So Many Mindens

This was the early commercial district of Minden about 1918, roughly a dozen years after its 1905 debut. Business was booming as you can see by the crush of cars, including that svelte roadster at right.

The upstart “Minden Creamery” (as it sometimes was casually called) was launched in 1908 at 1620 Water Street, and by mid-1914 had put its competitor, the older Carson Valley Creamery, out of business.

The Minden Butter Mfg. Co. Originally housed in a wooden structure, the Minden Butter Mfg. Co. erected this fine new brick building in 1916, designed by noted architect Frederick DeLongchamps. It included equipment for pasturizing. Another wing for eggs and cold-storage was added in 1927. The building was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1986.

The new butter facility actually had a longer and fancier formal name: officially, it was the “Minden Butter Manufacturing Company.” Principals in this new creamery business included H.F. Dangberg, Jr. — the same luminary behind the creation of Minden itself — William Dressler, Fritz Schacht, and Richard Fricke. With John Sattler as its first butter-maker, some said this new creamery produced the “finest butter in the West.”

This token is from “Minden Creamery” — but read on!

Privately-held when the organization first began, Minden Butter Mfg. eventually morphed into the Minden Co-Op Creamery in 1946. The creamery’s doors finally closed in 1961, however. Time stands still for no man, woman, or dairy!

But as for the “Minden Creamery” token shown above, helpful research by dedicated token collectors indicates that this came from a different creamery altogether — in Minden, Nebraska!

Historic marker for the Town of Minden.

What a fascinating coincidence: two creameries with similar names operating at roughly the same time, in two different widely-separated towns both called Minden!

All of which got us to pondering: just how many Mindens are there? The short answer: at least seven here in the United States alone!

There’s a southern Minden touting its location “in the piney woods of northwest Louisiana,” founded in 1836 by a lawyer who later ran off to California during the Gold Rush.

There’s rural Minden, Texas, named by a homesick former resident of the LouisianaMinden, who found himself in Texas about 1849 and affixed the name to a spot along an early stagecoach line.

A bit farther north, Minden, Iowa sprang up beside the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific Railroad and the imagination-tickling “Keg Creek.” Settled by German immigrants, this Minden is said to have been named for the former hometown of many of its “industrious settlers.”

Minden, New York, formed in 1798, similarly took its name from its namesake in Germany. This New York town once was touted as a “gateway to the west,” thanks to its prime location adjoining both a railroad and the Erie Canal. Today the town covers nearly 33,000 acres and is divided into six smaller hamlets, one charmingly named “Mindenville.”

Not to be left out of the mix: Minden, West Virginia, named (once again) for old Minden Germany; it’s said that the name was picked by an early West Virginia coal-mining official. Sadly, the spot today is a Superfund clean-up site, with nearly a third of residents said to suffer from some type of cancer. It was annexed into the neighboring city of Oak Hill in 2015, but remains on the books as a “census-designated place.”

Minden, Nevada’s welcoming sign.

And then there’s our creamery-twin Minden, Nebraska — home to the token that prompted this virtual journey. Originally a plot of empty land “without a single inhabitant or building,” this town of Minden was voted into existence in 1876 by nearby homesteaders, stripping county seat-hood from railroad-dominated Lowell to the north by their vigorous exercise of democracy.

Our very own Minden, Nevada got its name from H.F. Dangberg, Jr., who envisioned a well-ordered community surrounding a town square (today’s grassy Minden Park), and named it (of course) after the old German town near his father’s birthplace.

If these widely-scattered Mindens begin to sound like a road trip in the making, one couple has already blazed the way! Check out this great story from the Record-Courierabout Terri and Chuck Luettgerodt of Minden, Nevada, who set out in a Volkswagen van in 2017 to visit “every Minden they could.”

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Many thanks to noted Nevada historian and long-time token collector Michael Fischer and token experts Jack Haddock and Leroy Felch for their kind research and help in identifying the Nebraska “Minden Creamery” token, and their great suggestions and additions for this article!

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The Secret Life of Eugene May (Part 2)

We left off last week with the secret Eugene A. May had kept for over 50 years: his real name was Henry Head! He’d left his family back in Illinois after an emotional dispute with his step-mother. His own family in Empire may not even have known the truth.

This was pretty Eldorado, possibly about the time of her first marriage. (Courtesy of Alpine County Historical Society)

After Hank’s death in 1900, his widow, Eldorado, found herself alone again. She now had buried her second husband.  Eldorado would eventually marry a third time: a judge in Washoe Valley named Lamb.

Hank May’s step-daughter, Jennie, was now a schoolteacher. She had attended the University of Nevada Normal School and her first teaching assignments were at the elementary schools at Galena, Pine Grove, and Mina Nevada.

About 1898, Jennie May took a job just over the California border, and began teaching at the little white schoolhouse in Markleeville. In her oral history, Jennie would recall arriving for this job aboard the local stage: a spring wagon with two horses. The following year, 1899 Jennie accepted a teaching position at Fredericksburg School. And, as other Fredericksburg teachers had done, she roomed with the Bruns family in their beautiful ranch house adjacent to the school.

Eldorado’s daughter, Jennie May, about the time of her marriage to Fred Bruns, Jr. (Courtesy of Alpine Co. Historical Society)

Schoolteachers were considered great marriage material. And sure enough, on December 28, 1904, Fred Bruns, Jr. wed young Jennie May in Carson City. Although she was no longer allowed to teach after her marriage, Jennie went on to become Alpine County’s longest-serving superintendent of schools (from 1916-1939). Jennie and Fred had four children together including Hubert, later a well-known Alpine rancher and supervisor.

