I'm not affected!!!

Sorry that I haven’t been a very prolific blogger lately, but I have been working way too much, and I’ve been busy trying to reason with the rest of the bloggers out there that post things just to make me mad and see me jump.

I have several good ideas, but even good ideas need some research. I have a lot of un-posted history from my very own family that I want to post about someday. It probably smacks of nepotism to write about my family, but they say that you should write about what you know best, so in my case that would be my family. Plus, I kinda’ like my family, and when I look around I see a lot of people that don’t get along that well nowadays. What’s up with that? It seems like everyone is turning against everyone lately.

Maybe it’s Seasonal Affected Disorder. That’s were the dreary weather physically makes you depressed. Something about the lack of sunlight does it to you. I’m not depressed by lack of light; it’s just that winters get so damned annoying! Sometimes I just want to slap something! But, I'm not affected by it.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t stoop to the obvious and comment about the weather again, so I’ve missed some grand opportunities this last couple of weeks. I could have even taken some pictures. But, just about everybody that would be interested probably has a better story than I do, and I hate to be outdone.

Like I say, I'm not affected by that SAD thing, but I don’t understand why I almost slapped that nice young lady that came prancing into the store the other day and proclaimed so cheerfully that; “I just LOVE the rain, it's soooo fresh!!!” Damn, it makes me mad just thinking about her! It’s a good thing that I’m a cheerful person. I feel sorry for all those people that are affected by all this damn dreary weather!

It must be genetic. My Grandpa was a Fireman.

My Mother, Elsie, was looking through my grandfathers papers the other day and she ran across this document. (click on photo's for enlargement)

Back in the early 1900’s My grandfather, Wilhelm H. Rathjens, was the manager of the El Rancho Primero, a large ranch in the north end of the Laytonville valley. The ranch extended to the Main Eel River and took up all of the Woodman canyon area, also the Black Oak ranch, and Iron Peak area. I’m not sure of the exact boundaries, but the ranch was huge by today’s standards.

Wildfire was a concern back then as it is now, but the ranchers would burn the brush and trees to clear their land for cattle or sheep. Because of the fire hazard involved, large stands of brush were not allowed to accumulate. Even when I was a kid there was much talk about the Indians managing the land with fire, and it was considered to be necessary to burn. They burned very frequently.

Fires would often get out of hand, and burn far beyond what they were supposed to. The only method of fighting fire was by hand. They would use wetted gunny-sacks tied to a stick and wait for the fire to move into the grass land were they would wet the sacks and flail them onto the burning grass, or by building hand scraped fire breaks. A large wall of people with wetted sacks was the best way to stop a wildfire. Often, every able bodied person in the whole valley would be recruited and organized into fire fighting brigades. Every man woman and child would be involved in stopping a wild fire. Houses were protected from an approaching wildfire by burning the grassland around the buildings, and controlling the rate of burn with the wetted sack flails. Controlling a fire would become a large community effort. They packed water by hand or horse, everyone had to be fed. Everyone had a job to do with the fire until it was out. There never seemed to be much blame placed on anyone for starting the fire, probably because most of them were an accident.

Getting back to the document that my mother found. The document was dated 1922. This was before she was born, and she doesn’t recall any stories of fires of that era. But, I found that it was interesting that it was a “voluntary” position. Whatever that means. And, that it was the “California Board of Forestry” that issued it. The document in itself tells a lot, the fact that my grandfather was a “Voluntary Fire Marshal” was indeed interesting to me. There is nobody alive at this point that would know any of that kind of history, and my mother doesn’t remember any “stories” of Warden Grampa.

Does anybody know anything about what that document meant? Maybe Eel River Ernie would know. One of my Grandfathers nicknames was "Willie", do you think that he might have been the original "Piss Fir Willie?"

Waffle stompers, or hippie slippers.

As Ekovox already knows, before “Newcomers”, the loggers wore cork boots outside, and Romeo Slippers inside, and “never the twain should meet.” (That means, “the boots stopped at the door frame“). It was the same way with the ranchers and farmers, the Milk boots and overshoes stopped at the door frame.

Ahhh… But then came the “Newcomers”. They thought of themselves as the “Modern-Day-Daniel Boones”. They all had long hair, a “Jim Bowie Knife” strapped on one side of their hip, and a “Buckskin Powder Pouch” on the other. It was darn strange smelling “Powder” they had, but they were real concerned about keeping it dry.

Whenever we were in the presence of a lady and had a hat on, we didn’t have to take it off, but it was absolutely certain, and without any doubt, that you had to either tip your hat or touch your finger to the brim to acknowledge that you were in the presence of a “Lady”. To not touch your hat was an insult, and about the same as calling her a whore. But the newcomers were so busy pointing out all the things that we did wrong that they never picked up on that subtlety. Then they would say: “What do you people have against newcomers?” While we were thinking “You just called my wife a whore and you don’t even know it!”

At my Gramma’s door there was a hat rack, and when you came inside, the corks came off, the Romeo’s went on, and the hat went on the rack. It was “Disrespectful to wear your hat in the house”.

Then came the “Newcomers”. They wore their “newcomer get-up” wherever they went, inside, outside, in restaurants, in stores, at parties, wherever they went their costume went. Their hats stayed on top of their heads at all times, it was part of their costume, and they would have felt naked without it. They didn’t know the rules of country etiquette.

We used to cuss a lot when we were outside or with the men folk, the language was referred to as barnyard talk, or woods talk, but it didn’t belong in the house, or around polite women folk. The newcomers talked the same, no matter who they were around, or where they were. They didn’t know how to cuss very good outside, but what little bit that they knew about cussing, you guessed it, they took it right on inside with them.

Now to get around to what Ekovox was referring to when he talked about waffle stompers. He knows how those shoes upset me.

The newcomers showed up with their “Country Shoes”, Waffle Stompers, Vibram Soles, Mud-Grip Hippie Slippers, Manure Spreaders, Mud Trackers. Yep, you guessed it again, those shoes went wherever they went, through the pig pen, through the mud, through the dog poop, and right into your house, or store, with nary a thought of wiping their feet. You see, they were raised on sidewalks, and they didn’t know how to wipe their feet. They didn’t recognize that they were tracking crap into your place. They thought that everything in the country was clean.

I have been able to meet the newcomers half way on most stuff, and some of them have even become great friends, but most of the city habits that they brought with them never changed. So when you see someone track mud into a house or store, I will give nine to one odds that the person was raised in a city. Check it out. You’ll find I’m right!

Stories you may have missed

I guess it’s about time that I explain what I mean when I say; “Language is not about correctness, it’s about communicating.”

I was raised in a culture of people that was comprised of ranchers, farmers, commercial fishermen, loggers, and lumber workers. Their heritage was either, born and raised here and had been here for generations and had little chance for higher education. Or recently moved here from one of the “poor states” to work in the lumber industry. The latter group also had little or poor education. My point is that I was raised with people that made their living by working hard, and they did manual labor. Higher education was not of much use to them. You couldn’t even slop a hog with higher education.

Most of my people, as I like to call them, admired educated people and would show them great deference, they would usually quiet down around an educated person. When there was an educated person in the group; that person always had the first and last say. When an educated person wanted to take over a conversation they would usually start it out with something like; “There is no such word as “ain’t”, usually in the context of correcting someone else. That always gave the educated person the floor because my people didn’t talk without words like “ain’t”. Their language was colorfully sprinkled with contractions and colloquialisms. To me their language was like a carefully thought out poem. And I loved to hear them talk. I knew from being around them, that some of them were the smartest and wisest people that existed anywhere. I knew their language, and I didn’t interrupt them with rude “correctness”.
I was always far more interested in what the working people had to say than some of the crashing, crushingly boring, educated people. It always bothered me that my people would stop telling stories around the “educated”.

