Query/submission
Clara’s Best
Word count 45,000
Historical fiction
My Daniels ancestors arrived in the colonies in 1636, my Camp ancestors in 1645, and my Casebeer ancestors in 1724. These three families began merging in Placerville, California, aka Hangtown, during the California goldrush of 1849. Besides being made of sturdy pioneer stock, among the things they would eventually have in common is me.
My name is Shannon
Thomas Casebeer. I was born in Placerville in 1951. One hundred years after the
goldrush, Placerville still exuded the rowdy spirit of our country’s youth. I
was raised on Reservoir Hill on a forty-acre spread which had been home to my
family since 1888. My great great grandpa Camp was a genuine 49er. My granddad
Daniels taught me to pan for gold with the same pan with which his grandpa Camp
instructed him. My great grandma Daniels was born in Placerville in 1869, and she
lived to the ripe old age of 96. I remember her well and fondly.
My great great grandpa,
Jared Waldo Daniels went West as a surgeon and an advocate for the Native
Americans in 1855, and he served as a surgeon for the Union during the Civil
War. I treasure my family’s copy of his reminiscences.
My youth was an
aromatic blend of all this remarkable heritage. Placerville is the heart of the
historic mother lode. Our property boasted three gold mines and an area which
had been hydraulically mined and permanently scarred by America’s rush to
riches.
El Dorado County is
proud of its remarkable heritage, and it celebrates it each year with Pony
Express Days, the wagon train parade, street dances, the John Studebaker
wheelbarrow races, and all variety of historic and well attended events. Suffice it to say, my childhood instilled
within me an all-consuming appreciation for all this fabulous heritage, along
with a deep and abiding love for God and Country.
Among my family’s
treasures are several journals which were penned by my beloved ancestors. These journals piqued my curiosity for history
and sparked within me a healthy appetite for literature. My favorite authors include
Dickens, Poe, Stevenson, and the incomparable Mark Twain.
My ancestor’s journals inspired
my own efforts at breathing life into history by capturing emotions through
mixing and matching words. I’ve written three historical novels. While works of
fiction, each novel is for the most part historically accurate. Through these
efforts, I hope to rekindle a sense of duty, unity, and patriotism which seems
sadly largely lacking in much of today’s society. My goal is to create affable characters
which invariably draw the reader deep into the heart of history, just as though
they themselves were there. I believe I’ve succeeded. You can feel the
character’s beating heart and hear their rhythmic breathing as they draw you with
them into the pages of time.
Each novel is a rousing
adventure and a captivating immigrant’s tale. They include Obie, Miah,
and Clara’s Best. Together they make up The Hangtown trilogy.
I suggest publishing each of the three manuscripts individually over time, and
then following up with an anthology containing all three plus additional
material. I have quite a number of poems from which we could choose. This would
make a total of four books. Some people are hard-pressed to resist a complete collection.
For your consideration,
I’ve provided several excerpts from Clara’s Best. Like the other two
novels in The Hangtown Trilogy, Clara’s Best is an immigrant’s
tale. Comprised of just over 45,000 words, it’s a brief but rambunctious
adventure through the American West.
INTRODUCTION
The following novel,
while historical fiction, is, for the most part, historically accurate. It
chronicles the trials and tribulations of my Irish ancestors as told in the
words of my great-grandmother, Clara Kinnie Stancil. It encompasses the years
from 1850 until the early years of the 1940s. While told with deep sincerity
and an eye for humor, it shares, in occasionally painful detail, Clara’s most
personal account of her own experiences and our country’s many successes and
frequent failures. As such it is, on occasion, deadly serious. I relate it here
as faithfully as I’m able and just as it was told to me by my grandmother,
Clara’s daughter, Ivy.
PROLOGUE
Ireland was all stony
pastures and craggy bluffs and smelled of sea breeze and heather. So said
Mither. Then came the famine. Volumes galore have been previously penned
chronicling the devastating potato famine that scattered the clans of Ireland.
I’ll not prolong the misery with my words.
In the summer of 1850,
while the earthly remains of her mom and dad were still leaching into the rocky
ground of their beloved Emerald Isle, my mither, Mariah, 15 years of age at the
time, along with dozens of other bereft and grieving orphans were loaded onto
sailing ships, much like unwanted cargo, and shoved off for the storied shores
of America. Most sailed with little more than the tattered garments of their
youth which eventually served for many as their shrouds. Fortunately for
Mariah, arrangements had been made.