Eldorado Lamb, Jennie’s mother, about the time she came to live with Jennie and Fred. (Courtesy Alpine Co. Historical Society)

Around 1923 Jennie’s mother, Eldorado, now a widow for the third time, came to live with Jennie and Fred. Eldorado died in 1924 of pneumonia at the age of 70, and is buried at the Fredericksburg Cemetery.

Fred Bruns, Jr. passed away in 1959. His wife Jennie — step-daughter of Eugene “Hank” May (aka Henry Head) and the little girl who grew up in Empire watching the old millworks turn — died in 1970. She was 92.

Eldorado Murphy Dunigan May Lamb — three times a widow — is buried at Fredericksburg Cemetery, California, near her daughter, Jennie May Bruns.
The grave of Jennie (Eugenia) and Fred Bruns at Fredericksburg Cemetery.

Jennie, Fred and Eldorado Lamb are all buried at Fredericksburg Cemetery.

So that’s the story of Hank May, who wasn’t really Hank May at all; his wife Eldorado, who lost three husbands; and little Jennie, who used to watch the millworks turn at Empire and grew up to become an important member of one of Alpine County’s most prominent ranching families!

Hank May’s grave at Empire still looks out over the site where the Mexican Mill once stood.

The grave of Eugene “Hank” May, aka Henry Head.

       Here are directions if you decide to pay him a visit: From Carson City, take Highway 50 East. Turn south (right) at Deer Run and in a short distance, turn right again on Sheep Drive. The road will curve around to Waste Management. Follow the cemetery signs and a rather unusual access road will take you up the hill (you will think you’re driving through private business property, but just follow the cemetery signs!)

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The Secret Life of Eugene May (Part 1)

Eugene A. May was a long-time resident of of Empire, the early mining town east of Carson City. You might say he’s still a resident: his quiet grave is tucked in at the little Empire Cemetery, overlooking the valley. Little did we know when first saw his headstone — but May had a secret life!

Known to his friends as “Hank,” May moved to Nevada about 1863 and was living at Empire at the time of the 1870 Census. Around 1878 he married a young widow named Eldorado, who had a one-year-old daughter named Jennie (Eugenia). May was 47 years old at the time of their marriage and solidly middle-aged. Eldorado, on the other hand, was only about 24 — roughly half Hank’s age.

Pretty Eldorado, possibly about the time of her marriage to first husband, Michael Dunigan. (Courtesy of Alpine County Historical Society)

Their age difference would raise eyebrows today, but May/December romances weren’t all that uncommon back then. And for a widow with a young daughter it was a practical match. Eldorado’s first husband, Michael Dunigan, had died in 1877 after a fluming accident at Lake Tahoe, and women had few work options outside the home. Eldorado had young Jennie to think about.

The steam-powered Mexican Mill was built in 1861 and could process 75 tons of ore a day. Nine men worked at the Mill, including foreman Hank May.

Hank May was a skilled millwright and was the foreman of the Mexican Mill. He was a stable breadwinner, and raised young Jennie as his own. The family lived in a house near the mill, and Jennie would follow Hank to work, later recalling spending “many hours of my early life watching the mill process.”

Hank was a “strong Republican,” and ran for state Assembly in the fall of 1880, beating Democrat Samuel Longabaugh in the election. Jennie remembered visiting the Nevada legislature with her mother, Eldorado, where “we sat proudly on the Assembly floor.”

The Mexican Mill eventually closed about 1885, but Hank remained on as a caretaker and watchman. When the mill was later remodeled to process gypsum (used for making cement), Hank was again employed. With his skills as a millwright, he also was called upon to help build other mills and hoisting works along the Carson River through the years, including the power plant at Rodenbaugh’s Station (the old Power Dam at Ruhenstroth).

One morning in the winter of 1898, however, Hank May met with a tragic accident. According to Jennie, he “slipped near the dynamo and his arm was caught in a revolving wheel.” His arm was dislocated at the shoulder, and the bone was broken in three places.

Eugene May was born in 1832. His gravestone incorrectly lists his death year as 1901 (he actually died in late 1900).

Hank May lived for another two years, but never fully recovered. He died at his home in Empire in November, 1900. Rev. J.W. Durrance officiated at his funeral when Hank was laid to rest at the peaceful Empire Cemetery atop the hill overlooking the Mexican Mill where he worked for so long.

Soon after Hank’s death, however, an astonishing story came to light. Hank’s friend, B.F. Denton,  notified newspapers back in Hank’s home state of Illinois about his death, noting that his real name was not Eugene May at all!

Eugene “Hank” May, it turns out, was actually Henry Head, son of a wealthy father (whose own name might produce chuckles today: Biggar Head).

Hank aka Henry was born in Illinois in 1832, and grew up at Sand Ridge, between Edwardsville and Alton, Illinois. Biggar had evidently remarried, and Hank/Henry got into a dispute with his step-mother that led him to leave home about 1850, at the age of 18. By 1863 Hank/Henry had made his way to what would soon become Nevada; the 1870 Census shows him living in Empire. He not only left behind his home and his family, but also adopted a new name and kept his true identity a secret: he was now “Eugene A. May.” Denton, his friend since childhood, knew about the fiction but at Hank’s insistence kept mum.

Hank/Henry held tight to his family grudge for the next 50 years, refusing to contact two living brothers back east, William and Augustin Head. A half-sister sent Hank several letters about 1880, but he refused to open the envelopes, sending each of the letters back unread. He admonished life-long friend Denton that “if he ever wrote East about him, they would never again be friends.”

Even Hank’s headstone held tight to his secret; it bears the name he was known by for so many years in Empire: ‘Eugene A. May.’

