Ambrotype from 1900, Placerville, California

Within two decades the vast majority of horses 

were put out to pasture, replaced by little Fords.

It's now 2012.  

What kind of changes will the next two decades bring?

Hang on tight!  

An Extravagant Excess of Excrement!

Day three found us mean as snakes and hungry as week old wolves!  I awoke first, and then bundled up and peeked out through the shutters.  Despite our predicament, the breathtaking beauty of the mountains once more overcame me.  The magnificent Ponderosa pines leaned and swayed precariously, each bow hanging heavy, laden with a mantel of white.  The air was still and silent, with only the occasional pop of an overburdened limb disturbing the quiet as it echoed from the canyon beyond.  The river canyon to the west held a wispy tide of slowly receding fog, and the whole scene shimmered in the radiance of early dawn.

   Shaking the coffeepot to ascertain its status, I found the stove cold and the fire spent.  Donning my hat and coat, I headed for the woodshed to retrieve some kindling, and rounding the corner I heard something scurry away.  On closer examination I discovered rodent droppings on the woodpile, and the hatchet handle chewed almost clean in two!  The few remaining logs were far too large for use as kindling, and my best attempt at using the hatchet gently only succeeded in finishing the squirrels’ job!  I gave up disgusted and stomped back in the shack!    

   Lidge woke up as I reentered the shack, and even his Irish spirit was insufficient to wipe away his scowl.  He was all sulled up and mad as parliament!  “Holy cow!” I exclaimed, slapping my sides for warmth.  “It’s colder than the hubs o’ hooties out there!”  Lidge backed up to the stove for warmth and found it dead as a doornail.  “I heard some flatlander use that very phrase in town the other day.” He says, “What in tarnation is a hootie hub anyway!”  “I have no clue,” I answered, “But don’t it sound cold though!” Lidge was not impressed!  “Have you gone for kindling yet?” he asked irritably.  “You bet!” I says. “Well where the heck is it?” Lidge demanded impatiently.  “Well, it’s like this,” I says.  “Some cantankerous fairydiddle gnawed the handle out of Griz’s only hatchet.”  “A fairy what’ll?” Lidge enquired indignantly.  “A fairydiddle.” I answered.  Lidge glared at me like I was short wicked and fuelless!  “What the dickens is a fairydiddle?” he demanded.  “A fairydiddle is an exasperating little rodent with outrageous eyes, a stubby flat tail, and furry webbed wings.”  “Yeah right!” Lidge grunted skeptically.  “I’m serious.” I said defensively.  “Furry webbed wings?”  Lidge repeated.  “Yep!”  I said.  “And they fly?’ Lidge repeated disgustedly, and gave me one of them looks that says “Eat worms and die!” “Well, not wings exactly.” I answered, “But flaps of skin between their legs that helps ‘em to kind o’ glide through the air like a leaf on a blustery day.”  “Let me get this straight.” Lidge says. “You’re telling me that we ain’t got no fire, and no kindling to start a fire, because we’re infested with nasty little rodents that have huge eyes, flat tails, furry wings, and that they fly through the air and eat up hand tools!”  “You bet!” I says.  “I had some in my room back at Camp house too!”  Lidge eyed me suspiciously.  “I don’t remember hearing nothin’ about fairrydiddles back home.  Were they pets?” he asked.  “Not really.” I said.  “They were mainly just pests.”  “Well why didn’t ya just get rid of ‘em?” He asked.  “Well,” I says, “they were there afore I was.  I figured that give ‘em some kind of squatters rights.” Lidge looked at me real exasperated with his head cocked over and says, “Did them critters eat up your hatchet handles back home?”  “Nope!” I answered sheepishly, “They mainly just ate biscuits!” “Biscuits!” Lidge repeated cynically.  “Yep!” I replied.  “Well I’ve not been exposed to such an extravagant excess of excrement, since Granddad’s bull bloated & blew up! Did you give ‘em the biscuits?” he asked.  “Nope!” I answered matter-of-factly.  “Alright, I’ll bite.”  Lidge said defiantly.  “Where’d they get the biscuits?” 