Mother’s lamentable
circumstance would become the responsibility of her aunt. Auntie Meg had
already precariously established herself in America. Her humble laundry
business was blessed with the regular patronage of numerous well-to-do members
of a society who had arrived in America years previously and now considered
themselves entitled natives. They greeted
these penniless newcomers and their baffling brogue with what we will
charitably call a dubious enthusiasm.
Where, in particular,
Mariah came ashore is of little importance to our tale. The east coast cities
of the 1850s were, for the most part, all alike: bustling centers of commerce,
crowded with all variety of displaced citizens of foreign shores, and each soul
was desperate to scratch out a meager living under difficult conditions. If
your visions of those long-ago days have come from perusing the romanticized
pages of dime novels and penny dreadfuls, think again. If you believe the
society of the times was genteel and cultured, think again. If you believe
mercy and compassion came naturally to people struggling desperately to
survive, or that polite society occurs naturally from chaos, think again. If
you believe there is honor among thieves, you’re not acquainted with many
thieves.
Cultured, Christian,
hardworking folks of means don’t generally become thieves. The vast majority of
ruthless theft and lawlessness is performed by the wealthy elites who consider
themselves above the law, or it is performed by the poor, destitute folks who
are sufficiently desperate to risk the consequences. The
homeless may become thieves. The hungry may become thieves. The downtrodden,
outcast, and demoralized may become thieves. People who can’t otherwise feed
their families may become thieves. Crime becomes a way of life for those
without options. When folk’s families are starving, rules get bent.
This was the society in
which Mariah now found herself. Her Auntie Meg was a kindhearted and generous
soul to the extent to which mercy and benevolence were within her meager means.
She was amenable to the prospect of providing food and lodging to her
dispossessed kith and kin under the condition that Mither was amenable to
working diligently, sunup to sundown, to complete whatever menial task Auntie
Meg placed before her. For the most part, Mariah spent the next several months
entirely friendless and bent over a wash tub, elbow deep in soggy laundry. Each
night found her considering it a blessing to be clothed, fed, and sheltered
from the cold.
On an unseasonably warm
evening in October of 1850, just as crickets began chirping and the night air
smacked of dusk, Mariah, who was returning from the market, laid eyes
unexpectedly on a familiar face. This was remarkable! Mariah knew practically
no one. She stopped in her tracks and stared awestruck at a young man pushing a
wheelbarrow through the crowded street. Simultaneously, the young man paused
and returned an equally startled gaze. After a moment, he hesitantly
approached, wiped his brow with a tattered sleeve, and lowered his jitney to
the ground. Noting Mariah’s concern, he smiled sheepishly and announced, with a
comforting Irish brogue, “I’m Lidge Kinnie. You may remember me from the ship.”
Mariah and Lidge had not previously spoken, but she did remember Lidge from the
ship. “Oh yeah!” Mariah answered blushing. “I do remember you!” The two visited
very briefly about the lamentable circumstances they had in common, and then
Mariah excused herself and continued dutifully on her way.
Some moments later,
rounding a corner in the alley which led back to the laundry, several forms
lurched from the shadows; two men grabbed Mariah’s arms, and a third man stood
facing her with a terrifying mix of disgust and lust glaring from his bloodshot
eyes. Mariah immediately screamed and began squirming and pleading to be
released. Noting her brogue, the third man began viciously poking his filthy,
boney finger into her ribs, and making crude, racist remarks about her
ethnicity.
Just as Mariah’s fate
looked ominous, a fourth man approached at a dead run from the direction from
which Mariah had previously come. Grabbing a cant hook from a construction
site, he began hollering at the three men who were abusing Mariah while he
waved the cant hook threateningly over his head. A terrible scuffle ensued
during which shots were fired, and one man pulled a knife and began thrusting
it threateningly at Mariah’s mysterious benefactor.
Mariah suddenly
recognized this fourth man as Lidge. Lidge eventually rendered one attacker
unconscious with a blow to the head with the cant hook. Another deft whack
injured the arm of another assailant before the two limped off. The third man
was left sprawled bloodied and motionless in the cold, dank alley.
