We still don’t know exactly when the first schoolhouse was built at Fairview, Nevada. But it had to be sometime before 1875 — because that’s the year teacher Ella S. Lane became known as the “Heroine of Fairview School District”! And a well-deserved honor it was. Here’s the tale:
Like most buildings of the day, the Fairview School featured a handy woodstove to help ward off winter’s chill. Teachers’ duties would often include arriving early to light the stove before students arrived.
All was well until one chilly day when, in the midst of her lesson, Miss Lane happened to glance up. Quickly altering her plans, she seated herself at the school organ and commenced a rousing rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers.” This was the students’ cue to march outside for a recess. No one (except the teacher) realized that the woodstove chimney had caught the loft on fire until the children had all made it safely outside the burning building. A heroine she was, indeed!
A few more tidbits about the early days of the Fairview School have been handed down to us courtesy of old-timer Owen E. Jones, who set pen to paper in 1925 to record his recollections. Fairview was the “first schoolhouse built in [this end of] Carson Valley,” Jones assures us. Its very first teacher? A Mr. Spencer. And the school itself moved around a bit; the first building initially sat at the mouth of the canyon, about a mile “west” [probably really northwest] of the spot where the second incarnation of the school later materialized.
A public building like a school was, after all, a public building; so the community embraced the Fairview schoolhouse for other needs as well. Following its week-day service as a one-room schoolhouse, the building wore a new role on Sundays as a place to hold church. Separation of church and state? No one evidently bothered their heads about such things, back in the day.
And there’s a hilarious story about one of those religious gatherings in the Fairview School, again preserved for us courtesy of Owen E. Jones. It seems that Abednego Johns, a pioneer Jacks Valley rancher, had arranged for two distinguished LDS ministers to come and preach at the schoolhouse one Sunday in late October during the 1880s. Mr. Johns, his wife, and the two visiting ministers — all “heavy-weighted persons” — clambered aboard Abednego’s wagon and rode south for the event. The Fairview school building was filled with neighbors, eagerly awaiting the out-of-town preachers. And then Mr. Johns stood up to introduce his guests.
Now, Mr. Johns was a “very splendid old gentleman,” Owen Jones tells us, whose “only fault was that, when he got to talking religion, he never knew when to stop.” So after beginning his introduction of the two visiting Mormon ministers, Mr. Johns just kept on talking! By the time he finally ceded the floor, most of the assembled crowd had given up and left the building. The two preachers were forced to simply bid the stragglers good-bye and call it a night.
And that wasn’t entirely the end of Mr. Johns’ rather unfortunate evening, either. While his “fillibuster” droned on, some wag had played a Halloween joke. Slipping outside, the prankster swapped the front and back wheels of Johns’ wagon, then added a heavy sack of wet sand beneath the driver’s seat and tied another to the rear axle. When the non-preaching event finally was over, Johns and his guests boarded their wagon, only to endure an excruciatingly slow journey home in the dark. They were mystified about why the team was so exhausted — until, hours later, they finally made it home to Jacks Valley and discovered the prank.
But wait! There’s more! Tune in next time for “Part 2” of this story — including who planted the trees around the old Fairview School, and where (more than a hundred years later) you can see them!
She’s probably one of the most interesting women you never read about. And long after her death, she may have just solved a friend’s puzzling health problem.
Her name was Mary Shaw Shorb, and she was born in the wilds of North Dakota on a blustery winter day, January 7, 1907. Women weren’t allowed to vote at the time. And although that, at least, had changed by the time Mary reached her twenties, job opportunities for women were pretty slim. You could be a teacher, a seamstress, a cook, a nurse, or a mom. Women in any other occupations were rare indeed.
But Mary Shaw wanted wider horizons than that. A family friend had taught her to recognize wildflowers and edible mushrooms as a child, and Mary was fascinated by botany. And as luck would have it, this same family friend had been one of the founders of the College of Idaho. Mary enrolled there in 1924, graduating four years later with a B.S. degree in Biology — and, just in case, a minor in Home Ec.
Mary’s older brother was studying to be a doctor at Johns Hopkins University and before long Mary enrolled there as well, earning her Doctor of Science degree (Sc.D.) in immunology in 1933. For her dissertation she developed an antigen that proved so successful it became one of the front-line treatments for pneumonia until sulfa drugs came along.
By now Mary was married to fellow grad student Doys Shorb, whom she’d known since kindergarten. Their first child arrived in 1936, followed by two additional children in 1938 and 1942. For a time, Mary stayed home with the kids.
But during the War years, determined to do what she could to help, Mary accepted a technical job with the Bureau of Dairy Industries: culturing a bacillus known as “LLD” used to make yogurt and other milk products. It was a mundane, routine kind of job. But Mary became fascinated when she heard about a well-known quirk in the industry: For some strange reason, in order to properly culture LLD the growth medium had to include a special extract made from liver.
Why was that? What did liver have to do with making these organisms grow? No one could tell her. Then in 1946, even that mundane job evaporated — the employee who’d previously held the position was now back from the war.
But Mary’s curiosity had been piqued. There was something in that liver extract– and it didn’t just help LLD to grow properly. Liver was also the only known remedy at the time for treating pernicious anemia, an often-fatal ailment that had already killed Mary’s father-in-law.
Unappetizing as it sounds, raw liver had indeed proven beneficial for anemia victims. But the treatment required taking nearly a pound of raw liver a day. And so far, the mysterious “active ingredient” in liver had never been isolated and standardized.
Fresh out of a job, Mary was able to wangle lab space at the University of Maryland as an unpaid “research position.” A Merck Company researcher came through with a $400 company grant to fund the upstart young scientist’s efforts. Her brilliantly simple approach: if LLD only grew in the presence of this unknown liver factor, then measuring its growth rate should help pinpoint this mysterious X-factor.
Mary developed a “bio-assay” protocol — and it worked. In just three months, the Merck scientific team was able to isolate the first red crystals of this special active ingredient from liver extract– now known as Vitamin B12. It was a stunning breakthrough, and produced astonishing results for victims of pernicious anemia.