   I knew my ol’ pard was having a mighty tough time swallerin’ this explanatory tale, but I also knew it for the Lord’s truth, so I just answered right up, “They’d just swoop down two or three at a time and swipe ‘em!”  Lidge grimaced and shook his head wincingly, “And you witnessed this yourself?” he says.  “Well,” I says, “not always; they most always done it at night, while I was sleepin’.”  “Great hoary bears!” Lidge ejaculated in disgust, and stomped out the door!  
OBIE’S QUEST

Every Heart’s Desire

Following the battle of Chickamauga, the war was over for Lidge and me.  Our next battle would be getting back on our feet.  We spent the remainder of this lamentable day, jarred, jostled, and semiconscious, in the back of a wagon.  Nightfall found us halfway back to Tullahoma, awaiting treatment in an overcrowded field hospital. Field hospitals were easily recognizable, from some distance, by their enveloping clouds of blowflies, the agonizing moans from tent after tent of dieing and demoralized men, and the sickening stench from pungent piles of putrefying feet!  Sanitation was abominable, disease rampant and medical care mortifyingly crude! Advances in the dispersement of death and dismemberment having been vastly improved since the Mexican/American conflict, .58 caliber minie balls, now administered through rifled muskets, could be dispatched from three or four hundred yards away, with great precision and unprecedented effect.  Shattered bones were generally the result.  For want of disinfectant, the best hope of preventing infection, gangrene and an excruciating death was immediate amputation.  Surgical kits bore a striking resemblance to carpenters’ tool kits; surgical saws were the instrument of choice, and the slang “sawbones” for field surgeon, struck terror in the hearts of battle hardened veterans.    

   War has always been an enigma to me, an irreconcilable amalgamation of glory and godlessness.  Even now, after my baptism of fire and a near death experience, I view it with a strange mix of abhorrence and wonder.  It’s as though, despite its revulsion and abomination, war has some redeeming quality. I can tell you this about war.  If war possesses any redeeming qualities, they’re not apparent on the battlefield, where gallant young men are killing and being killed.  The redeeming qualities of war are pretty illusive to those who observe its horrid stench first hand.  Wars finer facets, in order to be fully appreciated, must be polished, politicized, and refined, by some well-bred, manicured, articulate, gentleman back home.  Back home the less desirable aspects of war may be overlooked.  One may sip their brandy, smile benevolently, and observe, “Isn’t war inspiring.”

   In the case of our Civil War, both sides sought peace.   The north was bound by the patriot’s sense of E PLURIBUS UNUM, and the south was bound by home and hearth, and their ancestral way of life.  Few would argue that either was served by war.  Death and destruction may quell revolt, but they rarely result in peace.  Don’t get me wrong.  I realize that freedom requires commitment, commitment requires perseverance, and perseverance requires the will to act.  When freedom and just causes are threatened, honorable men respond.  But surely war is the last resort of those who know its grief.  Surely for reasonable people there’s a better way. Freedom is every heart’s desire and every just government’s goal, but it’s a mighty illusive concept when you’re at war. Freedom is nearly impossible when you don’t have peace.  OBIE”S QUEST

We twa hae run about the braes, and pu’d the gowans fine ; But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, sin auld lang syne.

Photos by 

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

We two have run about the slopes,

And picked the daisies fine;

But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,

Since auld lang syne.

Should old acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

And old lang syne?

For auld lang syne my dear,

For auld lang syne.

We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

Robert Burns

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

HOMECOMING

Smithflat House

Not counting time spent visiting at Philadelphia and attending the reunion, the trip east had taken 27 days, and the return trip from Gettysburg to Placerville was accomplished in 14!  Suffice it to say we made real good time on our trip home!  An ol’ mule exhibiting these tendencies would be considered barn sour.  Lidge and I preferred to view our accomplishment as unprecedented and inspirational!  We spent the last night of our sojourn bivouacked at Tahoe, and at first light we began the long trip over the summit.  There was a definite nip in the air as we crested the summit and began our decent toward Twin Bridges. Summer was giving way to autumn and the Quaking Aspen shivered with the first telltale signs of golden foliage.  The higher elevations glacial crevasses had managed to maintain a few patches of the previous winter’s snowfall, and the breeze off the mountains was sharp and invigorating.