Eugene May’s quiet grave at Empire Cemetery. Eldorado must have stood here, shedding tears as she buried her second husband. Little Jennie, too, must have mourned over this grave; Eugene was the only father she had ever known.
Here’s Eldorado in later life — still smiling, despite the hardships she lived through!

BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE, INCLUDING A SURPRISING LINK TO ALPINE COUNTY!
Tune in next week to read the second half of this story, with more of the tale about widow Eldorado and her young daughter, Jennie!

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A giant thank-you for assistance with this story to Nevada historian Sue Silver for her amazing research on the Empire Cemetery! You’ll definitely want to check it out if you’re interested in any of the folks buried there. Her research is conveniently referenced by last name. Here is the link to her complete Empire Cemetery research online.

The other great resource we found helpful for this article was www.Newspapers.com. If you haven’t already stumbled across it, it’s a subscription site but definitely worth it for finding obituaries and other stories across the country. For this article, for example, we turned up the Alton Telegraph (Illinois), December 6, 1900, which gave fascinating additional contemporary details about Denton and May’s “secret”.

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Fatal Doctors: Medical Treatment In Days Gone By

“I do not believe in doctors,” quipped Brigham Young’s older brother, Joseph, in 1858. “I would rather call upon the Lord.”

It was a fairly common sentiment at the time, and for good reason: a wide variety of quacks were happily dispensing an equally wide variety of quack medicines.

There were “botanical” doctors; there were homeopathic physicians. There were traveling patent-medicine peddlers and newspaper ads confidently promoting “cure-all” remedies. In addition to ordinary physicians, there were “Thomsonian” doctors — followers of Samuel Thomson, a medical rebel who believed “restoring heat” was the trick for healing a patient. The harsh Thomson protocol applied an uncomfortable series of emetics, enemas and sweat baths, casually summarized as “Puke ‘em, sweat ‘em, and purge ‘em.”

Even mainstream practitioners back in the day were often dismissed by suspicious citizens as “Poison Doctors.” High doses of mercury and techniques like blood-letting were not unusual, and other quirky “remedies” seem outright bizarre by today’s standards.

Caskets like this featuring a glass face-plate offering one last view of the dear departed can still be seen in the undertaker’s parlor at Bodie.

Dr. Benjamin King approved the use of cow dung as a poultice to treat Hosea Grosch’s badly infected foot at Gold Hill in 1857, for example — a ministration that didn’t help and might have hastened Grosch’s demise. Even as late as 1892, a pneumonia sufferer in Virginia City was relieved of half a pint of his blood in a well-intended medical intervention. Ah Kee, a Botanical Physician with an office on Third Street in Carson City, claimed in his advertisements to have “cured many patients in town” — but there was also a Chinese section quietly located at Lone Mountain Cemetery.

The only ones who might have been happy about all these attempts at “curing” were the local undertakers, and those proliferated. Early practitioners of the mortuary arts in Carson Valley included M.A. Downey, George Kitzmeyer, and Samuel C. Wright.

Undertakers were evidently none too popular. Quipped the Reno Gazette Journalabout what they called the “disagreeable business”:

A horse-drawn hearse was part of the proper funeral.

[The undertaker] attends church and keenly surveys the faces of the congregation with a critical eye, . . . deftly tuck[ing] his business card under the door of the invalid. He is jolly when pneumonia gallops through a community, and howls with delight over a wholesale railroad accident. He can diagnose a case of physical degeneracy of any kind with unerring certainty at a distance of fifty feet. . .  He knows the dimensions of every man in the community and the coffins he furnishes are always guaranteed to fit, so that the defunct customer can rest without danger of contracting chafes and bunions.” [Reno Gazette Journal, June 3, 1882].

One unfortunate who landed in the undertaker’s parlor, a victim of prevailing medical wisdom and probably also malpractice, was young Harrison Shrieves.

Young Harrison Shrieves had everything going for him — good looks, a new wife, wealthy in-laws, and a job with the railroad.

A Civil War veteran (he had enlisted in the 10th Ohio Cavalry when he was about 15), Shrieves moved west after the war and landed a plum job as a conductor on the V&T Railroad. Fate continued to smile on Shrieves for the next few years. Around 1870 he married Louise Tufly, daughter of George Tufly, wealthy proprietor of Carson City’s St. Charles Hotel (and later state Treasurer).

The homeopathic remedy Nux Vomica contained traces of strychnine.

It wasn’t quite the “Ides of March” that got him, but it was close. Harrison Shrieves was given a well-intentioned dose of the homeopathic remedy “Nux Vomica” by Dr. Stephenson of Virginia City in 1873. Concocted from seeds containing strychnine, Nux Vomica was commonly used in dilute form to treat a wide range of illnesses from constipation and heartburn to flu. Harrison, however, was apparently given much too much. He suffered for months, and was just 28 when he finally succumbed on March 11, 1874 from his treatment. He is buried in Lone Mountain Cemetery.

There’s more about Shrieves, Tufly, Kitzmeyer, Wright and a great many other Carson Valley pioneers in my friend Cindy Southerland’s beautifully-illustrated book, Cemeteries of Carson City and Carson Valley (Arcadia Publishing 2010). Mark Twain himself commented that “to know a community, one must observe the style of its funerals and know what manner of men they bury with most ceremony,” as Southerland points out. This fascinating book highlights the final resting places of a wide variety of pioneers in this beautiful valley — from stagecoach drivers to governors, soldiers to desperados. Great photos and a helpful description of cemetery symbolism make this an uplifting and informative read. You can find it here through Amazon.com.