Asked about this breakthrough in a 1954 Idaho newspaper, Mary was her usual humble, retiring self. “It was such a gradual discovery it’s hard to express my feeling when it was proved the vitamin did cure anemia,” she confessed. “But I will admit that it was a thrill and quite a wonderful experience.”
A tiny dynamo standing just four feet eleven inches tall, Mary was granted a full research professorship at the University of Maryland. Over her lengthy scientific career, she authored or co-authored 58 papers for scientific journals before finally retiring in 1972. Ironically, she passed away at the age of 83 in 1990 from complications of pneumonia, the same illness she’d helped treat with her dissertation.
And how did Mary Shaw Shorb manage to help rectify my friend’s health problem, long after Mary’s own death? Actually, it was her discovery of B12 that did it.
It all started out with a wonky blood result. My friend, a long-time vegetarian, had had chronically low white blood counts for well over a decade. Recently, though, her WBC number dipped into the “what’s going on” crazy-zone. Her doctor was ready to send her to an oncologist. That’s right: they thought it might be cancer.
My friend thought otherwise. She’d read that vegetarians tend to have lower WBC numbers anyhow. And there were a few hints that B12 might be helpful for improving both red and white blood counts. For three weeks, she took a daily B12 supplement and added nutritional yeast (a B-vitamin source) to her coffee.
And that crazy-low WBC number? It jumped by two full points. She’s back in the “normal” range for the first time in ten years. And she credits it all to Mary Shaw Shorb and her amazing B12.
(Caution/Caveat/Disclaimer: This anecdotal health story is shared just for reading interest; it’s not intended as medical advice of any kind. Please talk to your own doctor before trying any home remedies or self-treatment!)
Old Yank’s Station has a cool anniversary coming up on Sunday, April 28th — 159 years, to be exact!
On April 28th, 1860, exactly 159 years ago, a young Pony Express rider named Warren Upson came flying in to change ponies, stopping for the very first time for his mount change at Yank’s.
The new road over Kingsbury Grade had just opened, you see, which offered a shorter route for the mail heading east to Genoa than on Upson’s previous rides. (On earlier rides, Upson had taken a longer route through Hope Valley and Woodfords.) Now, with the new Pony Express stop at Yank’s, Upson would only need to ride as far as Friday’s Station (today’s Stateline) before handing the mochila over to the next Pony Express rider.
Today, of course, they don’t call it “Yank’s Station” anymore. The site is now home to Holiday Market (formerly Lira’s), at the southwest corner of Highway 50 and Apache Avenue in Meyers. The Pony Express only stopped at Yank’s for a year and a half — until October 26, 1861. But Yank and his station had a fascinating and much longer history!
Ephraim “Yank” Clement had been the owner for less than a year when Upson arrived that April. The previous owner, Martin Smith, had settled there in 1851, rebuilding the trading station once after an early fire. By the time Yank Clement came along and bought it from Smith and a partner in 1859, the station was already a well-known trading post and stage stop. A telegraph relay station had just been added in 1858.
And Yank Clement brought his own bigger and grander ideas. After he purchased the station in 1859, he kept adding and expanding. Eventually his station was three stories tall, featuring 14 rooms, a general store, a blacksmith shop, and last but not least — twosaloons! It’s said that those quickly became popular with travelers not only for drinks, food and card games, but also a handful of ladies of dubious virtue who could be found there. Across the road, Clement added large corrals, and the station featured a large barn with stables for travelers’ animals.
Yank was a larger-than-life character who quickly became a local celebrity. He was a true Yankee indeed, claiming to have moved west from his native New Hampshire at the age of 40 and acquiring the station “at the instance of Chorpenning.” Yank would regale visitors with tales of his early adventures, which (supposedly) included a brief sojourn as a cooper in Cuba and service as a chaplain at the Battle of Bunker Hill — this last an amusing but thoroughly impossible tale for a someone born about 1817. Planned future improvements, he assured guests, would include a tree-house lookout for better views of the lake; a fish pond with water-spouting Cupid; and a brand new piano (pronounced “peeyan-er”) for his house. The warm and effusive host was said to accompany his narratives with “many amusing peculiarities of phrase and gesture.”
In the outpost’s early days, at least, the location was still a remote slice of the Old West. A California teamster named Grace got held up at gunpoint near Yank’s Station in November, 1865, while on his way home after delivering a load of goods to Dayton, Nevada. Five “foot-pads” with shotguns accosted Grace’s wagon near Yank’s Station, and the poor teamster was forced to hand over the entire $450 proceeds he’d earned for his trip.
After almost a decade in business Yank acquired a bride, marrying Mrs. Lydia D. Mark in Genoa on June 30, 1868. The new Mrs. Clement became a strong partner in the hotel business, with visitors commenting on her excellent cooking and housework skills.
Tragedy struck the pair just a few short years later, however, when Yank’s hotel was consumed by fire in December, 1872. Among those who barely escaped with their lives were Yank, his wife Lydia, and a Mrs. Cleveland, the wife of a senator. Mrs. Cleveland suffered burns on her face and hands as she rushed out of the burning building, and Lydia Clement was said to have had her hair “singed to the roots.”
Perhaps as a result of this catastrophe, “Yank” sold his station to George D.H. Meyers in 1873. Meyers would later expand the holdings, purchasing nearby land, and began raising cattle there. The property would stay in the Meyers family for the next 30 years, and later was acquired by the Celio family.
Despite the sale of his original station, Yank wouldn’t abandon the hotel business, however. He soon built another hotel near Camp Richardson known as Tallac House, memorialized by famed photographer Carleton Watkins in 1876. This hotel was grander than ever, featuring a spring floor for dancing called an “emotional floor.” And naturally, given Yank’s personality, it was still commonly known as “Yank’s.”