   Motoring through Camino, several of the townsfolk waved broadly and someone evidently recognized us and telephoned ahead.  By the time we’d descended the grade and cruised up at Smith Flat House, a welcoming committee had been organized, assembled, and worked into a frenzied anticipation through nearly an hour of waiting.  At our approach, several nostalgia stricken old veterans jumped to attention, removed their old campaign hats, and saluted sharply from the balcony; the community brass band tooted out a tinny but rousing rendition of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”, and a crowd of several dozen onlookers lined the thoroughfare reigning in youngsters and cheering enthusiastically.   

   The streets were adorned, quite coincidently, with all variety of colorful banners, in celebration of the foothill’s annual Bartlett Pear Festival, and the atmosphere was absolutely festive!   At our approach, the Daniels boy jumpstarted his brand-new Indian Motorcycle and sped noisily to the front of our rapidly growing motorcade, as a couple of well stoked Stanley Steamers lurched from the shadows and slipped silently in behind.

   Moments later we convoyed triumphantly into Placerville.  Lidge was ahead in the flivver, and I sounded my horn, waving and pointing discreetly by way of indicating my intention to forgo the remainder of the parade route and make an inconspicuous run for home.  Lidge returned my wave, acknowledging my intention, and then preceded for lower town, waving at the adoring crowd as though he’d just been elected to a third term, his wild, white mane animated by the wind off the cowl and ablaze in the twilight.

   My sense of homecoming built to a fever pitch as I motored through upper town, and as I turned off onto Mosquito Road and sped for Reservoir Hill, six weeks of longing and homesickness morphed into inexpressible joy!  Reservoir Hill greeted me with a characteristically spectacular sunset, and as I approached the old home place, the little Scotties came running to meet me, and soft lamplight offered a radiant welcome through steamy windowpanes. 

   As I careened up to the house and stiffly dismounted old Reliable, Mariah stood waiting anxiously on the porch.  Her silver hair framed a welcome smile, gray eyes gleamed romantically in the twilight, and a month and a half of desperate longing had severely whetted my appetite for her company!

   Our eyes met briefly as we arrived at the gate, and as I pressed my chapped lips passionately against her furrowed forehead, we joined simultaneously in a mighty comforting embrace.  The long memorable trip had been life altering and inspirational, but it couldn’t match the emotion of coming home.  OBIE’S QUEST

Reservoir Hill

Camp/Daniels Place, just outside Hangtown

Treasure Your Memories

I recall puzzling as a young man, at the inclination of so many old folks, to forsake the present to dwell upon the past, sometimes cutting all ties to here and now.  These days, whiling away the long, tedious afternoons, in a dreary house that’s all but abandoned, plagued with pains and tormented by my prospects, I drag the rocker up by the stove, stare into the coals, and soak myself in a warm bath of memories.

   I remember sitting by a crackling fire, high in the Sierra Nevada’s, and listening to the ill-tempered Jerseys filing past, with their cowbells clanking and their babies bawling, and the old bull curling his lip and looking for work. I remember standing on the rough plank sidewalk, outside the Ivy House, inhaling the aroma of grilled ribs sizzling, over Manzanita coals, and watching the massive freight wagons lumber by, with their oxen lowing, their hames bells jingling, and the iron-clad rims of hickory spoked wheels smashing the gravel to dust, beneath their cumbersome tonnage of crocks of butter and barrels of fragrant cheese. I remember believing that my whole life would be a long and wondrous adventure.  And it was. 

   Standing here on top of the hill, with the setting sun casting a warm glow on the canyon’s crimson foliage, inevitably brings to mind those golden autumns of long, long ago.  Closing my eyes with the soft warmth of sunset on my face and the murmur of the crick in the distance, my memory reflects a shimmering image of overnight outings long ago, when summer was perennial and I was a barefoot kid.  I remember the goose bumps and satisfying shivers as Grandma prepared me for bed, and washed my summer-hardened feet from the rocky banks of a brisk, babbling brook.  