Another great book we wanted to mention, this one about early Nevada doctors and early medical remedies (including Chinese and Native American practices): The Healers of 19th-Century Nevada, by Anton P. Sohn (Univ. of Nevada, 1997). This one was a happy recent “find” for us at Morley’s Bookstore in Carson City, Nevada. If you haven’t been there, take time to stop in. Morley’s offers a fabulous assortment of local and Nevada history books plus a great “old-time bookstore” feel. Its 1864 brick building on West King Street is one of only four original stores still extant in Carson City. Be sure to check out the great historic photos on the wall showing this historic building’s evolution through time. Tell him we sent you.

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Ham’s and Cook’s Stations on the Amador-Nevada Wagon Road

Have you ever driven past Cook’s and Ham’s Stations on Highway 88, and wanted to know their stories?

Yup, these were original old “stations” along the early Amador and Nevada Wagon Road in the 1860s! Here’s the scoop:

Cook’s Station (150 years old and counting) is still a popular wayside eatery.

The “Volcano Cut-Off” had ferried travelers from the Old Emigrant Road in this direction since 1852. Then in 1862, Amador voters approved a $25,000 bond to finance a new and improved wagon road to the Amador county seat of Jackson — and it was to be a new toll road, mind you!

Happy travelers stopping at Cook’s Station about 1920, when Pete Barone was manager.

The merchants in Jackson were understandably in favor of this new enterprise, which would make it easier for traffic to reach the county seat. Yes, the new route was to be a toll road. But its advantages were substantial. For one thing it cut around the Carson Spur, allowing travelers to skip the arduous climb over West Pass. And as a new (and very expensive) roadbed, the going would be far better than the previous road. As Amador historian Larry Cenotto put it, “Roadside inns, like weeds, sprang up in anticipation” of the new wagon road’s opening!

By the summer of 1863, the new “Amador and Nevada Wagon Road” was open for business. With its start at Antelope Springs (Dewdrop), it continued east as far as Hope Valley (still part of Amador County until the following year).

The original establishment at the site now known as Cook’s Station was an inn owned by Charley Stedham (sometimes spelled Steadham), which opened as early as 1852 to serve travelers heading to Volcano. The way station went through several owners after Charley, becoming first Hipkin’s, then Wiley’s, and eventually Cook’s.

Sometime after 1905, the old way station was acquired by Louis H. Cook. A resident of Volcano, Cook served as an Amador County supervisor and also road superintendent for the section of state road west of Kirkwood’s. In addition to owning this famous wayside stop that now bears his name, Cook also was proprietor of the St. George Hotel in Volcano.

Louis H. Cook was a county supervisor and also owned the St. George Hotel in Volcano, California.

If you stop in for lunch at Cook’s Station today, be sure to check out their great old photos of this historic spot, including this one, below!

Cattle and what may be a hay wagon are waiting outside Cook’s Station circa 1900! Notice the churned-up dirt of the road.

And don’t miss the great framed letter and wedding photo on the wall near Cook’s counter! Della Reeves Gillick wrote about working at Cook’s Station circa 1891-95, when her father operated the Station. Teamsters hauling lumber with 12-mule teams from the sawmill up the road would often stop in for a bite to eat or to spend the night. She describes the dirt road out front as “shoe-top deep” in dust, churned up by passing traffic (just as you can see in the photo above!)

Letter from Della Reeves Gillick to her granddaughter, describing life at Cook’s Station when she lived there between about 1891-1895.

Gillick recalls pumping water by hand from the outside well and carrying it into the house to do cooking or laundry. “I sure done my share of pumpin’,” she recalls.

Ham’s Station, east of Cook’s on Highway 88, is another original stop along the old toll road.  Amador historian Larry Cenotto notes that this site was originally Smith’s Hotel, built in 1863, and subsequently was operated by “Tulloch, Horsley & Co.” in 1864.

This etching shows “Ham’s Station, Hotel and Ranch” as it looked in 1881 (from Thompson & West’s History of Amador County). Note the welcoming accommodations for travelers with animals.

By the 1880s, the station had been acquired by A.C. Ham and his brother, who gave it the name it bears today: “Ham’s Station.” Born in Kentucky in 1841, Ham came west in 1855 to join his father, J.C. Ham, a builder who had emigrated earlier. A.C. Ham mined for a time before taking up the hotel business. He later became “sole owner of the Modoc mine in the Pioneer district.” There, it was said, he “is familiar with all the resorts of the grizzlies . . . for persons wishing for a few days’ rural amusement.”

In later, years, Ham’s Station was owned by W.E. Proctor, who sold it in 1900 to Joseph Dufrene for the sum of $450. In the early 1900s it went through a quick succession of managers, including John Votaw, Joseph Mello, and L. Mooney.

Sadly, Ham’s Station was closed when we stopped by to snap this picture in late 2017.
From what we hear, Ham’s Station has now been sold. We look forward to its newest incarnation!

We hear that Ham’s Station has now been sold — kudo’s to whoever purchased this amazing bit of history!

A special thank-you to historian Frank Tortorich for his kind assistance with this article. We also were pleased to find great information in Larry Cenotto’s wonderful “Logan’s Alley,” Vol. V (2006, Word Dancer Press), which contains much more about the history of the Amador-Nevada Wagon Road and the pioneering Amador families!

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#adventure #sierra #history #roadtrip

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Karen Dustman is a published author, freelance journalist, historian, and story-sleuth. For more about Karen, her books and other fun stuff she’s written, check out her author website: www.KarenDustman.com.

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Old Carson Valley Creamery (Part 2)

The new Carson Valley Creamery proved a lucky thing for teamster Fritz Dangberg, who met his wife as a result of driving butter and cheese to Carson City.