A visitor in August, 1875 described the accommodations, which included a bed “at least four feet from the floor” and a single shared toothbrush “in a large pressed-glass tumbler,” thoughtfully provided for the comfort of Yank’s visitors. Clements and his wife set a good table, the writer confirmed (“I mean it — a real good table is theirs”), and described them as “bustling around as usual and doing all in their power for their guests.” Another guest remarked cryptically that he and his friends had managed to procure an early breakfast by “ventur[ing] to brave the small explosive dangers of Yank’s dining hall” — possibly a reference to being cornered by Yank with a story.
Yank was described as “the most obliging old coon in the world, [who] flies off here, there, and everywhere all day in the interest and comfort of his guests.” Mrs. Clement was a “first-class housekeeper,” keeping the hotel running smoothly along with help from her niece, a Mrs. Rogers. And Yank was said to out-do himself for guests: “If you want his house, team and wagon, it comes marvelously at your order; and if you order saddle horses or boats he makes a spring and a whiz and you are equipped.”
For a time, Yank Clement also served as local justice of the peace, much to the amusement of those in his courtroom. During the trial of one case, Yank fell sound asleep and “began snoring like a house afire.” When roused from his slumbers so the evidence could continue, Yank responded tartly: ‘That’s all right. I knew all about the darned case [before] it came into the court [and] made up my mind about the merits long ago.” In another instance, one man was trying to sue another for an unpaid debt. “Well,” Yank inquired, “Did you have a talk with him about the matter? And he wouldn’t give you no satisfaction?” No, Yank was assured, the debtor had refused to pay. “By jingo!” he erupted. “If you couldn’t do nothin’ with him, how in blazes can you expect me to do it?”
Clement’s Tallac House was sold about 1880 to Elias “Lucky” Baldwin, who would later build an even grander Tallac Hotel there. As for the original Yank’s Station in Meyers, it was finally “done in” for a third time by fire in 1938 — along with much of the surrounding community of Meyers.
So this April 28, it’s only fitting to consider a pilgrimage to the site of old Yank’s Station in honor of this 159th anniversary. Imagine young Warren Upson, tired and cold, making his hurried change of ponies and dreaming of a quick stop at Al Tahoe and the warm fire ahead at Friday’s Station. And imagine Ephraim “Yank” Clement standing in the door of his original Yank’s Station, waving good-bye and wishing Upson god-speed on the road ahead.
Minor miracle or self-delusion? Lost art or pure malarkey?
Whether dowsers really have a special ability to locate underground water with a forked willow stick (or an iron bar, or welding rods, or half-a-dozen other purported tools of the trade), people have believed in their uncanny abilities for generations.
“I can’t explain it any more than I can explain the sense of direction possessed by migrating birds,” dowser Roy Newman shrugged back in 1961. “I do say I have never yet located a dry well while using the divining rod.”
Newman, a Frazier Park, CA resident at the time, amassed a healthy track record to back up his water-finding bonafides. He successfully picked a spot for a new well in Cuddy Valley in 1926. And over the years, he went on to locate five or six more good water wells in the vicinity — including one that successfully turned up water after more scientific methods to locate a drill site turned up bone dry.
Preferring ‘water diviner’ or ‘dowser’ to the old-fashioned term, ‘water witcher,’ Newman’s tools of the trade included a forked willow branch, a thin metal wire or, on occasion, a crowbar. But the willow switch was apparently his favorite. Holding a freshly-cut forked willow with down-facing hands, Newman would walk forward over the ground until the willow tip dipped. That was his signal, he said, that water would be found below.
Even walking wasn’t always necessary; sometimes, to cover larger areas, Newman would simply perch on the hood of a car, willow rod in hand. To strengthen the signal, he’d sometimes place one hand over his heart. And once a promising water site was located, Newman would simply hold his willow stick over the spot and count “vibrations” to read the water’s depth.
And Roy Newman wasn’t the only dowser helping find wells near Frazier Park back in the 1960s. M. Pickner of Gorman reportedly chose several successful well sites using an iron bar as his dowsing rod, including finding water at one spot after professional well-locators had failed. Dowser Frank Thorpe also successfully helped choose sites for producing local wells. His preferred dowser’s tool: a wishbone-shaped piece of wire.
Hokum or an as-yet-unexplained gift? It’s hard to say. But it’s fun to watch a dowser in action. We were privileged, once, to watch as a local dowser named Percy Pimley searched for a well site here on the Eastern Slope of the Sierra. According to Percy — then 83 years old — a fresh, forked willow stick was the ticket. But those with the “gift” need to be extra-careful when using willow, Percy warned. “It can tear the skin right off your palms when it bends if the signal is real strong.”
They’re the bane of gardeners everywhere. And adding insult to injury, they’re the happiest of flowers nobody ever planted. Cheerful yellow intruders, they pop up with smiling, sunny faces, as if mocking eradication efforts.
We’re talking the dandelion, of course. Native to Europe and Asia, the dandelion is said to have arrived in the New World in the early 1600s. Were the seeds stowaways when the Pilgrims first set foot at Plymouth Rock? Or were they deliberately brought along by colonists as a medicinal plant? No one seems to know for sure. But once having arrived in the New World, the dandelion quickly set its roots. And it’s certainly made itself right at home.
Like so many things we detest, though, there’s another side to dandelions if we look hard enough. The humble and ever-present dandelion has been treasured for centuries as both a food and a medicine.
Its roots have long been used as a detoxifying “tonic,” stimulating for the kidney, liver and gallbladder. The leaves make a dandy salad or smoothie green (yeah, pun intended), and some folks toss those cheerful yellow blooms in their salads as well. There’s dandelion tea (made by simmering the leaves), and dandelion “coffee” (brewed from the dried, ground root). And don’t forget that home-brewed staple of country living, dandelion wine. (Even proper Victorian women who weren’t supposed to imbibe strong drink were permitted to consume this “medicinal” remedy!)