It was easy for me to see the wisdom and wit that my people had. Today, few people understand Shakespeare, but after studying Shakespeare, and figuring out exactly what he said, most all of us would agree that he was one of the most witty, romantic and, gutsy of all story tellers. He could put feeling and wisdom into everything that he said, and once we know his language, nothing can be more enjoyable than reading Shakespeare.

It has always been deeply annoying to me to hear someone correct another persons language. To me it has always appeared to be a not-to-polite way of telling another person to shut-up.

We would no more think of telling Shakespeare to shut up than we would any highly respected person. What I’m trying to say is I have always highly respected “my people”, and they were always comfortable talking around me, and I have heard tales that some of you would see as a new work of Shakespeare…. If you had taken the time to listen, without correcting the language.

Something that you might not have known about Shakespeare;
“The most striking feature of Shakespeare is his command of language. It is all the more astounding when one not only considers Shakespeare's sparse formal education but the curriculum of the day. There were no dictionaries; Although certain grammatical treatises were published in Shakespeare's day, organized grammar texts would not appear until the 1700s. Shakespeare as a youth would have no more systematically studied his own language than any educated man of the period.
His facility with language, and the art with which he employed its usage, is why Shakespeare is as relevant today as he was in his own time.”

Most of my people are dead and gone now, so it makes little difference who you correct. Today’s society is rife with rudeness and it is expected. But have you ever corrected anyone that was in the middle of telling a great story? Do you now wonder what story that you might have missed? To me "my people" were wiser than the educated, and more articulate than Shakespeare. But you have to listen, and learn the languge.

“What, is the jay more precious than the lark Because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eel Because his painted skin contents the eye? “
William Shakespeare

I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you have story that you want to tell, tell it here.

I don’t know how to use most of the words in the English dictionary, and care little if I ever use them. If I can tell you a story, or you can tell me one, that is what this blog is all about. I don’t give a damn how good you spell or how bad you talk. I'll accept swearing if that's how the hell you tell your story, I speak the language. I’ll delete with-out a trace, any criticism about how you use your "languge".

I want to hear history, I want to hear tall tales, and I want to hear bald face lies. But I want to hear your stories. I want any little known fact, I want any recipe, I want anything to do with the north coast…Even if it starts with; “I heard from somebody that heard from somebody that this story is absolute fact!’

You probably won’t be surprised to learn that I failed Enlgish in high school. If I can communicate, so can you. If I would be offended by anything, it would be if you tried to talk like somebody you aren’t. So, start telling me things! Learn to spell later. I did.

"This above all: to thine own self be true". (Willie again)

I'm becoming the Seinfeld of the Blogger world.

The Jerry Seinfeld show was known as “The show about nothing”. My blog is rapidly becoming “The Blog about nothing”. Well… At least it’s the blog about the weather. Exciting stuff.
My whole life I’ve heard anecdotal evidence about how terrible the weather was in all of the thirties. When my ancestors would tell me that they had to walk ten miles to school and back through a foot of snow, and it was uphill both ways. I knew it was an exaggeration, but when they told me that they drove the Model-A Ford up the creek to get back home on to the ranch, I kind of believed it, but I thought that It might be like the Santa Clause story. It was only told to impress us kids and it probably didn’t happen.
As I grew older I heard more stories, and the dates had a tendency to coincide, so I started giving the stories some credence. I have personally seen the snow on the main street of Garberville over six inches deep, at least twice, but I remembered that I didn’t believe my ancestors, so what would make anyone think that I actually saw that.
A very, very deep freeze in 1933 comes up over and over again, and there are many stories of driving on the creeks and rivers that I know that it must be true. All of the thirties was known, or talked about as being years of incredible cold, and the stories are told from Miranda to Laytonville with nearly all the same dates. So something happened in the thirties.
One of my cousins that won’t say a word on my blog, just e-mailed me and told me this story. I’ll put it out there without his name on it, because he is just too shy. He’s always been kind of a sissy anyway…
“Ernie
Idle Parker told me one time that when he was a kid he would hire on with the Garberville to Harris mail stage to open and close gates. All 22 of them. This was so the horses didn't have to stop.
Kenny Parker told me he saw 18" of snow in Garberville in 1936 or 38, can't remember which year now as my memory fails me most of the time. Obviously this was before global warming.
“Jim The sissy”

“Jim the sissy” is legendary in his own right, I’d tell you how he kicked Paul Bunyan’s butt and ate his ox for dinner, but I’ll have to wait until he gets through being shy.
Thanks for the story Jim.
What I’d like to know is how does one go about accessing historical weather records like that, or the rainfall records of the floods, Or the high temperature records from the fifties when the summers were hotter than hell? There must be some one that knows that stuff. Who does that???

Robin Shelly, made this comment.

My new found old friend that don’t remember, made this comment. (Sorry, I’m Sure I will remember when we meet again. She must have been to young to notice when I lived in Laytonville. I always liked older girls)

“Sometimes during a real cold spell in Laytonville, your uncle Ben would set a sprinkler on one of his bare trees near the highway overnight &, by morning, the thing would be covered with huge & beautiful sparkling icicles. It would literally stop traffic! We ran a picture of it in the newspaper more than once, I think.”
Robin Shelly.

I hope you don’t mind that I make a posting out of your comment, but I do remember him doing that. He would spend a good part of the night getting the water flow just right. Too much water and it would melt, not enough and it wouldn’t make icicles. I’ll bet my cousin Penny has some photos. I’ll see if I can get her to post them.
Uncle Ben discovered how to make an icicle tree by accident. As you may know, Ben had a sawmill about four miles north of Laytonville, back in the Fifties. On really cold nights they had to keep the water running to the water tower, to keep the pipes from freezing. The water cooled the saws when the mill was running during the day. There was about a twelve foot fir tree that grew beside the tower, and the overflow would splash on one of the tower crossbeams spaying the tree with mist. It was on of the most beautiful sights that one could ever see when the sun shined through it. It was pure and clean, and just plain beautiful. My uncle Ben decided that the only way to tell people how pretty it was, was to make his own tree next to the highway. He really enjoyed watching people screech to a stop, back up and take a picture. It was as pretty as a crystal chandelier.

Weather you know it or not!

This has been a miserable winter so far with all the wind, rain, road failures, and power outages. I overheard a couple of newcomers that had Garberville weather all figured out. They were seated at the counter of a popular downtown restaurant. The subject of the weather came up and the one guy said to the other, “Only a damn fool would not believe in Global Warming after all of this weather.” They talked about the rainfall and the minor flooding, and how it even snowed in Redway, and about all the trees that blew down, and how this is the worst power outages in a long time. They put it all together and decided: “Yep! Global Warming”.

As I sat there chuckling to myself, and trying not to tell them that they were missing a whole bunch of information. I got to thinking about the weather I’ve seen in Garberville.

The first time I remember the weather being a phenomenon was the flood of 1955. I won’t go into great detail because the flood of 1964 greatly surpassed it. But, there were a bunch of homes and towns that were washed away, or heavily damaged in 1955. Some were rebuilt right back in place, because they thought that the flood was a freak occurrence and wasn’t likely to happen again.