Lidge breathlessly
confessed to Mariah that he’d been following her for some distance in the hope
of determining where she lived. Had he not, Mariah’s fate would have
undoubtedly been unthinkable. Examining the fallen assailant, they were
horrified to find that the blow to the head had lacerated the man’s skull.
Within a few moments, he breathed his last and lay stone cold dead. Lidge’s
blow had killed him.
Mariah’s immediate
reaction was that of appreciation and relief, but Lidge was clearly mortified!
He collapsed to the ground, rocking and moaning inconsolably. Mariah brushed
the wet hair from his bloodied face and gazed into his panic-stricken eyes.
“What is it, Lidge?” she enquired. “That
was clearly self-defense. You probably saved my life!”
Lidge’s very soul had
been irreparably transformed by this incident. He’d remember its horror all the
days of his life. He’d remember the guilt and searing burn of conscience,
tinged with a terrible satisfaction and the copper smack of adrenalin that
thrilled his heart and swelled his throbbing veins. He’d remember the horrible
rush of vengeance and the anguished invigoration of surrendering entirely to
rage and unbridled passion.
“I’ve already been
hauled into the precinct twice” Lidge grimaced, “once for vagrancy, and once
for pinching biscuits. If I’m taken in for this” he said, “they’ll almost
certainly lock me up for good.”
Just then, a lantern
light cast its dim glow at the end of the alley. The security guard was working
his way toward them, shaking and checking doors as he approached. Mariah helped
Lidge to his feet, and the two staggered for a cargo container some thirty feet
away. They cowered in the shadows and waited, panting and praying silently to
themselves. Moments later, the lantern cast its flickering light on the bloody
corpse of Mariah’s assailant, and the night air was violently pierced as the
guard began blowing his whistle. “This way.” whispered Mariah, and the two
sprinted to the far end of the dark alley and into the moonlit stillness of the
foggy harbor and its docks of anchored ships.
Just as the two
stopped, bent over and gasping for breath, another whistle blew to the left
followed quickly by another fast approaching from the right. Some thirty paces
ahead, a streetlight revealed a gangway which climbed quickly to the quiet deck
of a dark and silent vessel. Panicked by the whistles of the approaching
officers, and seeing no better alternative, Lidge led Mariah up the gangway and
into the inviting doorway of an open supply room, closed the door, and bolted
it behind them.
Moments later, voices
approached their refuge, and the muffled conversation continued as several men
took up vigil outside their door. After about thirty minutes, unwilling to
reveal themselves to those who inadvertently held them hostage and exhausted by
their ordeal, Lidge found a scrap of canvas and prepared a makeshift bed on the
cargo strewn floor. There, he and Mariah collapsed and were slowly soothed by
the rolling ship into a fitful sleep.
Several hours later,
Lidge groaned and struggled to his feet. Cautiously making his way through the
darkness to the doorway Lidge unbolted the door, peered outside, and then
returned aghast for Mariah. The two walked speechlessly to the railing and
stared in disbelief! There before them, awash in the blinding sunlight of
midday and ringing with the raucous cries of gulls, lay the vast, uninterrupted
ocean in every direction as far as the eye could see.
They stood for a
moment, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, and then, before either could muster voice, a
firm hand came down on both their shoulders. Turning cautiously, they grimaced
up into the stern, gray bearded countenance of the ship’s first mate. Without a
word, he shook his wooly face in disapproval and led them unceremoniously to
the captain’s quarters. The captain’s reception was equally disconcerting. He
had absolutely no interest in their tale of woe. “You two have two options”, he
grunted, as though he himself had no particular preference, and was entirely
unmoved by their whining protestations. While it would be an unwarranted
expense for the ship and a dangerous roll of the dice for the stowaways, he was
prepared to put them adrift in one of the ship’s rowboats to fend for
themselves on the merciless Atlantic, or, if willing, they could sign on as
galley help and peel potatoes from here to San Francisco. They thought it over
briefly, swallowed hard, and chose what appeared to them the lesser of several
unimaginable evils. Next stop, Recife, Brazil, with good sailing, one month
away.
Episode
Seven
{a
number of years later, in San Francisco}
MOUND
HOUSE
Following a month of
convalescence, Lidge returned to work. His low spirits and bouts of
debilitating depression were increasingly a cause for concern. The hustle and
bustle of city life, in conjunction with his now chronic fear of crowds,
suggested a move to the country.