The white sap that oozes from a dandelion’s cut stems or roots has been used in folk medicine to treat warts. Centuries ago, herbalists used the plant as a remedy for fever, depression and even hair loss. And some today say the root contains substances that could potentially help treat cancer. (Take all those “cures” with a grain of salt . . . but the cancer link just might be worth further research.)
Dandelion tea is easy to make: Just simmer the washed, chopped leaves and root for about 15 minutes, let cool, and strain. (It’s a natural diuretic, so check with your doctor first if you have liver, kidney, or gallbladder issues, or if you’re already taking a diuretic.)
Wash and cook the leaves just like spinach — like spinach, they’re high in iron and calcium.
And if you’d like to try making your very own dandelion wine (and wreak a bit of revenge on those cheerful yellow blossoms in the process), all it takes is a heaping quantity of flowers, a bit of yeast, some citrus fruit and raisins, and a lot of sugar. Oh, and a few weeks of toe-tapping as you wait for it to brew.
There are scads of recipes available online for making dandelion wine, but here’s one with great how-to pictures – plus a bonus recipe at the end for making dandelion cookies:
This beautiful old Victorian home sits just south of Genoa. It’s known as the Dake House, and it’s listed on the National Register of Historic Places. But it’s notable for yet another reason, as well: this is also said to be one of the most haunted sites in Nevada.
And given its history, there’s are a few good reasons why a ghost or two might be hanging around!
Charles W. Dake served as a local undertaker for many years (though he listed his occupation simply as “carpenter” in the 1880 census). He did indeed work as a carpenter, building a railing for the Genoa courthouse, and a bridge in Smith Valley, for instance. Surprisingly, however, he didn’t actually build his own coffins in his second career as an undertaker; those were shipped in, already assembled.
A native of Canada, Dake had initially settled in Alpine County, California, after moving west in the 1860s. By 1866 he and his wife, Harriet, were living in the silver mining boomtown of Silver Mountain City. There he became an Alpine County supervisor, even serving as Chairman of the Board from 1868-69. The Dakes already had four children; their fifth baby, named Charles after his father, was born in 1869 while the family lived in the snowy Alpine mountains.
By the time of the 1870 census, Dake and his family had moved to Monitor, where he found employment as superintendent for the mill at the Globe Mine. Like other eager miners, Dake invested a bit in the local mines. But after the Globe Mine shut down “temporarily” Dake moved on, purchasing his property here in Genoa about 1872.
Dake is believed to have built this house himself. But he wasn’t the first settler to actually live at this site. According to old-timer Harry Hawkins, an elderly African-American man had once lived at this site. That fits with the story that an early log cabin once sat here, before Dake came along. According to Hawkins, the property’s former owner died and was buried just north of the present-day house. Sadly, Hawkins recalls that someone later built a rock fence right over the man’s grave. Well, that might explain why at least one irritable ghost would still occupy this property!
During Dake’s time, his Victorian home did double-duty as the post office and as his Justice of the Peace office. Dake also had a barn and carriage house on the property. The Dake property was sold in 1909 to Theodore and Clara Hawkins, and Clara reportedly planted the lilac bushes, snowball bushes, and fruit trees you can still see there today.
As for the undertaking parlor, well, that moved around a bit (literally!). In early 1888, Dake was renting space for his undertaking business in J.R. Johnson’s building in Genoa, just north of the butcher shop. That didn’t last long, however. Dake had already purchased the Audrain property next to his home in 1887, and had moved the former Audrain house closer to the road. In the spring of 1890, Dake moved his undertaking business there. It was conveniently close — and there’d be no rent!
Dake’s undertaking parlor made at least one more journey, too, before it was eventually demolished in 1958. In July, 1891, a heavy cloudburst washed the entire structure down the hill and into fields below owned by the Frey family. “The building was turned completely round and what was the south wing is now the north,” reported the Genoa Weekly Courier. Stories are still told today about coffins coming down into the field with it.
The disaster was no problem for those unsentimental old-timers, though; they simply dragged the wooden building back up to its earlier spot and set it back on its foundation. When the undertaking building was finally demolished for good in 1958, caked dry mud was said to be found still packed between the old floor joists.
And the ghostly encounters reported at the Dake House? Well, there’ve been lots of them!
Staff in the antique store have reported “phantom shadows.” The ghostly figure of an older woman has been spotted on the first floor, and some visitors claim to have smelled sweet perfume in the parlor. People say they’ve heard footsteps echoing from the empty upper floor. One visitor upstairs felt a distinct slap on the face – when no one else was in the room at the time.
But perhaps the most frequently re-told ghost story involves a beautiful oil painting. It appears to be an ordinary-enough still-life of a vase filled with roses. But it’s thought to be either an original or a duplicate of a “spirit painting,” created by a medium at a seance in San Francisco.
According to local lore, the antique store owner tried to sell the painting three separate times. But each time a sale was imminent, the painting would crash to the floor. Once it even struck an electrical plug on its journey, sending up a dramatic cascade of sparks. Three times was enough to get the message across, however: the owner hasn’t tried to sell the painting since.
Given that an undertaking parlor once sat nearby, you can kinda understand why a few ghosts might be hanging around the property, right? And there could be other reasons for unsettled spirits, as well. There’s that unfortunate former owner with a rock wall now covering his grave. There’s the “spirit painting,” which may have come with its own unsettled spirit attached. And in addition to the bodies that passed through Dake’s undertaking parlor over the years there were the grieving spouses who came to his home.
But that’s not all. Dake’s wife, Harriet, passed away in Genoa (possibly even here in this house) in September, 1878. The precise day she died? You guessed it: Friday the 13th.
As for C.W. Dake himself, he passed away at the age of 79 in November, 1908. Records show he is buried in a plot near the top of Genoa Cemetery, along with wife Harriet, son Bert, and five other Dakes. Sadly, these family graves are currently unmarked. Like so many early ones, their headstones may once have been made of wood. There’s even a local rumor that C.W. Dake’s headstone may have been stolen long ago. Or perhaps you might say it was — spirited away!