Then there was the Columbus Day wind storm in 1962, where forests were blown down like match sticks. The north end of the flat over by the Garberville airport had a large stand of Fir trees. If you know where the Crazy Horse Ranch is, they grew on that flat. A whole wall of trees blew down across the road. A man, Lloyd Swenson, who was a passenger in a pick-up truck, was killed. The man who owned the Garage in Briceland, Pete Star, decided that the wind was just getting too bad, and he decided to drive home to Garberville. Just as he was nearing the west end of the bridge that crosses the Eel river in lower Redway, a large diameter Redwood fell clear through the west approach to the bridge. Realizing that he was not going to be able to travel any further, he turned around and headed back toward Briceland. Before he could get out of the grove, more trees came down and he was blocked in. Not really thinking about what he was doing he got out of the truck and ran for his life. Heavy Redwood limbs were falling all around him. He made it out of the grove alive and walked back to Briceland. His truck was relatively unscathed. There were more trees blown down than the loggers could salvage, and some ended up rotting. That was a gravy-train year for the logger, with all the trees already down and all laying in the same direction. Nowadays there would be some environmental reason that they would all have to rot.

The brunt of the storm hit in Oregon where the wind was so strong that the wind speed gauges blew up. They figured out that some ridge top winds hit 179 M.P.H.

The 1964 flood has been talked about by almost everyone, but one of the things that you may not know is how much it rained. I have heard all kinds of reasons for the flood to have happened. The one that I’ve heard the most is the loggers built so many roads in the hills that they just washed away. To some extent that was true, but south of Leggett California, there was a whole large hillside of virgin timber that slid clear into the river. The forest had never had a piece of logging equipment in it. It was one of the worst landslides on the South fork of the Eel.

In the headwaters of the South Fork of the Eel, Branscomb California, It rained twenty-four inches in forty eight hours, seven of those in the last four hours. It rained like a heavy thunder shower for two days, and the final rain was so heavy that it couldn’t even run off. It looked like it was raining so hard that you couldn’t breathe the air. All of the culverts in Garberville were over run, and water was running down the streets like rivers. A person could not walk across the main street, because the water was to deep and swift. It was one of the spookiest feelings that I’ve ever had. Everyone was speechless, dead silent. Some times you would hear someone worry out loud about someone or some place, otherwise there was dead silence. There was some that even wondered if Garberville was high enough off the river to avoid flooding. None of us had ever seen rain like that before, or since.

In the early seventies the winter temperatures got down to 14 degrees in Redway, the fire hydrants froze and broke. It was so cold that even the drain lines were frozen, and almost every pipe and faucet that was exposed broke. The temperature got down 4 degrees in Whitethorn, and it got clear down to Zero in Branscomb.

In the middle of all this cold weather, my cousin Roy Branscomb came up from Laytonville to go fishing. We went down to lower Redway, to the Pete Johnson hole. He hooked a large steelhead almost immediately. He played it for quite a while and his hands were getting very cold. Just as he got it to shore, it came unhooked and we both jumped into the shallow water with our hip boots, and between the two of us we were able to grab the fish and flip it onshore. We left the fish there and ran for the truck, our hands were so cold that we couldn’t feel anything. I had left the keys in the ignition, you could still do that back then. The truck started and while we were waiting for it to get warm we looked down at our hands and the backs of them had ice on them.

Also in the early seventies, we had over one-hundred inches of rain in Garberville. It stared raining in August and it rained fairly steadily up until May. I remember that my new bride, Janis, and I were taking a drive up Mud Creek in Laytonville, to see the mud springs. My Uncle Ben Branscomb was driving his new Bronco that he was so proud of. I remarked about what a warm rain that it was. My Uncle replied; “It aught to be warm, this is August!”

When the Franciks moved to Redway, they rented a house, and I delivered them a new refrigerator. They remarked that they didn’t want to buy a house yet, because they heard that it rained a lot in Garberville, and they weren’t sure that they would like it here. I must have thought of them a hundred times that winter. By spring they decided that if that was one of the wettest winters, that it would be okay, and that they liked the people here. So they stayed.

In the late seventies we had less than twenty-two inches of rain. It rained so little that all of the hill people’s springs were dried up. That was back before all of the potable water trucks were around, and every one had to haul their own water. Dick Keating was smart enough to buy up a bunch of surplus pickle barrels and he sold them by the thousands. People were coming out of the hills and stealing water from anyone that had a faucet that they could sneak up to. Finally they put in a water dispenser at the Redway fire hall. If I recall correctly it was set to dispense fifty gallons of water for twenty-five cents.

One person that I knew hauled his water in an old waterbed that he had in the bed of his truck. He had a piece of plywood placed over it to keep it from sloshing. He had some good old Garberville ingenuity.

There has been a few remarkable earthquakes, and some pretty terrific fires also. The Finnly Creek fire burned from Finnly creek on the Wolf Ranch on Telegraph Ridge to Shelter Cove and out to sea in one night. Over ten thousand acres. It was fanned by a strong land wind, like a Santa Anna Wind but the Southern Californians get upset if you use that term because they own it.

Then more recently the Saddle fire and the Canoe Fire. But most people know about the recent stuff, I just though you might like to hear about some of the things that happened around here to the best of my recollection. Some things I’ve left vague because I can’t remember the exact dates, or numbers but otherwise this is a fairly accurate recolllection of things. Please feel free to add to, or correct me.

Comma 'gain?

I was just over at “The Journal's” website, and I ran across a very witty poem that I would like to repeat here to save you the trip over there, but I’m not sure it’s okay. You know how those professional writers are about using their stuff without paying them. So, make the trip over there and come back here. Then we’ll discuss it.

David Holper wrote a very witty poem about punctuation, I think. But, it really hit home with me, because I’ve always had a tough time with punctuation, and I’ve noticed that a lot of us amateur writers have problems with punctuation, and grammar, and spelling, but we always seem to get our point across. It used to be that when I wrote something, I would spend a long agonizing time trying to clean up the way that I wrote it. When I got through, it was not even anything that I would say, or even recognize.

I finally figured out that most people don’t use correct English. So, I decided that I would try to communicate by using the language that people “really use” instead of correct English. My rule was; if I can understand it, anyone can. And, I adopted the philosophy that; “Language is not about correctness, it is about communicating”.

I find myself falling way short on my punctuation skills, but I try hard to get my point across, and usually people “get it”.

One time when my wife and I were at a concert, and the band was exceptionally good. I was feeling pretty insignificant, because I can’t play a note, it occurred to me that probably none of the band members could build a refrigerator, and I’m darn good at it, and it made me feel a lot better.

Now, whenever I'm very impressed with someone else’s talents, I lean over and tell my wife that I don’t think that person knows how to build a refrigerator. I'll bet David Holper doesn’t know diddley about building a refrigerator.

What do you do well, or like to do? Or, I'll make it easier, what don't you do well, or don't like to do. How about, what would you like to do better?... I wish I could be a better writer.

Extra, Extra, News Flash.

I just thought that I might add a photo. The truck was full of sewage. The front lid is popped loose and the sewage ran out into the river.
Click on photo to enlarge





All those downstream of Redway, two thousand gallons of raw sewage, and fifty gallons of diesel just dumped in the South Fork of the Eel river. The truck went off the freeway at Hooker Creek and down over the frontage road. It spun around and broke almost in half and all the pieces ended up down over the riprap and stopped just with the drivers side wheel in the river. The driver climbed out the passenger side, his only apparent injury was a cut to his left hand and he was not transported to the hospital.