Butch proposed the
Postmaster’s position at Shingle Springs. Shingle Springs is located in El
Dorado County, about 40 miles from Sacramento in the Gold Rush
foothills, and sits directly on what would eventually become Highway 50.
The towns of Coloma and Placerville are less than 15 miles
away. Before the area was settled by Anglo-Americans, a Maidu village
called Bamom was located in the vicinity. Like many of the other towns in
California's Mother Lode, Shingle Springs grew on the site of a mining
camp set up by gold miners during the Gold Rush, in this case, a group of
"49ers" who had followed the Carson Immigrant
Trail through Pleasant Valley, Nevada. It took its name from a
horse-drawn shingle making machine capable of producing 16,000
shingles a day, that was located near the springs at the western edge
of the camp. The Shingle Springs Post Office opened in 1865. Butch’s title of
California’s Post Master General gave him the authority to select Post Masters
for any Post Office in the state. If Lidge were willing, the position was his.
In the fall of
1867, after a traumatic and tearful parting with their family at the Tea House,
Lidge and Mariah loaded a wagon with their few possessions and set out for
Shingle. Following a weeklong trek, the couple set up housekeeping in a small
cottage on the outskirts of town. Lidge’s quiet, unassuming disposition made
him instantly popular at the little Post Office, and as a result of his years
of experience in San Francisco, his vast knowledge of everything Post Office
related insured a sound and successful management of his new post.
Mither and Da
adjusted quickly to their new surroundings, and Lidge soon reacquired his old
vigor and zest for life. Mariah too thrived in the fresh air and wide opened
spaces of the country. In 1868, Mariah’s healthful glow took on a whole new
facet by the joyful announcement that she was once again pregnant. I was born
on May 31st, 1868. By being frugal as church mice, the family
thrived over the next few years.
We rarely threw
anything away. If we bought something in a glass jar or bottle, once it was
emptied, that container became a treasured family heirloom. If something
arrived in a wooden crate, that crate was likely to become furniture or part of
the house. We mended and patched clothing and shoes until there was nothing
left but taters. Livestock was all that stood between us and starvation. When a
rabbit or chicken was butchered, we made use of every scrap, including the fur
or feathers. When we butchered a tuff old laying hen, we stewed her feet and
all. Da said, when nothing else will grow, you can always count on turnips. We
ate lots of turnips. When Mither pulled a turnip, we ate it greens and all.
If we prepared a tomato
or a squash, we saved the seed for planting. On the rare occasions that Da
slaughtered a hog, there wasn’t a shred that wasn’t either pickled or smoked.
Mither used the head to make head cheese. She’d have Da split the head in half,
and then she’d scrub it, and scrape it, and singe off all the hair. Once she’d
snipped out all that didn’t suit her, the rest would be simmered in a huge tub
on the wood range until all the meat cooked free from the skull. At that point,
she’d season it, and cool it, and slice it for sandwich meat. Even the
intestines were scrubbed out and stuffed to produce sausage comprised of almost
everything edible. Mither teased there should be some way that we could smoke
the squeal.
When we had nothing
else to eat, Mither would collect dry corn from the barn. Then she’d run water
through ashes from the wood range to make lye water. Once the corn was shucked
and the dried kernels were separated from the cob, she’d soak the kernels in
the lye water until they plumped and softened. Then she’d rinse them good and
make hominy. Truth be told, I kind of enjoyed hominy.
In 1871, our lives
were swept once again to life’s dark side. Once more drawn by the call of the
wild and an urge to escape the crowds, Father arranged for a new job, and moved
the family to a desolate outpost in Lyon County Nevada. The little way station,
briefly a Pony Express stop, now operated as a stage stop and way station
between Carson City and Virginia City, Nevada. Lidge believed the place had
enormous potential as the rail road continued expanding through the area. We
had no more than settled in at the little station when Da was caught out in a
storm and developed pneumonia. Two weeks later, my father passed away. Mither,
in desperation, and clueless as to how to survive without Da, took solace in a
new marriage to L. T. McLain. Mr. McLain was Irish, like us, and a widower with
two sons.
Life at the little
outpost was excruciatingly difficult. For several months, Mither worked
tirelessly from sunup to sundown, in a desperate attempt to make ends meet. And
then, only months after my father died, my mother died too, and at three years
old, I was left all alone, with a strange man and his two unruly sons.