   I recall my Granddad’s twinkling eyes and his pleasant, raspy chuckle, as I hugged his neck and he rubbed his whiskery chin against my face.  Here on the hill where I raised my family, I revisit my time of parenthood, and recall priceless memories of my own mom and dad, ages ago when life seemed simple, and childlike faith assured tomorrows joys. Treasure your memories, keep them fresh, and never take them for granted.  Even our memories can fade with the harsh glare of time.  OBIE’S QUEST

HEAD OVER HEEL’S IN LOVE!

“Come on and be a sport.” Lidge encouraged, “It’s not gonna hurt ya just to take a look at it!”  Well here’s another fine mess he’s gotten me into!  Before I could get to Mariah for a little additional backbone, Lidge had me in the Torpedo headed toward town!  Lidge and the dealer were clearly in cahoots, and once on the lot, they joined forces and began working me over something fierce!  The commodity with which Lidge and his enthusiastic accomplice were bound and determined to saddle me, sat spit-shined and serviced in the middle of the showroom floor.  Up until now, I’d shunned the automobile age and clung tenaciously to my mules, but today’s sales pitch comes at an opportune time.  The majority of my mules are long of tooth, and begging to be put out to pasture!  Truth be told, I have to fight back drool every time my buddy fires up his sporty Ford.

   As luck would have it, the featured carriage today is a brand new 1913 Ford Touring car.  Unbeknownst to this salesman and my buddy, is the fact that I’d already fallen in love with this very model when it was featured in a newspaper article the previous month.  Henry Ford himself had recently presented this particular model to his good friend, Naturalist and poet, John Burroughs.  Mr. Burroughs and I being of a similar vintage, and sharing a common interest in the environment, I’d already entertained visions of reclining proudly behind the wheel of this very machine.

   The salesman encouraged me to climb aboard and take the long, lean jitney for a spin, and Mr. Kinney was all prepared to add his own encouragement, but it wasn’t necessary.  I didn’t need to be asked twice!  Quickly climbing into the driver seat, I donned my goggles as Lidge climbed up alongside. Being unfamiliar with the mechanics of the three peddled craft, I gingerly took the wheel and turned to Mr. Kinney for assistance.  “Ok,” Lidge instructed, “The spark is the lever on the left of the steering column.  Retard the spark by pushing it clear up, and give her a little gas by pulling the lever on the right, down about four notches.  The floor pedal on the left is the two speed clutch, the one on the right is the brake, and the one in the middle is reverse.”  With that the salesman gave the crank a couple of good swift spins, and the little machine sputtered briefly and then purred like a kitten.  That’s all it took and I was head over heels in love!

   It took a little doing to get the hang of that two speed clutch, and my first few attempts at finding reverse resulted in a couple o’ nose imprints on the windshield, but soon we were cruising through town, grinning widely, and waving at the admiring crowd as though we were royalty!

   Met eagerly by the salesman as we arrived back at the dealership, I donned my best poker face, feigned nonchalance, and casually enquired, “How much?”  “I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do old-timer.” the salesman responded patronizingly, “since you’ve come in here with one of my best customers, I’m gonna make ya a deal!  Anyone else would give six hundred and fifty bucks for this little jewel, and go away happy, and I’m gonna price ‘er to you at six twenty-five!  “Would ya take five fifty?” I fired back with a doubtful grimace, and the salesman felt the nibble and set the hook!  “Five seventy-five” he offered with a confident grin, “Plus tax and license, and ya can drive ‘er home today!”  “Done!” I quickly responded, shaking his hand and pulling out my checkbook.  I thought Lidge was going to drop his teeth!  He quickly pulled me to one side and whispered excitedly in my ear, “Are you sure you don’t want to discuss this with Mariah, before ya write a check?”  “Nope!” I responded confidently, “Around my house, the gentleman wears the pants!”

   Well, I have to say, ol’ Lidge was mightily impressed!  ‘Course he doesn’t realize I’ve been saving for this for years, and I’ve already secured the approval of Mrs. Camp. “Obie’s Quest”