Okay I'll keep it simple.

Why are Oyster Crakers called "Oyster Crackers?" I really don't know! My wife said that I should ask you guy's.

Janis' photo's of Centerville

A friend of mine from Garberville just recently bought this building in Ferndale, and as luck would have it we ran into him there on New Years eve and he gave us a tour. Fabulous!
Centerville beach road, looking north.






Early technology. Sadly, if that was mine I would have ruined by restoring it to perfect condition, and noboby would stop and take pictures.
Nice little stream, what we used to call a crick.
A nice photo with lots of sky, it would make a great photo for a title page. All kinds of sky to write in.

Which photo do you like best of the last two Janis and I can't agree. So what else is new!

Blogspot...

When I first started reading Blogsites, it was because the Reggae Festival thing had hit the fan and all of the people involved in the issue were at each others throats. My first reaction was one of shock, and my first question was; what the heck is happening? Then I got an E-mail from a friend telling me that Erik Kirk was putting all the pertinent information on his Blogsite. As a member of the community that was deeply involved in “the happening” of the Reggae festival, and had zero to do with the planning, or the implementation of the event, I became concerned. So I started reading Eric’s blog, and after a while I started trying to comment, with GREAT difficulty, but soon I was commenting with the pro’s. And, I found a few blogsite like 299 Opine that talked a lot about local history, and I became interested in those sites. (I put a list of the sites that I visit on a daily basis on the left-hand side of my blogsite.)

After a few a people started criticizing the way that Eric was deleting certain comments, probably because the comments were filled with slander or liable. He made the remark; “If you don’t like the way I run my blog, start your own. It takes about five minutes”. Being a person of curiosity, I did start my own. At first I left it private, and played around with the color scheme and font styles and sizes. Then I discovered that I could put the comments that I made in a blogsite on to my own blog, where I could save them for my own reference. I soon learned that I could post things on my blogsite from anywhere that there was a computer. I started putting things on my blog while I was at the shop, them finishing them at home without having to remember to download to a memory stick or e-mailing them to somewhere. The convenience of everything being accessible all the time was nice.

I was writing about a lot of family things, and some local stories and recipes. I e-mailed my family to let them know that they could check my blogsite for my stories, and I told them how to comment. To my disappointment, I’ve not received any comments from them, other than e-mail. So I put a site-counter on, to see how many people were looking at the site, and I was amazed at how many times my family and friends were checking on it, without leaving a comment.

When Eric announced that I had a blog, the meter went nuts for a few days, and has now settled down to a steady but impressive (to me) pace.

But, I’ve always liked being part of a discussion, not the one doing all the talking. So why do people check this blog-site? Is it the acorn muffin recipes, the local history? Is it the hope that I might say something interesting someday?

I have had people make great comments, then apologize for taking up so much space. But, I have had some awfully good comments, better than I expected, from people like Ben, Ekovox, Carol & Greg, Kym, Eric and many more. Some from out of the area, which surprised me that some of the subjects that I talk about would be of interest to them.

I always find the comments to be more interesting than what I post, even the simple ones. I like it when someone adds an opinion, or suggests a new subject.

I’m personally fond of local history, local characters, local recipes, local events. Or amusing stories. Or little known facts about anywhere. I’m not very good on world politics, and I feel that I can do very little to change them. I like to stay current on local politics, but I find that there are people out there that can eat me alive with the minutia that they can bring up, and it seems that they must spend a great deal more time on the details than I have the time for.

It seems that nowadays many people are living behind “walls” of their own making. But I have found that by using my own name on my blog, I have discovered that people are more willing to comment, and add opinions that we share in common. I have found long lost friends and relatives through posting with my own name. Conversations come up like we used to have in the good old days when society was more open and inviting.

Do you belong here?

1- Have you ever seen a woman go totally crazy swatting chickens off the porch with a broom? Do you know if they will ever learn to stay of the porch?

2- Have you ever slept in a real feather bed, with a real feather pillow? Did you help pluck the feathers, or do you know how?

3- Have you ever used an out-house? Do you know how to make toilet paper out of a catalogue?

4- Have you ever made homemade ice cream? Out of real cows cream and fresh ranch eggs?

5- Have you ever seen a dog round up cattle? Have you ever seen a dog go get the cows by itself?

If you can answer the first part of the question you probably belong here. If you can answer the second part of the question you were probably born here.

Does anyone have any more two part questions, or do you know the answers to the first five?

Janis and Ernie's aniversary, Or Ferndale travelogue.

My wife and I were out celebrating our anniversary. We were married on New-Years eve. We thought at the time that it was a great time to get married. We thought that New-Years Eve would be great, because there would always be a party to go to. We were right about that, but in our youth we didn’t think about the quality of the parties that we would be going to. After a while, when I wanted to take her out to someplace special, it became apparent that New-Years-Eve was the theme, not Janis and Ernie. It became more and more difficult to dump the crowds and just have a nice evening. The food is usually a reduced menu, and the patrons of most of the Restaurants are there to celebrate the New-Year. Their plan seems to be, to get drunk and scream at the tops of their voices. And, where-the-hell did the women of today learn that loud-as-hell “wwwoooooo” that they do.

Some of our anniversaries we would grab a couple of steaks and a bottle of wine and go to my mother’s vacant house in Laytonville. We would built a big fire in the glass front stove and eat steaks, salad, and French bread, and drink a bottle of wine. But, that comes with doing the cooking yourself, plus cleaning up the mess. That went by the wayside the last few years because of the weather and the Confusion Hill Slide.

So this year I planned ahead and called for reservations at the Ginger Bread Mansion in Ferndale. My new friend Bob answered the phone and told us to go to their web site and choose a room, and that they were all available, when I made the reservation, with the exception of one. After a long lecture about the fact that they don’t allow smoking, candles, or incense I told him; we don’t smoke, so that suited us fine. I don’t like candles anyway, they stink. And, I explained that we could forgo the incense until at least Chinese New-Year. Then he told me; “Oh, by the way, there are NO cancellations”. So, I put everything on my card so we could have the room. I chose the Rose-Room because it looked warm and it was right in front, with a good view. The room with the tile floor was definitely out of the question. I could imagine my feet freezing to the floor on the way to the bathroom. I told him that I wanted a king-sized bed, because that was what we were used to. He said that the room has a king sized bed, but the top of the bed was about four feet off of the floor, and he gave me some Victorian reason why that it had to be that tall back then. I told him that the pedestal bed would be fine, even though I had no intention of sacrificing any virgins, that the bed would be fine, and that my wife and I were quite agile, and we could deal with it... "Alright", I thought, "So it sounds like my wife and I have a date."

The next morning she has the dreaded “Humboldt Crud”, and I had an anxiety attack over the fact that I had a high dollar, non-refundable room in Ferndale. But, not to worry, she got well in plenty of time for our “Date”. I think she does that for the attention.

My wife somehow got wind of an “Afternoon Tea” that happened in the afternoon. So we had to leave early, because she either has never been to a “Tea” before, or she just knew it was “not-to-miss”. Whatever… We had to be there early! When we got there, it wasn’t time to open yet and we had to wait until four. I think Bob said something about that, but I wasn’t in the least worried about the “tea” at that time, so I instantly disregarded it. My bad… As it turned out there was no “Tea” on that day, so this is my fault too, I freely admit it, and I remind myself that I have “manners”, and after all this is our anniversary. So, I smile and act like I feel terrible that we missed “Tea”. Bob met us warmly at the door and introduced us to his wife and business partner Julie. We filled out all the paper work and had a nice conversation about life in general.