Although I never
thought of Mr. McLain as a father, over time, I grew fond of him, and I believe
he cared for me too. The boys on the other hand were a constant source of trial
and tribulation.
Mither was buried
in a single grave very near the stage stop.
As a result, passersby soon began referring to the facility as Mound
House. Eventually a small community grew up around the stage stop. Mound House
was located halfway between Carson City and Virginia City, Nevada. Serving as both a way station and, for a
time, a Pony Express stop, despite its location, literally in the middle of
nowhere, the facility soon became a bustling hub of activity for traffic
between Carson City, Fort Churchill, and points north and west. Following the
completion of the Transcontinental Railroad in 1869, it became a station and
siding on the Virginia and Truckee Railroad. It served for some time as a wood
and water stop.
Equally impressive as the thoroughfare itself, were its remarkable
locomotives. Everything about a steam locomotive is awe-inspiring. The
low moan of the engine, the earthy smell of burning fuel, hot steel, and
well-oiled brass, and the rise and fall of the undulating rails, are an endless
source of wonder for me. A swiftly passing locomotive brings to mind a
living, breathing creature. To me, a steam locomotive belching smoke and
billowing clouds of steam is the living personification of power itself.
There’s no other sound in the whole wide world like the sound of a distant
train, with its rhythmic rumble and the whistle’s mournful wail. It’s a
little like the call of migrating geese as their primordial cries grow faint,
and they follow their leader along an ancient path.
On May 10th, 1869, after several days of delay due to
flooding, the Central Pacific and the Union Pacific connected track at
Promontory Point Utah. The dedication was attended by hordes of
photographers and reporters, who were on hand to witness what was heralded as
the work of the age. Tom Durant himself was there, to drive the final spike.
Most of the credit went to bureaucrats and flatlanders, and as usual, the
lion’s share of the proceeds went to the politicians and predators at the top
of the food chain. I can tell you this; if it weren’t for the Chinamen
and their dump carts, they’d never have gotten ‘er done!
Without question, as those golden spikes were driven into that
last tie at Promontory Point, Utah, America’s manifest destiny was achieved.
East was symbolically and literally joined to west, and the vast expanse
of North America’s great Republic truly became one nation, indivisible.
The completion of the Transcontinental Railroad was at once a
monumental accomplishment, an unparalleled feat of construction, the dream of
manifest destiny realized, and a death knell for a proud people. Within a
decade, the vast herds of buffalo that had covered the plains like a luxurious
quilt for centuries were reduced to tattered remnants and piles of bones, and
North America’s Native People were ruthlessly pursued and annihilated.
Those who survived the ruthless campaign were herded onto reservations,
where their once proud nations were required to abandon their heritage or
vanish along with it. Despite the best efforts of the few who interceded
passionately on behalf of the Indians, treaty after treaty was torn asunder by
the wave of settlers rolling toward the west.
Doctor Jared Waldo Daniels, who began providing medical services
to our troops and the Indians in 1855, and served as Inspector of Indian
Agencies during the 1870s, shared the following observation regarding the Sioux
War and Minnesota Massacre of 1862 & 63, “It is only natural that everyone
be curious as to the cause of the uprisings of a people who have always striven
to live in peace and harmony with their more civilized neighbors. To
state a fact that is as old as the history of our country’s Indian relations,
and the great cause of all our trouble with them, is to say, very clearly in my
estimation, violated treaty obligations on the part of our government.”
Back in 1861, with violence between
Indians and settlers at its peak, and blood having long been shed on both
sides, the United States Army commissioned Fort Churchill so that an influx of
new settlers from the East could live in some semblance of peace. The fort
housed as many as 300 soldiers, providing a bulwark against Paiute forces. The
Army selected for its base a site on the northern banks of the Carson River, a
well-traveled area that had come to the attention of explorers only a few years
previously. Constructed as a functioning and modern military outpost, its main
compound included six officer’s quarters, an armory, and multiple
barracks. The Paiute War was bloody but brief, its outcome a decisive
victory for the United States. With Indians no longer posing a serious threat,
Fort Churchill was decommissioned in 1869.
Following his service during the Indian
uprisings and Civil War, Ulysses S. Grant was promoted to General of the Armed
Forces in 1866, and served until 1869, when his popularity as a Union war
general resulted in his election to two terms as the 18th President of the
United States. In these capacities, he made a number of visits to Nevada.