Herman Scheele hauling milk cans from Fredericksburg and Centerville ranches to the Creamery. (This beautiful full-wall mural is featured in Katie’s restaurant at Carson Valley Inn in Minden.)

Other locals, too, were drivers for the Creamery. Dick Bartel collected milk from farmers in the East Fork area; Dolph Dressler picked up milk cans around Genoa; and Herman Scheele, a Fredericksburg rancher, brought in cans from the ranches between Fredericksburg and Centerville.

Although the new creamery expected a ready market for its butter in San Francisco, that niche proved surprisingly difficult to break into, at first — for a somewhat unexpected reason! Turns out the taste of butter from Carson Valley’s alfalfa-fed cows was different than San Francisco consumers were used to from milk from hay-fed critters. Thankfully, one tenacious San Francisco butter dealer “spent considerable money and time in educating the people” about the “superior quality” of Carson Valley’s butter. Those efforts evidently worked; Carson Valley Creamery won gold medals for their butter at the San Francisco mid-winter fair in 1894, 1903 and 1904.

At its height in 1897, the Creamery processed an astonishing 1 million pounds of local milk, and distributed profits of $116,000 to its shareholders. After that banner year, however, its business began to decline as additional creameries formed and jumped into the market. By 1909 there were a total of three creameries competing with each other in the valley.

The Carson Valley Creamery underwent reorganization in later years, becoming a “co-op” instead of a stock-and-shareholder organization. As the newspaper diplomatically put it, this took place “after the farmers had suffered considerable loss through [the] privately-owned concern.”

A token from the Minden Creamery.

Finally on May 1, 1914, after 22 years in business, the old creamery was forced to close its doors “simply because dairying here is not sufficient to support two creameries.” The Minden Creamery had won the lion’s share of the business. (And by 1924, the Minden Creamery was still successfully putting out 2,200 pounds of butter every day of the week.)

The Creamery’s large wooden building was later purchased by peddler Isaac Goldstein, who converted it into a general merchandise store. Today it is filled only with memories.

If you happen to visit, keep an eye out for a small house just to the north of this fascinating old structure; this dwelling was once owned by the early Henningsen ranching family. And across the road from the old Creamery once sat the home business of Adolph Rohlff, a blacksmith whose trade was said to suffer mightily from his too-frequent patronage of the Behrman saloon. But that’s another story!

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The old Creamery building is still beautiful today in its own rustic way! It’s privately-owned, so not open to the public. But to view this photogenic piece of Carson Valley history from the road, turn east on Waterloo Lane from Highway 88, then watch for the building on your right (west) just after the sweeping turn.

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Old Carson Valley Creamery

This mysterious building on Waterloo Lane used to be something. Carson Valley folks have probably driven by it dozens of times, wondering: what’s its story?

Back in the day — 1891, to be precise — this used to be the Carson Valley Creamery. And not just any creamery, mind you; this was a gold-medal-winning local creamery!

What got the whole creamery notion rolling was a series of letters to Carson Valley’s E. Cohn from a man in L.A. And these letters weren’t any ordinary letters; the writer happened to run a creamery in Los Angeles for Lucky Baldwin. (Don’t know who Lucky Baldwin was? I didn’t either. His real name was Elias Jackson Baldwin (born 1828); the “lucky” moniker came from his extraordinarily good luck at wheeling and dealing. Wikipedia calls Baldwin “one of the greatest pioneers” in California business; he built San Francisco’s posh Baldwin Hotel & Theatre, and bought up so much Southern California land that his name still lives on there. Here’s the Wikipedia article on Baldwin, well worth a glance!).

It was something like receiving a letter from Bill Gates. If Bill Gates tells you creameries are a grand business, you have to at least consider it!

A meeting of local farmers was speedily convened at Valhalla Hall in March, 1891, to discuss the idea. C.C. Henningsen explained the relatively simple concept to the group: each dairy farmer would put his own marked milk cans out by the road; a creamery wagon would pick them up and haul them to the creamery; skim milk could be returned to the farmers in their own cans, for a small price. By selling and shipping their butter and cheese collectively, the farmers hoped to reach larger markets and get a better price. H. Springmeyer immediately came out as an advocate for the plan.

Milk wagons looked something like this miniature model. Note that cushy “spring” seat for the driver!

The newspaper was jammed with “Creamery Talk” that whole spring and summer. Before long, a 36 x 86-foot two-story building was being erected on a 10-acre parcel at the southeast corner of William Dangberg’s ranch. Plans for the new building called for a cold storage area, a butter room, and a separator room on the ground floor; and an “ice room” that spanned both floors. Upstairs would be the cheese room, kitchen, dining room and three “chambers.”

In July, 1891, the creamery group signed a five-year contract with Julius Kaupisch and his brother, both trained at a dairy school in Saxony, Germany. One Kaupisch brother promptly set off for Chicago to procure machinery. A steam engine was purchased and hauled in from a former steam laundry in Carson City, and a 90-foot well was drilled by George Hawkins to supply the new creamery with fresh water.

Corporate officers for the new enterprise included John Frantzen as president and C.M. Henningsen as Secretary. Banker (and man-of-many-talents) Fritz Heise not only served as the company’s treasurer but also helpfully hauled rock for the new creamery’s foundation. C.E. Merrick hired on as the manager.

Such a “quintessential Carson Valley” scene!

“The farmers are enthusiastic over the subject and are preparing to milk as many cows as possible,” the newspaper boasted, adding that local dairymen were scouting for good stock to add to their herds. “In a few years this Valley will be stocked with the finest lot of milk cows to be found anywhere.”