Jim Lombardi may have started out in life as an altar boy. But his years as a teen were a somewhat different story: Jim was shipped off to boarding school for “not shaping up.”
Shape up he did, operating a successful L.A. restaurant and then joining LAPD as a reserve, patrolling the beat and working undercover vice assignments during his 50-year law enforcement career. But it took his daughter, Lisa Lombardi O’Reilly, to finally capture Jim’s amazing life stories on paper. Just released in March, 2019, “A Sense of Humor” shares Jim’s tales of becoming a helicopter mechanic; rubbing shoulders with famous musicians and notorious gangsters of the ‘60s; and life-or-death experiences as a law enforcement officer. Daughter Lisa, it turns out, was the perfect person to capture those stories. A writer, professional genealogist and family historian, she had been helping capture personal histories since 1997.
So how’d it go, interviewing your own dad and creating a book together? And what advice does she have for other memoir writers? Lisa kindly shares her memoir tips and experiences with our readers!
* * * * * * *
Q&A With Lisa: Q: How was it, working with your dad on his autobiography? A: Working on this project with my dad was one of the best things I’ve ever done. I loved the time we spent together during the interview process, going through old photographs and memorabilia (which he still doesn’t know how I found!); sharing with him genealogy records about his ancestors; and, of course, sharing laughs about it all. There has always been a lot of laughter in our family.
Q: Did it change your relationship in some way? A: I’m grateful to say that I’ve always enjoyed a good, close relationship with my dad. Of course, when my siblings and I were young we didn’t get to see a lot of him during the week (especially when he was in the restaurant business), though he habitually made time for us. So I wouldn’t say working on the book together changed our relationship, or even that it gave me more of an appreciation for him. I’ve always felt that. What it did give me was a keener perspective and respect for the man that he is in a broader sense. The man that he isoutside our family, to his friends, and the communities he’s involved with. Discovering how his integrity, sense of humor, work ethic, and self-esteem were ingrained in him, and how they remained a firm foundation throughout his life. It brought full circle everything that he instilled in me and my siblings.
Q: Did anyone else in the family help? A: The only other person who helped was my mom, who, if she was in the room during an interview, would add her own colorful version of a story. Apparently, my dad didn’t remember things ‘correctly’ all the time . . .
Q: Did anything come out that surprised you? Did you hear stories you’d never heard before, growing up? A: I got to hear many stories I’d never heard before, especially about his parents, friends he grew up with, and people he knew that were instrumental in his life. What surprised me the most was his memory — not just his detailed recall about the events of his life, but that he would remember exactly where we had left off in the previous interview. It was uncanny! It took almost two years to get all the interviews recorded because I’d only see him four or five times a year, and the project would get put aside while I was working on other (paying!) projects. Normally, I let my narrators start up with what is foremost in their mind. But my dad would sit down with me and say something like, ‘OK, last time we finished up talking about the boat.’ And it would have been several months since our last interview! So we’d take up from there. He was amazing.
Q: You cover a lot of ground, it looks like. How hard (or easy) was it to organize all the material?! What did you do to keep things on track? A: This was the biggest personal history project I’ve done to date, and was amassed from over 20 hours of interviews. We were able to cover a lot of ground since I had the background knowledge to be able to bring up questions about people or events. It was the most in-depth look at a childhood that I’ve ever recorded and he also has been engaged in several different careers during his life, and we covered them all. We had the luxury of no budget, so I went for it all! It really wasn’t especially difficult to organize the material, it just took longer to organize it all into the narrative flow. Once I got into the design stage of the book, I kept myself on track by giving myself a deadline. Otherwise, I’d still be collecting stories, because they keep bubbling up!
Q: What was the BEST story you heard from your dad — the one you really want the world to know about? A: That’s a tough question. My dad is a great narrator and had a lot of fascinating stories about his boyhood, his family, his restaurant days, and being a police officer with the LAPD. But I think my favorite story was one he and my mother told me together over dinner. There were a few times when I set the voice recorder in the middle of the table as we ate, and it captured some great conversations. The story that is dearest to me involved an evening while they were dating. My mom worked in downtown LA and my dad was supposed to pick her up after work. But he forgot to come get her because he was at home watching a ball game with his uncle! Their back-and-forth as they told this tale was such a perfect example of how they spoke to each other, and the story itself was so funny. And in the end, it turned out to be the night my dad proposed to my mom. I had never heard that story before, and it was beautiful and so them!
Q: Do you have any advice for other would-be writers who’d like to get a family member’s story out? A: The best advice I can give is to just do it. Don’t put it off, don’t wait for some elusive ‘convenient’ time. There won’t be one. You have to treat the project like you would if the person was a paying client, especially the interview portion. Make appointments and put them on the calendar, and get all those words recorded! The book I did for my dad was his 80th birthday present, and I intended to do the same for my mom when she turned 80. But the unimaginable happened and she passed away suddenly. So don’t think you’ll always have time – you won’t.
Finishing my dad’s book was my greatest accomplishment. It’s a true blessing, and I’ll be forever grateful that I was able to present it to him, and that we can share it with our family and friends. My whole life, he’s been the king of my world and now I can let everyone know why. That makes it a precious gift to myself, as well as to him. So just do it – start the ball rolling today. I promise you will reap rewards you never expected. Just remember to listen like you’ve never heard the stories before (even if you have), and keep a sense of humor!
You can find James Lombardi’s wonderful memoir “A Sense of Humor” here on Amazon.com:
To contact Lisa Lombardi O’Reilly to inquire about her services for creating an heirloom book from your own life stories, visit: www.yourstorieswritten.com or connect with her on Facebook: facebook.com/lisa.lombardioreilly.
GUEST BLOG: Q&A With Memoir Author Fredrick D. Kakinami Cloyd
Some stories just grab your heart and demand to be shared. Dream of the Water Children is one of those special books.
Author Fredrick D. Kakinami Cloyd was kind enough to share some thoughts about his new memoir that I hope will inspire you.