President Grant’s Southern detractors
insist on calling him a drunk. I can claim no personal knowledge of the
President’s vices. I can however claim knowledge of his virtues. On one of the
President’s trips through Nevada, during a rest stop at Mound House, following
a roast beef sandwich and a mug of lukewarm beer, President Grant was seated at
the bar. Several patrons, having heard me sing on numerous occasions, set me on
the bar to sing for the President. Asked if he had a request, the President
suggested “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” With the exception of one verse, which I
forgot in the nervousness of the moment, I belted out the entire song,
a-cappella, and concluded the performance with my most angelic grin and a deep
and sincerely felt curtsey. The President rose to his feet, offered a standing
ovation, and kissed me ever so tenderly on the head. Through the years he wrote
me several letters. I’ll love President Grant until the day I die.
In 1877 a post
office was established at Mound House, and in 1880 the V&T began construction
of a narrow-gauge railroad from here to the mining camps of western Nevada and
the Owen’s Valley region of California. Named the Carson & Colorado
Railroad, Just as Father had expected, it turned The Mound House into a booming
shipping point for several years.
Episode Nine
CYNTHIA
In 1883, I turned fifteen. Suffice it to
say, life was hard, and I was hard at it from sunup until sundown, and
frequently before and after. Mr. McLain’s boys helped a good deal with the
horses and livestock. For the most part, we kept a respectful distance and
spoke only when necessary. Any chores done inside the facility, with the
exception of bringing in stove wood, and butchering chickens or rabbits, which
the boys considered great fun, were considered woman’s work and beneath their
dignity.
The boys made frequent trips into town
for prairie hay and dry goods. During Mr. McLain’s frequent absences, they
occasionally returned all liquored up. On one such occasion, I woke to find the
boys and an acquaintance entirely intoxicated and crawling into my bed in a
drunken frenzy. Despite my writhing protestations, they took for themselves
unspeakable liberties which left me forever scarred by the ordeal.
Two months later, the incident made
itself known by a noticeable swelling of my belly. I
spent many sleepless nights in tears, staring at a flickering candle for
companionship, and torn between an inherent maternal affection for the fragile
life squirming in my tummy, and a debilitating sense of shame, rage, and
disgust for how it got there.
On numerous occasions,
as a small child, the boys had wrapped me, head and all, in a blanket, and
refused to release me until I’d hollered, uncle. On many occasions, my
compliance had been insufficient to gain release. I’d developed an abiding and
unnatural fear of darkness and confinement. That fear would now become
all-consuming and debilitating. I had a crippling burden and no one with whom
to share it. The nights became endless and intolerable. As nightfall enveloped
me, it was reminiscent of those suffocating occasions in the blanket. Although
not confined, it was as though I was pinned on my back with the world itself
pressing ponderously on my chest. The horrors that befell my feverish brain are
inexpressible in mere words. You can’t begin to imagine the shame,
self-loathing, and revulsion that tore at my heart and grieved my very soul.
Night after night, I prayed for release, and my prayers went unanswered.
One afternoon during
those dark days, I was standing on the back porch, at the top of the stairs,
numb to the world around me, when the boys roughhousing in the house suddenly
crashed through the screen door, sending me headlong down the flight of stairs,
to land on my face and stomach on a farm implement. My nose was badly mashed,
and the impact was sufficient that several days later my pregnancy ended. On
Mr. McLain’s return, a neighbor related his observation of the incident. After
questioning the boys, Mr. McLain fell into a terrible depression. He spoke to
no one for days. I’d never seen anyone in such a state of debilitating
despondency.
Weeks later, my
stepfather loaded me into a wagon, along with a few of our belongings, and lit
out for parts unknown, never to be heard from again. There were rumors that he’d
left for the Klondike, but we never really knew for sure and certain. Along the
way, he dropped me off at an orphanage in Genoa, Nevada. Thus, ended my years
of youthful innocence and adolescent optimism, but thank God, there were better
days ahead.
The orphanage in Genoa
was a sprawling three story affair with a bathhouse, a kitchen, a massive
dining room, and several dozen tiny rooms, each boasting one window. It was
constructed originally by several well-to-do townsfolk who envisioned the
monstrosity as a vacation destination. Of course, there were not sufficient
people for miles around to fill the place. They believed if they built it, they
would come. They didn’t, and it eventually became an orphanage.