To expand local herds supplying the creamery, the Kaupisch brothers brokered the purchase of another 360 cows from dairies near the California coast that were shutting down — a whole train-load. In the process, though, the Kaupisch pair managed to royally irritate some local feelings; the new cows were mostly Jerseys, Durhams, and Short Horns, because (the Kaupisch brothers claimed) Holsteins “do not prove to be good milkers.”

This last comment received an agitated response in the local Appeal:  “The Kaupisch Brothers, if they made such a statement, evidently know little about milch cows,” the writer sniffed. “Let the proprietors of the Carson Valley Creamery investigate the records of thoroughbreds and not take the products of halfbreeds as a standard.”

The new creamery was touted as a win-win-win for local farmers: “Instead of hunting a market for their butter, they can remain at home and give their full attention to the farm and dairy work,” the local newspaper cheered. “There is no longer need for importing cheese from other States, for a choice article in this line will be manufactured” right there at the new creamery. And the more Carson Valley hay that local dairymen purchased to feed their growing herds, “the more you are patronizing home industry and assisting in making your own community self-supporting.” It was downright patriotic to patronize the creamery!

This is how the new Creamery building would have looked to approaching wagons.
(Photo courtesy Douglas County Historical Society).

When the new creamery building was up and running in the fall of 1891, it had machinery able to handle milk from up to 3,000 cows, and promised production of up to 1.5 tons of butter and 3 tons of cheese each and every day. Milk was to be delivered to the creamery twice a day in summer, and once a day in winter months, and farmers were promised $1 per hundred pounds of milk to start (provided it tested at four pounds of butter to the hundred-weight).

A visiting reporter from the Genoa Weekly Courier gave a fascinating overview of the operation in July, 1891. Farmers would deliver ten-gallon cans of milk, each weighing roughly 80 pounds. Cream content was tested once every month for each farm, and every batch of incoming milk was tested, too, to be sure it hadn’t been watered or skimmed.

A fascinating glimpse of the machinery inside the creamery.

The incoming milk was dumped into an immense bucket for weighing; then the bucket was hoisted to the upper story and drained into a large vat, where pipes took the milk to a centrifugal separator. And not just any separator, mind you; this separator was a special gem, imported from Germany and known as the “Alexandra.”

Once the Alexandra had done its work, the skimmed milk was returned to cans for farmers wishing to buy it (at ten cents for hundred pounds), or drained into the cheese tank for reuse. Watching one such operation, the newspaper reported that farmers “had the skimmed milk in the cans and were ready to return home” just twenty minutes after the milk was delivered.

The butter and cheese operations were additional marvels. Cream was conveyed from the giant Alexandra separator to a cream vat for cooling, where it was allowed to rest or “ripen” for 24 hours before being sent off one of  two steam-driven churns, holding 400-gallons each. A six-foot circular “butter worker” table came next, where salt was added and the butter got worked over by rollers. Off to the cold storage room it went, where it was molded into two-pound square blocks and then packed into cases of 120 pounds apiece. Shipments of butter went to Carson three times a week.

This beautiful mural inside Katie’s Restaurant at Carson Valley Inn shows rancher Herman Scheele, on his way from Fredericksburg to the Creamery with — how many cans of milk? We counted over 30, and this double-wagon probably carried more than that!

A separate cheese-making operation produced small and large rings of cheese, weighing 9 and 28 pounds respectively; as many as 200 of these were turned out a day. (The secret to turning skimmed milk into fatty cheese, shared later by a worker: the addition of just the right proportion of lard!) From the curing room, cheese wheels would slide down a convenient chute into a waiting wagon and were whisked off to market. As for the butter, that was packed into wooden crates, shipped by wagon to Carson City, then loaded onto trains for Virginia City and San Francisco.

And a lucky thing all that hauling that proved to be for teamster Fritz Dangberg. Dangberg arrived from Germany in 1895, and quickly got hired on by the Creamery to drive teams to Carson City. While in Carson, Dangberg used to stable his horses with Zirn Andersen, at Andersen’s Hay Yard. And there, as luck had it, Dangberg got to know Zirn’s sister-in-law, Metta Winkelman, who was staying with the Andersens. One thing led to another, and Fritz and Metta were married in 1897.

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Okay, that’s not the end of the story! But it was too long for one post. So stay tuned next week, when we’ll continue with the rest in Part 2!
         And if you’d like to read more stories like this in our weekly newsletter, just let us know in the sign-up box at top and we’ll add you to our list! (Yes, it’s free!)

Memoir Writers: How to Create a Get-Organized Tool Kit

Writing a memoir or oral history? You’ll find it helpful to put together a Memoir Writer’s Tool Kit ahead of time! What to include??

Here is a list of tools in my own kit: things I’ve found especially helpful for memoirs/oral histories. And the good news: they’re all small enough to keep in a handy tote-along bag!

Camera – Today’s small-but-sophisticated cameras make it easy to capture not only your subject but also places and things that will illustrate their story. Perhaps it’s a shot of the house where they grew up. Or maybe they make beautiful quilts, baby clothes, or baskets. These all make great illustrations for a life story. And small cameras tend to be less-intrusive than giant ones, and are often more usable in any light!

Hand-scanner – One of the greatest innovations in recent years for genealogists and memoir writers is the introduction of small, portable scanners. With these you can easily copy old newspapers clippings, handwritten manuscripts, and other documents. They even do a darn fine job of copying old photos! (I have a VuPoint Magic Wand and love it!) Here’s an example:

Digital microphone – If you want to be certain you get a subject’s words exactly right, ask if you can record your conversation. Small digital microphones are great if your subject is willing to be recorded. (The one I use is a Sony).