A Quick Introduction:
Fredrick was born in a small town west of Tokyo to a Japanese mother and an African American serviceman father stationed in Japan during the Korean War years. His father finally was able to return in 1963 and brought Fredrick and his mother back with him to the United States. Fredrick grew up with a foot in both worlds — a “cultural drifter,” as he puts it, not entirely at home in either Japanese or American culture.
Fredrick’s journey to complete his memoir spanned more than 30 years, with lots of “bumpy starts and stops.” He finished the first draft of his manuscript while living in a homeless shelter in San Francisco, and later completed his Master’s degree at California Institute of Integral Studies. He became a serious practitioner of Zen Buddhism, spending years in a monastery. And he’s been head coach and director of several highly-ranked Junior Olympic volleyball clubs. His lyrical memoir is finally out — just published by 2Leaf Press and distributed by University of Chicago Press in April 2019.
“My book wasn’t just about me,” he says. “It was about all the water children.” Stay tuned, and he’ll explain.
* * * * * * *
Q&A With Fredrick D. Kakinami Cloyd: Q:What made you decide to write your memoir? Did it help you come to peace with some of the difficulties you’ve lived through? A: Well, it was an organic process that came in steps. I had the idea to “perhaps” write a book on my family history, back in 1983. I kept taking notes on conversations and memory here and there, and attempted a few times through the decades, to write the book. I had another name for my book, and decided it was too “victim-oriented” and I wanted something different from the regular memoirs I had read at the time. But I didn’t know what this “something different” meant or what I was going for yet. It wasn’t until 1997 or so that I started writing in earnest, when some friends of mine in Seattle, where I lived at the time, urged me to take myself seriously. They even set up a time for me to give a public presentation. I thank them profusely now. They recognized the potential of a book from me before I did. At heart, I felt unready — not shy or unconfident, but that the form I had been thinking about wasn’t quite right.
There were times in the writing that were harrowing, when I wrote through tears. From 1983 to the 2000s it was starting and stopping, reflecting, re-writing. But in the mid-2000s, I finally sat down and wrote the final form of the manuscript I would query publishers with. That was an intense process of focus, with some welling-up of tears and happiness at the same time.
In the end, I would say that the entire decades of writing did help me to heal. Some memories came back that I had forgotten or repressed. Some memories were embedded so strongly in my body-mind that I was glad to write them out. I struggled sometimes with structural and language issues, getting the right language, feel, structure, and also the timing (how and when the ‘event’ or memory would show up in my book). The question of why I’m writing about a particular event for a public to read, that was the biggest concern with everything I wrote in the book.
That was healing. It was a great catharsis, and not just for the little boy in me that needed to confront childhood trauma and the ongoing adult traumas that we men are “supposed to” hide and get over in the United States. It was healing also on the level of why I was writing the book — which is for issues of social justice to be touched and introduced and engaged. For me, this is the interplay between myself and the reader in the book — and what I’m hoping will be some of the take-away that readers get.
Q: I love your title, it’s so evocative. What is the reference to ‘water children’ about? A: Several things went into this. In the 1980s I was thinking about a different title for the book — but it was more what I felt to be victim-oriented, a kind of “me and my mother against the world, time, and history” thing, which I needed to get away from. I wanted it to be more reflective of my hopes. Those hopes were not about everyone coming together and singing “Kumbayah” together and loving each other. That kind of romanticized notion of “peace” would be a disservice to myself and others who understand life to be diverse, and thus multi-faceted and too complex for there to be some unified living-together without problems. Instead my vision of peace was more about how to live, how to negotiate across our differences as persons, communities, genders, ages, various sexual and racial and national identities, and about facing our histories and power relations.
So in the end I decided my “memoir” would be more of what I call an “anti-memoir.” As I sat down with all this and thought about the title, I couldn’t immediately come up with anything, and went to bed. In the middle of the night, I came up with this title. This story is actually told in the beginning of my book.
The title comes from a Japanese term, mizuko. Its characters mean “water child” or “water children.” It is a common name for females in Japan. But also, and more to the point, it is a term that was used in the postwar period for an aborted fetus, or dead fetus. Sometimes it is also extended to dead young children. And it is also sometimes used to refer to the mixed-race babies fathered by American and Australian soldiers and other Allied Occupation forces in Japan who were aborted or killed after birth by mothers, relatives, neighbors, etc.. As people might not know, there was an abandoned gravesite discovered in Yokohama prefecture in the 1990s, which contained over 800 mixed-race babies that died of starvation, killing, disease, etc.. That was just in one city. So one can imagine how the statistics that we see today about the numbers of mixed-race babies born in Japan from 1945 to 1955 are not accurate.
There are religious ceremonies (primarily Buddhist) that have special temples, shrines, and ceremonies connected to water children. There are also Japanese Buddhist statues depicting the guardian of the young, which is also connected to this concept. During the occupation, the United States prohibited all indigenous religions in Japan. For grieving mothers who had lost or aborted a child, it was a relief when these ceremonies were finally allowed again.
So my book is a dream for the world that the babies in the other world (the dead) would conjure and wish for. It’s a wish for better understanding and new ways of thinking through our issues in the world, towards something better. It is also an acknowledgment that we, as humans, care for the lost dead children. So thus, the title. It came in a dream.
Q:You are fortunate to have University of Chicago Press now as your distributor. Do you have any advice for other memoir writers who might be seeking a publisher? A: Don’t depend only on queries! I initially sent out about 10 to 15 queries to various publishers, asking if they might want to publish my book. About seven wrote back. The others never replied. All seven rejected my manuscript.
I wasn’t sad. I was expecting this to happen. It happens with all authors to one degree or more, and especially with books written by people of color. Cultures differ and the way we express ourselves may not fit into the mold of the largely white establishment that controls the language and structure of what gets out and how and when.
The criticisms that they had on my manuscript were actually not a surprise. All of them said: “Your manuscript is beautifully written but we don’t know what to do with it because it doesn’t seem to fit into an established category.” Of course I was miffed, but not surprised.