We had dinner at The Ivanhoe, Bob had made reservations for us at seven-fifteen, we arrived right on time, were seated immediately, we had menus and water on the table before we were completely seated, the servers were fast and efficient. I had Mahi Mahi, Italian style with a fresh basil sauce over the top, perfectly steamed vegetables with a delicious sauce over them, and the pasta with a great tomato based sauce. My wife had a perfect Fillet Mignon with a baked potato and the same veggies.

Being a people watcher, I noticed quite a few Dairymen and their wives there, all talking loudly, and talking with their hands. The men were talking about their farms and what all the other farmers were doing, and the women were discussing the happenings of the day. There were a few young ranchers and their wives, and there were a few of what can only be described as newcomer, outsider, confused tourist types, with “Whaaaat the hell?”… looks on their faces. It was a fun place to be, and I didn’t hear any screaming, or wwwwoooo’s.

We had a great meal and we were out of there by eight. We went back to our room and sat in front of the real looking, but nice and warm fireplace and chatted about our long happy marriage, and how proud we are that we have been able to avoid a murder/suicide so far. We went to bed early. We found the stairway to get into the bed, I dubbed them “the stairway to heaven”…. Because the bed was so high. What were YOU thinking? I slept like a baby ’til eleven-thirty where there was a premature fireworks volley, then it all calmed down until midnight when there was another volley of fireworks.

Shortly after midnight the town sirens started sounding. Being a fireman myself, my feet just automatically hit the floor when I hear a siren. I congratulated myself that I remembered that I was four feet off of the ground and made my way off the end of the bed. I ripped the curtains open and watched the trucks leaving. The fire station is just across the street from the Mansion. I remembered my fire radio and turned it on to find what the call was. It turned out that someone had dislocated their hip on Mainstreet. So I reassured my wife that the firefighters were probably locating the hip by then, and all was well with us, and we went back to sleep.


We went down for breakfast at nine, we had granola, fresh orange juice, a raspberry muffin, and something made with ham and bread and onions and egg, then all mixed together and baked, with a great cheese topping. It was delicious, so it wasn’t quiche! Because real men don’t eat quiche.

We went for a drive to the beach, Janis took many photo’s, some of which you may see someday, but at any rate I can assure you it won’t be currently or timely.


We had a great morning at the beach. We came back and had lunch at Curley’s. Again, we had great service, we were served readily and we both had Tomato-Basil soup with a Spinach Salad, with fresh sourdough bread with garlic stuffed in the top, with a bowl of garlic dipping oil. Yum!

We came home early this afternoon. We had a great time and we would highly recommend the Gingerbread Mansion, The Ivanhoe, or Curley's to anyone, based on our experience today. My wife had so much fun that she’ll probably go back by herself next year.

Actually, with all kidding aside, we had a wonderful and romantic time, but she probably wouldn't want me telling you about that. So this is what you get!

Who are you, no really, who are you for real?

I have a friend, Bill Roddy, who used to own the Southern Humboldt Life and Times. Each week he would publish an interview of two southern Humboldt residences, a man and a woman. This was before computers were relied on to keep things sorted out for us. One day he called a gentleman to ask him for an interview, and the man replied, “Bill, you already interviewed me a long time ago, remember?” He then went on to say that he would be glad to do it again, but only this time he wanted to be a fighter pilot. Bill got a lot of laughs out of that.

My grandmother used to say that “if you don’t like who you are, pretend to be someone that you would like to be until it fits”.

It has been said that the truest test of who you really are is who you would be, or what you would do, if nobody ever found out about the things you that you do.

Part of what I like about living in a small town is you can be anything that you want to be. Want to be on the school board? Chances are all you have to do is show an interest. Want to be president of a Rotary club? It’s fairly possible in a small town. How about; would you like to be a fireman when you grow up? It could happen.

I’ve lived a long Mittyesque existence, due to the fact that I live in a small town. Not to change the subject, but most folks know who Walter Mitty was, but for those of you who don’t, he was a man that lived mostly in his mind, and every small occurrence gave him the opportunity to drift off in a daydream about him being the hero who solved the problem and saved the day. I first read the story by James Thurber in high School, and I remember thinking at the time “My god that’s me!”

"WE'RE going through!" The Commander's voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. "We can't make it, sir. It's spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me." "I'm not asking you, Lieutenant Berg," said the Commander. "Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8500! We're going through!" The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" he shouted. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" repeated Lieutenant Berg. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" shouted the Commander. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. "The Old Man'll get us through," they said to one another. "The Old Man ain't afraid of hell!" . . . “

Yep! I’ve flown many airplanes through the Stormy North Coast sky's above my nice toasty bed!.

I’ve been a logger, a soda jerk, I’ve made ice cream, my wife and I built our own house. I change my own head gaskets on my truck when it needs them, and if the old truck needs painting, I do it myself. I've been a fireman for thirty-three years, I did all the refrigeration in major supermarkets. Every time I drive past a house down here I tell my wife, “I did the heating and air-conditioning on that house.” It has all been because I didn’t know that I couldn’t. And in my mind I had to do it, because nobody else could do it as well as I would. I think that I’ve come to believe that. Thanks gramma. I’ve been doing a real good job of becoming who I want to be.

Lately, I've been pretending to be a blogger..... "What? I didn't ask your opinion dammit, rev 'er up to twelve million megapixels... Poketa-poketa-poketa-poketa... Paste a new photo on the header bar... Aye Aye sir"

Have you ever done something because it reflected who you wanted to be? Or do you daydream about the greatness that you might achieve? Come on, give, I don’t want to think that I’m the only one! The Secret life of Walter mitty, By James Thurber. Required reading if you want to know who I am.

Kim Sallaway, "Have fun!"

Kristabel asked me, “P.S. Who's that cute guy in the camo. pants next to Santa?”

Kristabel, I'm glad you asked. The mans name is Kim Sallaway. He is a professional photographer. He does what I would describe as “Character Photography”. I don’t know how he would describe himself. But, if you want to see a collection of his photo’s go to www.Kimbacan.com. I’ll put the link at the bottom of this page.

Everything in his collection was photographed in a public place. But some of his stuff should be rated “Not For Kids”. But you should get a kick out of the photo’s. He has also been the official photographer for “Reggae on the Whatever” since the very start. He is a very cheerful guy, and his personal motto is “have fun”.

To my relatives that read this blog: “No Toto, this ain’t Kansas anymore”. And admittedly am glad that I’m just looking at the photo’s and not being there in person. But Kim lives his life to collect photo’s like you see in his albums. Be sure to check out his nature photo’s, he capture critters “character” as well as people.

He also sends out to his subscibers a "Photo of the day". Which always has an "Everyone included" rating. He took the best photo of a Brush Robin that I've ever seen. (Whoops!, I forgot, he's a "Newcomer", he's only been here thirty something years, he calls it "Varied Thrush". My people didn't even have a fancy word like "Varied". You probably think that I'm kidding, don't you?)

I consider Kim a true artist of the highest caliber, and a true friend. If you go to his web-site you will see artistry like you’ve not seen in many places. Each of his photo’s either tells a story or suggests one. I tease him with; “If Shakespeare had a camera, this is what he would have said”.