Spiral-bound notepads – I’m a huge fan of small pads of paper — and I leave the *everywhere* to capture notes and ideas! (purse; bedside table; car). A great, simple way to record notes about ideas, stories, formatting. They don’t have to be fancy; just something like this:

Business cards – yes, you need a business card. Even if you’re not selling your history-writing skills, it’s the simplest, easiest way to share your email address and phone number. (Have you ever struggled to make out someone’s handwriting or couldn’t tell if that was a “3” or an “8” in their number? ‘Nuff said!) Helpful tip: make sure the font size on your card is large enough to be read by most people without searching for their glasses!

Pens – everyone has a favorite ink pen. Keep plenty of yours on hand.

Calendar or planner – whether you’re jotting down your next appointment or penciling in a target deadline or completion date, a good calendar is a must!

Consent form for oral history – It’s always a good idea to be sure you and your subject are on the same page. (There’s a sample form in my LifeStory Workbook.)

Laptop or iPad – If you’re a fast-fingered typist, note-taking can be a breeze on these portable devices. I love my iPad and it’s easy to add a wireless keyboard.

Extra batteries for any devices. I can’t tell you how often I’ve been grateful for this “extra batteries” advice! I keep extras with me for my hand-scanner and microphone. And be sure your camera, phone and tablet/laptop are charged up before you head out the door!

Magnifying glass – You never know when you’re going to want to scrutinize a faded handwritten letter or study a hard-to-make-out postmark. Bring a magnifier that will sharpen the details — preferably one with a light.

Sticky notes – You can’t have too many sticky notes. Big, little, or in-between, just make sure you keep some with you! They’re great for marking things to follow up on, jotting questions, and just keeping your life stories organized.

List of interview questions – Another important “keep yourself organized” tip: jot down the question you want to be sure you don’t forget before you go! (Helpful samples are also in the LifeStory Workbook)

Tote bag – And to keep everything together and ready to go out the door, pick up a fun tote bag. Look for one with zippered compartments like this one, so things won’t fall out. And for plain canvas, try adding your choice of an iron-on transfer for some extra fun.

 

Bonus List for Cemeteries:  Checking out cemeteries as part of your family research? In addition to a good camera (of course), be sure to pack along:

  • Whisk broom with soft bristles and a long handle to gently removes leaves and debris from gravestones without bending over, for photographs;
  • Spray bottle filled with water – a quick spritz with water helps with contrast in hard-to-photograph stones;
  • Tripod to keep your camera steady; and
  • Pocket rain poncho – Voice of experience here: you never know when Mother Nature is going to have her own ideas about the weather! Keep a cheap plastic rain poncho handy (the kind that folds up and can fit in your glove box or pocket)!

Hope you find these suggestions helpful for creating your own memoir or life story kit. Please let me know if you have other great ideas to add!

Looking for even more in-depth tips to help with memoir-writing? Check out our helpful new book!

Now available from Kindle!

True Crime 1895: the Sarman Murder

The murder of 57-year-old Anna Sarman rocked Carson Valley in 1895.

Anna and her husband, Fredrick, were living on the old Ferris Ranch about four miles south of Genoa, Nevada. Like so many local ranchers, the Sarmans originally hailed from Germany; they’d arrived in the Valley in 1882 and had lived peaceably there for a dozen years before that tragic spring day. Their extended family included two married daughters and a son: Mrs. Louisa M. Heitman; Mrs. Henry Frevert; and Fred Sarman.

But May 8, 1895 would prove to be Anna’s last day of life. Someone entered her home and struck Anna brutally in the head with a hatchet. Investigators later reviewing the crime scene concluded Anna had been murdered in the front room of the house; her body had been carried to a bed in an adjacent bedroom; and the bed was then set on fire. The hatchet that killed poor Anna was found in a nearby woodshed, “covered with blood.”

Nearby ranchers claimed to have spotted a transient named Jim Williams about 3 p.m. on the day of the murder, “hurrying through the valley  . . . and looking back at short intervals as if expecting pursuit.” Williams was promptly arrested and actually admitted taking a meal at Mrs. Sarman’s house earlier that morning — but adamantly denied killing her. Local sentiment initially ran high; there was even talk of lynching. But when the preliminary hearing was held, “nearly all the testimony went to show that Williams could not have committed the murder,” according to the paper, and he was released.

A second transient, Joseph Richie, was arrested at Bodie about two weeks later. He, too, candidly admitted passing through Carson Valley on the day before the murder. Suspiciously, he was said to wear a “narrow-toed shoe which corresponded well” to footprints found near the Sarman home. But charges against him, too, eventually were dropped.

The quiet grave of Anna at Genoa Cemetery (photo courtesy of Judy Wickwire)

The local rumor mill kept churning, however, and community suspicion eventually began to turn toward Anna’s husband. Fritz Sarman claimed to have been out working in his fields at the time of the murder, returning home about 3 p.m. — “in the nick of time to save his property,” but not to save Anna or to catch any glimpse of the murderer. Fritz said there were witnesses to his whereabouts during those crucial afternoon hours, but none of the witnesses he named could be found. A few townsfolk reported that Fritz had “acted strangely” after discovering Anna’s body, going about his usual chores and even calmly milking his cows. Friends, however, expressed themselves “very confident” that Fritz was innocent.

Fritz Sarman was buried next to his wife, Anna. (Photo courtesy of Judy Wickwire)

Anna was laid to rest in the Genoa Cemetery, and sympathetic townsfolk turned out in huge numbers for her funeral: a reporter counted sixty wagons and buggies at the somber affair. Husband Fritz, however, did not attend; he was said to be “completely prostrated” by his wife’s tragic death.

Fritz Sarman passed away on May 12, 1900, almost exactly five years to the day after Anna died. He, too, was buried at Genoa, beside his wife. Whispers persist to this day, but the mystery of Anna’s murder was never officially solved.