But out of the blue, a publisher I had not heard of before contacted me. She said she was interested in my book after reading my online posts. She had read some of my excerpts and blog posts on different sites. So if I have any worthwhile advice for writers of memoirs, it is to put yourself out there online. In my case, it was solely from creating my blog and also writing on other sites about my identity as a mixed-race Japanese, a military “brat,” and about my blackness — it was my work and interviews online that attracted the publisher.
Q: Do you have any advice to share with other memoir writers? Any suggestions about the writing process? A: I think the main thing I can say to other writers is to not be so concerned about your writing process, and to do what you think would work and be willing to experiment. I did not attend writing classes or anything like that, though I did belong to a couple of Asian-American writing groups that helped me for awhile. Then they became what I felt to be ridiculous and so I left them. I had to believe in myself.
It could take a year to finish your memoir, or three decades, like my own process. Trust yourself, but make no excuses when it comes to intention. Sometimes intention goes underground and it is important to be sure you know what it is. Our stories and memories will come out differently depending on *why* we are writing our memoir.
For me, it was about social justice. So I needed to learn about how to express myself towards that goal without sounding like the “good vs. bad” moralizing that kind of dominates social justice writing — which I do *not* agree with. My point is that we have to think about the why’s as well as the how’s a bit.
Don’t expect it will come out perfectly at first (remember, I took three decades). Just continue to hold your book in your heart and write on it when you can and feel like. Don’t hold back or censor or edit until you have the bulk of the book or the entire first run completed. Censorship can ruin things. Afterwards, we can edit. Censorship often plays into perfectionism and fear, and I notice that in alot of memoir writers *before* they even begin. Just do it! Hopefully this helps.
Today, few people know his name. But back in the 1870-1880s, everyone in Alpine County and most of nearby Carson Valley knew mining promoter Lewis Chalmers. And whether they loved him or hated him, everyone had an opinion.
Son of a wealthy Scottish family, Chalmers was raised among the movers and shakers of Fraserburgh. His father and grandfather had each served in turn as the local baillie (chief magistrate) for the town, and his family was highly influential in civic affairs. Trained as a lawyer, Lewis took over as baillie when his father died in 1850. By the early 1860s Chalmers had secured a cushy post for himself as “factor” for Lord Saltoun, managing the nobleman’s estate and finances.
But that good fortune soon evaporated — along with a good bit of Lewis’s inheritance. Chalmers, it seems, was feathering his own nest a bit too freely with his employer’s money. In 1864, Lord Saltoun sent him packing.
Chalmers was forced to leave Scotland in disgrace. Down on his fortunes and with seven children to feed, he moved to London and took a position with an investment firm, where he began studying assaying. News of the recent strikes in the Comstock Lode was dazzling British investors. Chalmers’ new employers acquired the rights to a mine called the Michigan Tunnel in Alpine County, and in 1867 sent Chalmers to oversee their highly speculative investment.
Now 42 years old, Chalmers must have had high hopes indeed as he set sail from Liverpool on September 11, 1867 for his new post. But when he finally arrived in the rough mining camp the foot of Monitor Canyon, it must have been a bit of a culture shock. Chalmers settled in as best he could to make himself comfortable in this wild, untamed country. He halted all work in the tunnel until his workmen could build him a comfortable house, complete with assay office. He hired a housekeeper. (Mining camp or no, Chalmers wasn’t about to do his own cleaning.) And he ordered a few basic supplies, including ivory-handled knives, wine glasses and decanters, and kegs of good Scotch whiskey.
Among Chalmers’ first acts as the new mining superintendent: re-branding the blandly-named Michigan Tunnel Co. as the “Imperial Gold & Silver Quarries.” He certainly had a marketer’s touch. Locals took to calling him “Lord” Chalmers, for his high-falutin’ ways. Meanwhile, in letters home, Chalmers complained bitterly about “rusticating in Alpine.”
Work on the Michigan Tunnel aka Imperial Silver Quarries continued for the next two years. Despite successfully pushing the hard-rock tunnel 1,406 feet into Mount America, Chalmers never stumbled across any worthwhile ore. Investors in London became harder and harder to come by and eventually, the Imperial’s finances cratered.
Undeterred, Chalmers slogged on. He acquired title to additional mines in Scandinavian Canyon, and doggedly pursued one mining venture after another — all financed through his influential contacts in London and their gullible friends. For nearly twenty years, hopeful overseas investors poured funds into one Alpine mining venture after another.
Chalmers married his latest housekeeper and had two more children born here in Alpine County. But happiness — and a return of fortune — were not to be his. He departed for London about 1885, ostensibly to raise fresh capital for the mines. He never returned. They say his wife walked down the road every day to the big tree where the stage used to stop, hoping each time that Chalmers was coming home. He never did.
Lewis Chalmers died in London in January, 1904 of “heart complaint.” But he left an amazing legacy behind in Alpine County. Thanks in large part to the steady influx of British capital he wangled to support the local mines (and local jobs), the newly-minted county was able to survive its formative years.
And Chalmers left behind his own rich legacy as well in the form of nearly 20 letter-books, packed with details about the day-to-day operation of his mines. It’s an incredible wealth of data for historians and researchers.
Lewis Chalmers has been gone, now, for more than a century. But now you know his story. We hope you’ll help keep his memory alive.
(If you’d like to read much more about the life of Lewis Chalmers and Alpine County’s early mining days, check out our Silver Mountain City book!)
Top image is thought to be a portrait of Lewis Chalmers, although we’re not 100% positive. It was found in a photo album donated by the Arnot family, directly opposite the image of Lord Poulett. Photo courtesy of Alpine County Historical Society.
William Ritchford was bound and determined to be a hotel owner. In March, 1893 he purchased the Gardnerville Hotel at the southwest corner of Main and Eddy Streets from Hans C. Jepsen. Here at his “fine hotel and saloon,” the accommodating new owner offered board and lodging by the day, week, or month. Patrons of his saloon were promised not only “good wines, liquors and cigars,” but also an opportunity to try their luck at the card tables.