This is a good example of a “Cross Culture’ friendship. But, I see many signs of the culture barrier disappearing. It's hard to not appreciate talent like Kim has, and it is an instant conversation to view any of his stuff.


Kim Sallaway Photography

We can’t judge what happened then by who we are now.

I was reading Kim's Blog, “The Redheaded Blackbelt” the other day, and she was talking about her ancestors and their part in an Indian massacre. She was deeply ashamed of her ancestors, and their part in what “The Eel River Rangers” did to the Indian people that lived here at the time. I explained to her that, although what they did to the Indians was horrid, that it was possible that her ancestors were doing what they had to do to survive. We can’t judge what happened back then by our standards today. Few people realize the context of our ancestor’s survival, nor do most people have the background in history to know what forced them to do the things that they did.

There is no way to justify what our ancestors did, and no way to make make all of the Indian massacres okay. None of history has been fair, right, or just. But, we are all living evidence that our ancestors survived. In order to put some perspective on who we are, and where we came from, we need to know a little bit about history, and not so much about right and wrong.

Who were our ancestors? How far back in history should we go to make a valid judgment of what they were? Why did they behaved the way they did?

The Crusades. 1006--
(In Italics from Wicapedia)

The Muslim presence in the Holy Land began with the initial Arab conquest of Palestine in the 7th century.

Western attitudes towards the East came in the year 1009, when the Fatimid Caliph al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah ordered the Church of the Holy Sepulchre destroyed.

Christian Pilgrimages were allowed to the Holy Lands, but for a time pilgrims were captured and some of the clergy were killed.

Christians saw, with some validity, that the pursuit of their religion was being jeopardized by the Muslims. Consequently Pope Alexander II gave his blessings for the Christian soldiers to protect and defend the holy land and return it to Christian rule. Thus began the first Crusade. Christians felt that they were fighting for a holy cause, and to win meant everything to them, and there was nothing that they wouldn’t do to win their battle. There were no “rules of engagement”. There were no “Geneva Convention rules”. You either won the battle, or you died a miserable death at the hands of the Muslims. And, to be fair to the Muslims, they felt that they rightfully owned the Holy land, and the Christians had no right whatsoever to be there. So both sides fought with self-righteous-indignation, and both sides felt that “God was on their side", and winning at ALL costs meant everything.

There were nine major Crusades, and several other minor Crusades, with much the same stories of each side blaming the other for the horror and the destruction that ensued. Both sides, surely thought that nothing was too horrible to thrust upon such an ungodly enemy.


The Spanish Inquisition. 1478--
(In italics from Mega-essays.com)

The Inquisitions were run by both civil and church authorities, which were used as a way for the Spanish rulers to unify the country into a strong nation. King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella established the Spanish Inquisition in 1478, along with a reluctant approval of Pope Sixtus IV. Entirely controlled by the Spanish kings, the pope barely had a grip on the Inquisition, the only thing that he had control of, was naming who the inquisitor general was. The entire purpose of the Inquisition was to unify and organize the country by punishing, or trying to convert any “non-believers” like the Jewish, Muslims, Pagans, Moors, and any others. Any heresy was intolerable for the Catholics.

It is documented, that anywhere from 3,000 to 5,000 people, male and female were executed during the 350 years of life that the Spanish Inquisition lived. They often used torture to try and persuade people to give in, and confess to their apparent sins. The amount of women that were killed in these trials seems insanely high, especially when compared to the amount of females and males that were put on trial and killed in Spain. earlier stages of the Spanish Inquisition, people that were accused of heresy would have inquisitors try and force them into the catholic religion. After all, this was the reason that the Spanish Inquisition began! The whole point of the Inquisitions was supposed to be organizing and strengthening the country by practicing only one religion, Catholicism. The reason being is that men were mainly the persons in positions of power throughout Spain. The only case in the Inquisition where more women were accused and executed then men, was with Pagans.

It was their way of thinking, that the need to unify people into one Religion was a Holy Cause, and anything that they did to another human being was justified. After all, it was for the betterment of their Kingdom and mankind. Many people that didn't fit the background, of being purely Catholic, were tortured into confessing their transgressions upon the church. Many people were burned alive for being heretics. Imagine being burned alive!


Medieval to 1870 Europe.
(Italics from Wicapedia)

Until 1814, the full punishment for the crime of treason was to be hanged, drawn and quartered in that the condemned prisoner would be:
Dragged on a hurdle (a wooden frame) to the place of execution. (This is one possible meaning of drawn.)
Hanged by the neck for a short time or until almost dead. (hanged).
Disembowelled and emasculated and the genitalia and entrails burned before the condemned's eyes (This is another meaning of drawn. It is often used in cookbooks to denote the disembowelment of chicken or rabbit carcasses before cooking).[2]
Beheaded and the body divided into four parts (quartered).
Typically, the resulting five parts (i.e. the four quarters of the body and the head) were gibbeted (put on public display) in different parts of the city, town, or, in famous cases, country, to deter would-be traitors who had not seen the execution. After 1814 the convict would be hanged until dead and the mutilation would be performed after death. Gibbeting was abolished in England in 1843. Drawing and quartering was abolished in 1870.

Treason was not a crime against their country, as we think or it today, but a crime against the King, his property, or his rule. Anyone that dared to even utter a treasonous statement was dealt with in a very brutal fashion, and it was well understood that a person was to obey they Kings Rule, and the rules of his lords. There was no government of “We The People” back then. You did as the King willed, or you died. Your chances of surviving were better if you were one on the kings men, but that meant that you did the dirty work of the king no matter how repugnant that it might be to you. The King had the ultimate authority over a persons life or death, for what ever reason he might have.

Being gutted alive was not banned until 1814, and the body being mutilated, and quartered, and spread to the four corners of the land was not banned until 1870. This was a time in history that was contemporary to the American wild west.


King Henry the Eighth
King of England 1491-1547.
The story of King Henry the Eighth is too long and convoluted to detail here, and most people are at least vaguely familiar with the fact that he was a tyrant. But a little detail about the power of a King needs to be illustrated. This is what can happen to a Queen that falls into disfavor. (In italics, from Wicapedia)

“Henry the Eighth had Anne Boleyn arrested on charges of using witchcraft to trap him into marrying her, of having adulterous relationships with five other men, of incest with her brother George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, of injuring the King and of conspiring to kill him, which amounted to treason. The charges were most likely fabricated by Oliver Cromwell. The court trying the case was presided over by Anne's own uncle, Thomas Howard, 3rd Duke of Norfolk. In May 1536, the Court condemned Anne and her brother to death, either by burning at the stake or by decapitation, whichever the King pleased. The other four men Queen Anne had allegedly been involved with were to be hanged, drawn and quartered; however, their sentences were ultimately commuted to decapitation. Anne and her brother George were also beheaded soon thereafter. At her final Mass, the Queen publicly swore to her innocence in the presence of a priest and various witnesses.”

Why didn’t anyone stop this execution that was perpetrated against a good woman? People surely knew that she didn’t deserve to die. The King had her executed because she bore him no male heirs, and he was in love with Jane Seymore. ( Same name, different woman) It speaks volumes about what power a King has over his subjects.

Did you notice that the king had a henchman in the form of Oliver Cromwell? Did you notice that the judge that condemned her to death was her own uncle? Why didn’t he just say “This is Wrong and I’ll have no part in it”. The reason that he did the things that he did is because it would have meant sure death for him and his family had he not participated in the death of his niece. There are a lot of people with the last name of “Howard” today because of what he did.