Each room, when
stretched to capacity, held two or three orphans. My roommate was Cynthia. Cynthia
was a petite, towheaded little princess, who immediately beguiled every soul
she met, until they became better acquainted. Cynthia was batshit crazy!
Cynthia didn’t care
particularly for anyone, but for some inconceivable reason, Cynthia took an
immediate liking to me. So, we became roommates. Occasionally, we were served
meals in our rooms. On such occasions most everyone received a knife, a fork,
and a spoon. Cynthia and I received only spoons. On the occasion that Cynthia
acquired a knife, or anything sharp, she invariably threw it like a dagger at
the door. Needless to say, the maintenance man took a dim view of this
behavior.
Most orphans who had
proven themselves responsible enjoyed the privilege of a lamp or candle in
their room. Our room remained dark. On the lamentable occasions when Cynthia
was able to acquire matches, she invariably lit something on fire. Several
years later, Henry had need to verify his date of birth, which we believed to
be May 6, 1868, around the same time as mine. This proved impossible to verify,
because none of his records had survived the conflagration. Cynthia had burned
much of the orphanage to the ground. Cynthia goes off halfcocked about every
twenty minutes; I love her like a sister, but it takes a terrible toll on a
body’s nerves.
So, as the story goes,
there’s this old farmer. He goes into this store searching for something for
anxiety. His nerves are clearly shot! While paying for his merchandise, his
hands are shaking until he’s just barely able to count out his change. About
then, this woman at a display behind him bumps a supporting can in a pyramid
display of cans. Those cans come down in a crash and clatter that would startle
the feathers off a wooden Indian!
This poor old fellow is
instantly on top of the counter! The clerk assists him down and asks what in
the world is wrong. “Well,” the farmer explains, staring at the floor and
shaking his head dejectedly, “It’s my wife; she thinks she’s a chicken! She clucks
and fluffs and scratches. It’s beginning to take a toll!” The clerk is
horrified and clearly sympathetic. “Well,” he suggests, “why don’t you just get
rid of her?” “It’s not that easy.” The farmer explains. “I don’t know how we’d
survive without the eggs.”
That’s kind of how I am
with Cynthia. At this point, I rely heavily on our friendship.
One Friday morning, the
facility received a new boy. One wing of the institution housed boys, the other
wing, girls. This policy was strictly enforced, for the most part. We all
became acquainted while in the dining room for meals. Henry was French
Canadian. While on a trek from Quebec and the Great Lakes region, to points
north, Henry’s parents had taken ill and passed away. Henry was around my age,
taller than average, easily tanned, thin as a rail, and he spoke softly, with a
delightful French accent. There was reason to believe he had Indian ancestry.
I’d love to share the
heartwarming account of a shy boy, warming gradually to a bashful, teenage
girl. That didn’t happen. To everyone’s amusement, on the very first moment
that Henry lay eyes on me, we spied each other instantly as he entered the
dining room. Both of us fought the inclination to look immediately away.
Instead, Henry never took his eyes off mine. He made a beeline across the
entire dining room, tipping over several chairs in the process, took me in his
arms for an uncomfortably long embrace, stared with startling tenderness and
moist eyes into the very depths of my soul, and then found us a seat together
at the table. From that moment on, except during long nights confined to our
rooms, Henry and I were inseparable.
Episode
Thirty-five
A
MOMENT’S HESITATION
In May of 1938, Henry
and I each turned 70. Quite an achievement, if I do say so myself. I look at
least 70. And I feel at least 70. And I darned sure act at least 70. But It’s
still mighty hard to believe I’m 70! Ralph and Sylvia haven’t aged a day. Oops!
I mean Cynthia. One weekend, Ralph and Cynthia surprised us with a birthday
extravaganza! They’d arranged a room for all four of us at Camp Richardson at
Tahoe, following a sunset dinner cruise on a sternwheeler.
Bright and early one
afternoon, around three o’clock, we all boarded the Packard and headed for the
lake. None of us had ever been aboard a steamboat. She was a dandy vessel! We
strolled the decks feeling quite Twainesque. We took a tour of the boiler room
and then stood at the stern, listening to the gentle chugging of the engine and
refreshing ourselves in the spray from the churning paddlewheel. She did a wide
lap around Emerald Bay, and then chugged a tighter circle around the Island and
the elegant tea house.