Ritchford had a partner in this new endeavor, Hans Nelson. And for a time, things went swimmingly. In June of 1893, the pair were already planning to build an addition to their hotel to “accommodate the transient custom that nightly make this a stopping point,” said the Genoa Weekly Courier. But by March of 1894, Ritchford had sold out his interest to Nelson for a bit more than $5,000, and was moving to Antelope Valley with his family.
They weren’t gone long, however. By October of 1896, the Ritchfords were back in Gardnerville, renting the lower floor of Pete Wilder’s house. By 1897, Bill Ritchford was operating a livery and feed business in town. But he still had heart set on another hotel.
About 1898, Ritchford purchased a parcel on the west side of today’s “S”-curve, then the south end of Gardnerville. An early blacksmith shop occupied the south corner of the property (opened by Chris Nelson and later operated by Fred Fricke). By March that same year, carpenters and stone masons were hard at work erecting a new hotel for Ritchford at the north end of his property.
Things didn’t get off to a terribly auspicious start. First, carpenter Henry Beste took a nasty fall at the under-construction hotel, confining him to bed rest for a day or two. Then the following week stone mason Henry Mathews, who’d been hired to lay the building’s foundation, suddenly passed away.
But by mid-July, Ritchford and his family were able to move into their new hotel. The building was finished enough that the newspaper was able to report on its “imposing appearance,” with a cornice painted a patriotic red, white and blue. In November, 1898 Ritchford added a tall water tank to the property, bringing gravity-fed water to the new building. Genuine “horsepower” of the old-fashioned kind was used to lift the large tank into place.
That September, 1898, a “Grand House Warming” celebration and dance was advertised to celebrate the new hotel. In deference to the size of the expected crowd, festivities were held just up the street at Valhalla Hall. Tickets for the event cost $2, but thoughtfully included not only supper for attendees but also “horse feed.”
Even so, however, it appears the new hotel building was not quite finished. In June the following year, the Courier reported plans under way to “immediately finish” the third story of the hotel, “owing to the throng of people in Gardnerville.” A Sanborn Fire Insurance map drawn that year shows a two-and-a-half story “boarding house” on the property. Ritchford finally had his own hotel.
Advertisements in the Genoa Courier in late 1899 cheerfully informed the traveling public that Ritchford’s new hotel was open for business. He had picked an auspicious official name for it, too: “The Latest.” Guests could stable their horses at the livery just 38 feet to the south (possibly a new incarnation of the former blacksmith shop). And Ritchford wasn’t done yet. By early 1900, carpenter Henry Dixon was “finishing up” what may have been more of the third story of the Ritchford.
When finally completed, the Ritchford Hotel featured 20 “first-class” rooms. Mrs. Ritchford charmed guests with her cooking, including “sumptuous” turkey dinners. The livery business did so well that in 1902 a “large addition” was made to the stable. And in 1903, in keeping with the hotel’s name, “The Latest,” Ritchford had his hotel electrified — a significant improvement over the original gas lighting.
“Word of the Ritchford Hotel spread around the state, and anyone traveling through the valley wanted to stay there,” noted Scott Schrantz in a 2006 blog, Around Carson. “Even in San Francisco they spoke of its elegance and luxury.”
And even more improvements were yet to come. In the fall of 1905, Bill Ritchford added an “ice house” to the hotel and a “rustic front” to his stable. This latter change, the Record-Courier noted approvingly, “greatly add[ed] to [the stable’s] appearance.”
Ritchford worked hard to ensure a steady stream of patrons to his hotel. After the V&T opened its Minden depot in 1906, Ritchford drove his team to meet the train every day to pick up “drummers” (traveling salesmen) needing a place to spend the night.
By 1907, the Sanborn maps show that another narrow addition had been made to the livery stable, pushing the building even farther south. And by 1912, almost the entire southern corner of the property had been covered with various extensions to the livery building.
Among other amenities for guests, it seems medical help was close at hand for anyone who needed it. As early as 1899, a patient was said to be “undergoing treatment at Ritchford’s hotel.” Advertisements from 1908 indicate that Dr. E.H. Hawkins kept both his medical office and his residence in the hotel. Another physican named Dr. Marotz had a convenient office nearby, and “at night [he] can be found at [a] cottage adjoining Ritchford hotel,” according to Marotz’s ad.
But at the age 0f 75, after more than two decades in the hotel business, Bill Ritchford passed away in a tragic accident. It was February of 1922. Despite his years, Ritchford was hauling hay from Minden to Gardnerville on a sled being pulled by a four-horse team. The load of hay slid forward, spooking the horses. Ritchford fell off and was dragged for several hundred feet, and the sled ran over his body. His chest was crushed. Ritchford died the following day.
Son Bill Ritchford, Jr. continued to carry on the hotel business for the next two years. But not long after Bill’s death, his wife Anna’s health began to fail. She passed away in August, 1924, and was buried beside Bill in Carson City’s Lone Mountain Cemetery.
A few months after his mother’s passing, son Bill, Jr. sold the old Ritchford Hotel to the Aja family. It was still quite a place, featuring “stove heat,” electric lights; a parlor, two offices, a soft drink concession, dining room and kitchen, according to a 1923 Sanborn map. With automobiles now taking the place of horses, the former livery stable by now had been converted to a painting shop and “temporary fire headquarters.”
Today, a portion of the gracious three-story Ritchford Hotel still stands. The current wooden structure is now just two stories tall, thanks to a fire that broke out on the third floor in January, 1937. Although the lower floors were saved, the top floor of the hotel was never rebuilt.
Next time you pass by, remember the tall water tower that once stood beside the Ritchford, boosted into place using old-fashioned horse-power. Think of the many smiling guests who crossed its threshold to enjoy Bill’s hospitality and Anna’s home-cooked dinners. And imagine Gardnerville’s early days when the gracious Ritchford Hotel was known as far away as San Francisco.