Black People were not allowed testify, for or against, white people. (Italics from “The History Of California” Theodore H. Hittell. 1897)

Patrick Cannay offered a petition in the assembly from
free negroes of San Francisco, praying such a change in the
laws as would enable them to give testimony against white men.
But such was the prejudice then existing against negroes that
when Richard P. Hammond offered a resolution that the house
should decline to receive or entertain any petition upon such a
subject from such a source, it was adopted by a vote of forty-
seven ayes to a single no.

Chinese were sent to California under contract and their families were held back in China as security that they would do their jobs well, yet they were highly despised. The only reason that they were here, was for their cheap labor. The Chinese that were doing our dirty work weren’t slaves, but their folks back home were held in slavery to make sure that they performed their duties here. (Italics, History of California)

Criminals, it was true, had not already come in numbers, because the Chinese in California had been sent by contractors who held their families as hostages; but, if the system had so far worked well, it was probably only owing to the limited number sent. But—he went on to say—the allowance of this immigration and the commingling of races would expose our own people "to pestilences as foul as leprosy and the plague, which with the bowlings of insanity would be likely to devastate the land."

This was the world in the mid to late Eighteen-Hundreds. There was no thought of “Civil Rights”. The only people who were thought of as “People” were White People. Some white settlers were surprised to find that Indians could cry. The Indians were thought of, and treated like animals. That didn’t make that kind of thinking right, but this is what you would have been up against, had you gone back in time to instruct these people as to what they were doing wrong.

On the White Settlers side, there was many stories about what the Indians had done to the Homesteads of the North coast. Some true, and most were exaggerations. But many Indians were just as brutal as the whites. And, they were very sneaky and cunning. Most Settlers at the time thought of them as a “Potential Menace”. And with their lack of education, they were easily convinced that “the only good Indian was a dead Indian”. And the mere thought of how fragile the settlers frontier existence was, scared the hell out of them, and they most likely decided that the best way to make sure that they didn’t have anything disappear in the middle of the night from a group of Indians was to eliminate them.

As I have also pointed out before, not all settlers thought this way, and they befriended and protected the Indians at their great peril. The people protecting the Indians would be in for sure trouble if it became known.

I think that in conclusion I need to tell you about the people that lived in the North Coast Hills. They were, for the most part, uneducated, poor, honest, hard working people. Their history is in being recently from Europe, where brutality was the norm. They well understood the power of a King. And the power of his henchmen.

What I say repeatedly, is that the mistake we are making, is that we are judging who we are now, and what we would do now, and placing that in a different context that most of us have no concept of at all.

You need to read a little history about what people were like back then. Especially Cattle King White. Then you need to imagine what you would do if his henchmen came to your door, and told you what you were going to do, understanding full well that you were going to do their bidding, or you would die! And your family would die! Remember, you just bought the land that you were on, had no place to go even if you could afford it. And the law, and all of people in authority, were afraid of cattle king White, and would do nothing to protect you…. In that context what would you do? Be honest. For your enlightenment I'm going to include two comments that I received recently:

Ben said...
The point of Jarboe's or Fleming's militias was to simply clear this country of Indians for the whites. Indians were not considered human beings by the majority of settlers in those days. They were not allowed to testify in court nor was killing an Indian considered a crime. The justification for killing an Indian baby was: "Nits make Lice." and this phrase was common not just here, but throughout the west. However, Indian children were useful as servants and so were captured and sold to whites. Woodman Creek near Laytonville is named for the notorious slaver George Woodman.The indentureship law allowed this even after the Emancipation Proclamation and the Civil War. The Army was the only law in Southern Humboldt and they were under orders to kill any Indian male who was not attached to a white settler or on the Reservations at Ft. Bragg or Round Valley. Within ten years, the Indian population was reduced to about a tenth of what it had been when whites arrived. The introduced diseases of smallpox and syphilis reduced the population further. Thousands died.The absence of any Rancheria in Southern Humboldt is evidence of the efficiency of the genocide in our area. Mrs. Bowman was living near Camp Grant when she was attacked. The year was 1869. There is evidence that the Indians involved were a renegade group of Chilula from Redwood Creek. The Bull Creek Indians said that they were also attacked. The vicious attack on Mrs. Bowman and her children was used as an excuse for more forays against local Indians. An entire culture, probably as complex and beautiful as the surviving culture of the Klamath and Trinity area was wiped out. Songs, dances and language were lost. It is important to remember what happened here. That we had slavery, just like the South and that human beings were hunted like animals. My umpty great uncle was tomahawked and killed on the banks of the Ohio River in Indiana. His brother was captured and made a slave of the Kickapoo in Illinois. He escaped and spent quite a bit of his time hunting Indians afterwords. Some of my more recent Indiana relatives were sympathetic with the Ku Klux Klan. As long as we stayed away from politics, we got along fine. They were terrific guys. Just a bit backward.
December 21, 2007 10:35 PM

EkoVox said...
Eric, Have you read Genocide & Vendetta: The Round Valley Wars in Northern California by Lynwood Carranco and Estle Beard. It is very difficult to find as it is a very rare, out of print book. But, if you can find a copy, it is an incredible depiction of Southern Humboldt/Northern Mendocino in the 1850's to about 1880's.Here is a synopsis from a customer of Amazon:The book consists of three major sections:1) The genocide of the aboriginal inhabitants of Humboldt & Mendocino Counties. 2) The rise & fall of the Asbill brothers; two early settlers in the area. 3) The story of the infamous George E. White. Cattle King of Round Valley & the Yolla Bolly country in northwestern California from the 1850's to 1902.The first section is difficult to read. Partly because of the content, & partly because of the format. Appears to be written in the format used for a Master's thesis. Does contain a wealth of information. Some of it repeated from various sources. Gives an overview of the Indian population decline as well as graphic descriptions of some of the murderous incidents. Horrific. Bosnia today has nothing on what a few pitiless men did in the Yolla Bolly country during the 1850's & 1860's. Easier reading covering some of the same material are "The Story of the Stolen Valley," by Rena Lynn, and "The Saga of Round Valley The Last of the West," by John E. Keller.The second section is easier reading because it is based largely on the narrative of Frank Asbil. Son of Pierce Asbill & nephew of Frank Asbil. Follows their story from their arrival in the Yolla Bolly country as hide hunters through the rise & fall of their livestock operations. Colorful & entertaining. My favorite part of the book. If you like this section, look for the "Last of the West" by Frank Asbill & Argle Shawley The third section relates the story of George White's livestock empire. Includes examples of the brutal methods used by his henchmen to control the rich grazing land of the Yolla Bolly country. These included threats, theft, arson, perjury, false accusations, corrupt officers of the law, & murder by various cowardly means: poisoning, shooting in the back from ambush. Over a twenty year period in a population of only a few hundred people, over fifty murders occurred FOR WHICH NO SUSPECTS WERE EVER ARRESTED. Because of the large number of crimes, the authors present selected incidents to illustrate typical methods used by these organized outlaws to keep out homesteaders for nearly fifty years. This section reaches it's climax in the murderous vendetta against the two men that ultimately stood up to George White's outlaw buckaroos, and in the accounts of the killers' trials in Weaverville. It has lighter portions too. These cover cattle ranching methods of the day as well as anecdotes illuminating the character of some individuals involved. For fictionalized adventures in the Yolla Bolly country from this era look for the book "Wylackie Jake of Covelo."Contains an epilogue and an extensive bibliography. Compliments to Lynwood Carranco & the late Estle Beard on their thorough telling of this chilling history. Should be made into a movie by someone like Robert Redford
December 27, 2007 11:09 AM

It makes you think doesn’t it? Remember, there were many unreported murders and disappearances, food poisonings, etc. One man, that had paid a good deal of money for his ranch, crossed White over a land use issue, and he was offered enough money to “get out of town” for his ranch, and again, it was well understood that to refuse the offer was sure death. Whites henchmen would kill you for the boots that you were wearing if they caught you out in the open. What the folks did back then had far more to do with survival than morality.

