leave for school I asked Dad, "How do I say in English that today is my birthday?"  He told me, and I repeated it as I hurried to school so I wouldn't forget how to say it.  So, as soon as I got on the grounds I piped up, "Today is my birthday."  The kids then asked me, "Are you having a party?"  I didn't know what they asked, so I said, "No."  They looked so downcast that I thought I'd said the wrong thing so I said, "Yes."  Then I was asked, "Can I come?"  Again the same problem so I said, "No."  Sad looks again so I changed it to, "Yes."  All of a sudden I was very popular and this lasted all day.  I knew something was wrong but I couldn't figure it out.

When school was out I raced home, burst in the door and asked Mom, "What is a party?"  She explained and I told her what had happened.  "Kara Gud, what shall I do?  How many are coming?"  Of course I couldn't answer.

Luckily Mom had made a big birthday cake for me, she always had lot of cookies baked, and kept lemons on hand as Dad liked lemonade.

Soon the kids began straggling down our lane with Mother mentally figuring how small the pieces of cake must be.

She told me to take the kids to play under the pepperwood trees, where we made room outlines with the dead leaves.  We also had fun sliding down the haystack.

Soon Mom called us to come for birthday cake that she had cut into twenty small pieces, and there was a rush of about twenty kids to our broad back stairs where she had spread newspaper for the guests to sit on.  On a table above the stairs Mom had set out the cake, the cookies, and the lemonade, plus all the cups, glasses, and small plates in the house.  Alice Nelson lined the kids up so Mom could serve them easily.  Every one sat on the stairs except one boy who insisted on sitting at the table because he said you were supposed to do that at a party.

After we were finished eating (which didn't take long) Alice came out from the house with an armload of things all wrapped up, and put them in my lap.  I wondered what I was to do with them until Mom said to open them -- they were for me.  There were ribbons, small toys, and now and there a dime -- all things that the pupils' mothers had gathered together for the impromptu party.  However, I could scarcely credit my good fortune as they all were treasures to me.

After the children had gone home I calmed down a bit but was still excited enough to bubble out the whole story when Dad came home from work.  Dad just laughed and didn't seem to mind that there was no dessert with his dinner that night -- the kids had finished everything.

One very happy little girl went to bed that night with all her new treasures near at hand.

Having just thrown a birthday party at which no dimes or ribbons were given, I for one read this story with a wistful sigh for a day that won't come again.  Not as long as the Mattel corporation has anything to say about it.

The Mormor Stories: Running Away

I lost my grandmother, my mother's mother, when I was 22.  Until that day I was lucky enough to have all four of my grandparents living.

My mother's mother was born Astrid Patrina Holmgren, although her first name was changed, by her teacher, to Esther, once she started school.  Her immigrant parents spoke only Swedish in the home, and little Esther knew very few -- maybe even zero -- English words.  Her parents, my great grandparents, had settled in coastal Northern California, an enclave for Swedish immigrants at the turn of the 1900s.  They settled in among the redwoods, started a family, and carved out a new life as Americans.


(Original photo stolen from this guy)

Mormor, as we called my grandmother decades later (Mormor is the Swedish name for maternal grandmother) had three special gifts that she shared with the world.  The first was her ability to talk to children; she became an elementary school teacher.  Her second gift was a flair for story-telling, and with this post as my first post in a series, I will type word-for-word from a packet of stories Mormor made for each of her children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews.  These are the stories we kids grew up hearing; every night we spent under Mormor's roof meant there would be Mormor stories at bedtime.  Her stories often rabbit-trailed, and she was the first person I ever heard use the phrase "but I digress," regularly and without sarcasm.  And yet I realize as I again read the true tales I've known all my life, she never varied her stories by much.  I have tears rolling down my face and I'm a snotty mess as I hear her voice speak these words in my ear.

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When one is nearly six and can't talk English one can get quite lonely.  My little sister had passed away and there was no one at home with whom to play.  Down the road from us there lived a family who had a number of boys;  Mama considered them roughnecks and wouldn't allow me to go near them.  However I was so anxious to find someone to play with that I sneaked down through the orchard to their place, where I wasn't received graciously at all, so I just sat on a stump and watched their ball game.

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

About this time my mother missed me and began looking for me.  At last she saw me up on the stump, came down there, and angrily dragged me home, where I got a good spanking.

Time went on; I was lonesome again.  I had practically forgotten the punishment so I sneaked off once more to watch the boys playing.  This time Mama came after me with a rope in her hand.  Well, when we got about halfway across the orchard  I suddenly figured out what the rope was for -- my mother had been pushed too far and was going to hang me.  (Don't ask me how I knew about hanging.)  You can imagine how I yelled all the way to the house.  There Mama tied the rope around me and fastened me to the drain pipe under the sink.

Just then there came a knock on the door.  Two of our neighbor ladies had heard me screaming and came over to see if my mother was really beating me or if I had a broken arm or something.  Mama explained as best she could in halting English what had happened.  But the ladies insisted on seeing for themselves, so Mama took them to the kitchen where I had hastily closed the cabinet doors.  One lady opened the doors and took a good look at me, though I had squeezed myself back as far as I could.  Mama told the ladies that I had to stay there one hour, which apparently satisfied them that I wouldn't come to any harm.

Believe me, I never, never ran away again.

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I almost forgot to tell you Mormor's third gift: she had a hollow leg.  But that is a story for another day.