Dinner was served on
the upper deck, under the starry sky. We arrived early to be certain of getting
a good table. To Henry’s delight, this evening’s menu featured the Hangtown
Fry. We enjoyed a bottle of wine, not expensive, but more than adequate, and
then settled in to admire the view and prepare our growling stomachs for a
treat.
While awaiting our
meal, we gathered at the railing and marveled at Tahoe and the majestic
snowcapped Sierras. And, high on the mountainside, Ralph pointed out the
snow-filled, cross-shaped crevasse known as Tallac, which, in the Washoe
dialect, means big mountain. As the sun slipped silently into a crimson haze,
the moon began a leisurely climb into a cloudless sky.
Peering over the
railing, Cynthia marveled at the clarity of the water and the dizzying
twenty-five-foot drop. Tahoe’s frigid snowmelt is renowned for creating a
clarity of water which allows a glimpse of the stony bottom to a depth of
thirty feet. As we gazed down from the top deck, the distance to the water, and
the depth we could see into the water, combined to make it seem like we were
flying! Beneath us a procession of gigantic granite boulders passed by as if on
parade, occasionally looming up from the depths until it seemed as though
they’d surely bump the boat.
Once we were some
distance out on the lake, they shut down the engine, so that the steamer
drifted motionless in the moonlight. The wind, which had been significant much
of the afternoon, became dead calm, and the surface was still as glass. The
majestic snowcapped Sierra’s glimmered in the dusk, and the velvet black water
cast a perfect mirror image of the moon and its shimmering light.
Between our table and
the railing was another table with a young couple and three children. We
briefly exchanged pleasantries as they took their seats. The mother and father
sat with their backs to us, with the children seated across the table against
the railing. The boys were quiet and went largely unnoticed. The little girl
was probably four years old. She was extravagantly dressed in a frilly white
frock. Her shoulder length hair was red as roses and all done up in ringlets. Her
eyes were a dazzling green. Cynthia was
immediately smitten!
While we ate, Cynthia
and the little redhead flirted. The Hangtown Fry was scrumptious, although I
have to admit to picking out my oysters. Ralph eyed them admiringly until I
offered them to him. The girl’s mother sat directly between her and Cynthia,
so, periodically the little child would pop up so that Cynthia could see her,
and then she’d grin and giggle and plop back down.
During the evening,
this behavior became routine. Eventually the father became a little annoyed. On
several occasions he asked her to please sit still. Just as our desserts were
being served. The little redhead, having popped up several times unnoticed by
Cynthia, craned her neck and stood straight up in her seat. The chair tipped
backwards against the railing, and the little girl went head over heels and
disappeared over the side.
We all sat speechless
for a second, until we heard the splash, and then the mother let out a
lion-like scream and we all jumped up and rushed to the railing. The little
sweetheart floated momentarily, face up and eyes wide open, just below the
surface, and then she spiraled slowly downward into the depths.
Horrified as we were,
no one in their right mind would consider jumping overboard from this height.
Enter Cynthia. Without a moment’s hesitation, Cynthia sprang up on the railing,
kicked off her shoes, tore away her favorite dress, and performed a dive that
would have made Johnny Weissmuller proud! She entered the water without the
slightest splash and disappeared immediately into the darkness.
Seconds passed while we
all stood dumfounded and speechless, peering into the moonlit depths, and then,
suddenly, here the two came, streaking for the surface amidst a mass of
bubbles. By this time, several men on the lower deck had donned lifejackets and
leapt into the water. By the time we’d managed the stairs and assembled near
the gangway, they were bringing Cynthia and the little girl aboard. Both were
blue-lipped and shivering, but otherwise unscathed.
The tiny, towel-wrapped
bundle was passed tenderly to her mother, and Ralph held Cynthia close and
wrapped her in a blanket. Before rejoining his family, the girl’s father
approached me with tears of gratitude streaming down his face. I introduced
Ralph as Cynthia’s husband. The father ignored Ralph’s offer of a handshake,
insisting instead on a hug. “I commend you on your choice of wives, Sir.” He
told Ralph, patting him affectionately on the back, and Ralph sleeve-groomed
his teary cheeks and beamed with pride.
To be continued?
I appreciate your
consideration.
Shannon Thomas Casebeer
417-252-0189