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Enjoy real-life murder mysteries? I’m pleased to give a shout-out to my friend and fellow writer Sue Russell! Check out her fascinating book, The Illustrated Courtroom, for illustrations from some of the most colorful and historic criminal trials of the last half-century including Charles Manson, Jack Ruby, Patty Hearst, and “Son of Sam” David Berkowitz.

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Like to read more of these true history/mystery/Sierra travel stories? Just let us know at top right of this blog, and we’ll add you to our weekly newsletter! (Yep, it’s free!)

The Jackson Bordellos

Today’s Bank of America in Jackson.

Keep an eye peeled for a patch in the sidewalk outside Jackson’s Bank of America next time you visit.

If it looks like something once sat here and has since been removed, well, it did and it was. All that’s left now is a slightly darker square of concrete. But there’s a great tale that goes with it!

It was March, 1956 when four separate houses in Jackson were raided by agents from the State Department of Justice. Arrested were three madams and 15 “ladies of questionable virtue.” Establishments known as “Dixie’s” and “Jeanette’s” were located behind today’s B of A, where the parking lot now sits; the “Brookside” was at the end of Vogan Alley, just past the hotel; and “Ace’s Rooms” (aka the Drive-In) was near where Mel’s Diner is today.

The alley next to the hotel is still there — the brothel isn’t.

The raid came as an unhappy surprise to local law enforcement; nobody told them the State agents were coming. Gambling and prostitution had been long considered no big deal in town. Even local kids knew where the cat houses were located. Police chief Guido Tofanelli (who had side jobs as a barber and bartender) was said to confide to one undercover investigator that “the girls made this town” — a statement he later testified that he “just didn’t remember.”  His deputies, Gildo Dondero and James Fregulia, testified they were completely unaware of the existence of the three establishments and “wouldn’t walk through dark alleys at night for anyone.” Part-time mayor, part-time plumber Robert Smallfield had fixed faucets for the houses in the past.

Judge John C. Begovich was the brother of “Sharkey” Begovich (of Sharkey’s Casino fame), and a Justice Court judge in Jackson in 1956. He later would become a Superior Court Judge.

When one of the fifteen “working girls” was hauled before Justice Court Judge John Begovich on prostitution charges, she reportedly greeted the judge with grin and a cheerful: “Hi Johnny.” “Babs, is that you?” the judge is said to have responded.

A dozen years later, a local group calling themselves the “Filthy Five” decided the now-removed outposts deserved belated recognition. The site they chose for a plaque — today’s B of A sidewalk — had previously been home to the Bridge Cabin, and a cluster of “old frame dens” once stood just behind it near the creek. The group created a heart-shaped bronze plaque declaring:

The World’s Oldest Profession flourished 50 yards east of this plaque
for many years until this most perfect example of
free enterprise was padlocked by unsympathetic politicians
.”

Trouble was, they signed it with an acronym derived for their artfully-selected name: “Environmental Resources Enabling Committee To Investigate Our Necessary Services.”

Jackson Mayor Pete Cassinelli gave permission for the group to plant the plaque in the sidewalk, and a dedication ceremony was arranged, complete with band, program, and speakers. The plaque was cemented in the sidewalk awaiting its unveiling on February 14, 1968 — appropriately, Valentine’s Day — and temporarily shielded from view with a wooden cover.

Somewhere between 50 and 100 attendees showed up for the ceremony. The Filthy Five participated in festive frock coats and derby hats. Stockbroker Duff Chapman donned an eyepatch just for the occasion, and gave a speech nostalgically celebrating the “full and enlightened economy” of the old days. The President of the local PTA was said to have mused that the plaque might have something of an uncertain effect on local children, “but it sure will help tourism!”

The plaque enjoyed the bright light of day for all of about one week. Outrage quickly followed. The wording itself was tame enough, but the acronym from the group’s carefully-chosen title didn’t fly with the townsfolk in 1968. Local clergymen predictably led the charge, and a local judge termed it “vulgar.” The Sacramento Bee and other papers happily covered the controversy.

The City Council meeting five days after the unveiling was swamped with outraged citizens, expressing their unhappy opinions. Surprisingly, the council voted to let the plaque stay. But pushback continued. Red paint was splashed on the offending heart-shaped memorial by some unhappy citizen and the word politicians detest the most, “recall,” began to be bandied about.

Seeing the writing on the wall, the Filthy Five quietly exhumed the plaque under cover of night on February 20 — hence explaining the current patched square in the sidewalk. A brief attempt was made to reinstall it later with the offending acronym scraped off and a new attribution substituted: “Western Historical Organization” (WHO). The City considered okaying the plaque with this change, but eventually declined following rumors that two further letters (“RE”) were initially planned. And so the heart-shaped plaque remained quietly under wraps in the protective custody of its promoters for the next two decades.

Time went by, and the surviving members of the “Filthy Five” began searching for a final resting place for the historic plaque. They finally found it on July 30, 1993, a quarter of a century after the heart’s unveiling in the sidewalk:  Amador County’s Museum accepted the plaque as a donation to its permanent collection.

The original heart-shaped plaque is said to be safely stored, out of sight, in the Museum’s vault. Plaster-cast replicas, however, can be seen in the window of the Amador County Visitor’s Center and above the bar in the Whiskey Flat Saloon at Volcano, California.

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Special thanks to Frank Tortorich, who kindly shared notes from a speech he prepared on the tale of the heart-shaped plaque. Also be sure to check out Larry Cenotto’s “Logan’s Alley,” Vol. V, which humorously recounts the plaque’s long and winding saga.

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