I would love to see any of the moralist that spout about what everyone did wrong back then, go back and live there for just one week. I wonder how many times that they would compromise their integrity for their families survival.

To even judge the people that survived back then is arrogant. Was what they did wrong? Yes! Did they have any choices? Slim, and damn few.

The Indians were caught in the middle of this mess, and "The King" didn’t want them around, because they were taking up valuable grazing space. When the pony soldiers pulled out for the Civil War, the area was left to be “protected” by private contractors, like Jarboe’s Eel River Rangers, who were hired to keep the Indian population under control. Most all of these men had connections to people like Cattle King white, or other wealthy, but ruthless, land owners. The current thinking of the time was “The only good Indian is a dead Indian”. The backlash to the planned massacres is what finally brought some recognition of the problems that the Indians faced to the civilized parts of the world, and the killing was stopped.

Honestly. Tell me where do you think that you would have fit in in this mess. Remember you have no money, no education, no where to go, and you love your wife and kids. Why don’t you put yourself at about the head waters of Keckawaka Creek, just north of Covelo. Cattle Kings men come by to eat dinner every month or so. What are you going to do? Piss them off?

We have the luxury of living in one small bubble in ALL of history where peace and harmony is even thought of as a viable concept. Also, we have the luxury of living in one small part of today’s world where peace and harmony is thought of as “Ideal”. We have in less than One-hundred years emerged as a peaceful people. Any other time in history, everyone did what they needed to do to survive. We are indeed unique in all of history, or in all of this world, with a few notable exceptions.

Merry Christmas!

This is like a "Guess what I did for Christmas" post. Saturday, December 22nd we loaded Santa onto our old 1937 American LaFrance fire truck and drove him around Redway. We have tons of photo's of happy little folks sharing their Christmas wishes with Santa. We spent the whole day at it, and by the time we got back to the fire hall it was dark and raining quite heavily. Everyone had a good time.

Taking Santa around Redway on the Fire truck is a tradition that goes back to sometime in the fifties, where a man by the name of J.P. Rusk started it. He was one of the original framers of the Redway fire department , and he was big on Santa. The tradition stuck, and as far as anyone knows, we've never missed a year. It is one of the most special things that can ever be witnessed. Some kids are terrified, and some others run toward him with their arms open like he was their favorite person in the world. Maybe He is! Anyway, it is one of the most rewarding things that we do in the town of Redway. That is, other than a nice stop on what might have been a tragic fire.





I'm the one that's not anyone else. (Hint, I have a sweatshirt on)

It seemed like we had about twice as many kids this year, and I don't know why, but it sure made it fun. We had people chasing us down the street and one person even went to Garberville to pick up her kids to see Santa!

Later that night we had our annual Christmas Party. We parked all of the fire-trucks in a local garage. We decorated the fire hall so it was quite festive, complete with fireplace and Christmas Tree. I had a cut of prime-rib that must have weighted a pound, complete with all the trimming's. Then we danced to the "Roadmasters" until midnight. My wife hasn't been up that late for years. She even danced to "Night-Riders in the Sky", and she used to say that she doesn't like County and Western music. They are a great band and can please any crowd. J.P. Rusk's widow, who will soon be one-hundred, was up dancing to the Music. She attends our party every year as one of the founders of the Redway Fire Department.

The some of the rest of the firefighters were in the following support vehicle. And there were some back decorating the fire-hall. There Is a hint of another truck with us in one of the photo's. Everyone was it complete turn-outs, and ready for a fire, except one noticeable exception, apparently he didn't now it was going to rain.

It's going to take awhile.

A few days ago on the “Redheaded Blackbelt” I posted a reply to Kym, that I felt that she might be judging a relative to harshly. The relative was a member of Captain Jarboe’s Eel River Rangers that had massacred dozens of Indians.

In putting together an accounting of the way people thought back in the 1850’s, I have ran into so many interesting stories, of the interaction that the new settlers and the Indians had, that I have become side-tracked.

I called my cousin Penny in Laytonville who has an accounting of Mrs. Bowman’s flight from Hydesville to Laytonville to escape an Indian attack. Mrs. Bowman was gravely injured and was almost killed, yet she got herself and her kids to a neighbors cabin. Where the story gets even more dramatic. I called her because I knew she had a printer-ready copy of the story, and I didn’t want to re-type it.

While we were talking she casually mentioned; “You knew that Great, Great, Grampa and Gramma Middleton were the only survivors of an Indian attack in Arizona on their way to California didn’t you? ( I guess that I didn’t know that story was about my folks) Then she went on to say “You knew about the Indian attack on their cabin at Mud Springs, when the Indian sneaked down the chimney didn’t you? I vaguely remember that. But the good thing is her father, my uncle Ben, wrote the story down and she still has it, and we are going to get together at the next family reunion and photo copy it. Later I will transcribe it into my computer.

I also know that I had a Great Aunt who had her throat cut by an Indian, but his knife was dull and she was able to survive the attack

Anyway these are the same ancestors that helped hide the Indians, and help feed them, through the times of great strife. When they and anyone protecting them was being murdered.

It’s going to take a great deal longer to write about my feelings on this subject than I thought. It may even be a chapter in the book that I want to write about this canyon that I like so much.

I’m very much interested in any true stories about the early days. No, I haven’t read Ray Raphael’s new book yet. I don’t want my mind going in too many directions, until I get my thoughts together. I’ve always thought that there were two sides to the story, and all that I’m interested in is the truth.

Most of what people did back then was survival related, and I think that I can make that point glaringly clear.

Weott today!

Please click on the following link For a graffic view of the city of weott today!

Very dramatic to someone that remembers the town as I do!

The town of Weott after the '64 flood.

Weott before the 1955 flood.

Weott after the 1955 flood.














Weott after the 1964 flood.
The water was high enough to leave this sawhorse in the phone lines of what was the town of Weott. The water was still very deep when this photo was taken, if you click your cuser on the photo it will enlarge and you can see what lookes like a large tank still submerged. What's left of the town is washed up against the trees in the background. The town of Weott was no more.


A few posts ago I showed the town of Weott, before and after the '55 flood, this is a photo of down town Weott that they took after the sixty-four flood, as the waters were still receding and they realized that the town was totally destroyed. They rebuilt the town up the hill about a quarter of a mile, beside the new freeway that was just being built at the time.

The Railroad at Dyerville, where The South Fork meets the main Eel, was under twenty-one feet of water. One of the three rail bridges was destroyed and had to be rebuilt. Over one hundred miles of rail in the Eel River canyon had to be replaced.

Travel on the 101 highway was restored in only Forty-one days, but it was years before traffic was back to normal.

Twenty-eight people lost their lives to the flood in Humbodlt and Del Norte. Over five thousand head of cattle were lost.

Please click on the following link For a graffic view of the city of weott today!