"Charlie called over to say he was impressed with California, that there was something in the air, a fortuitous energy, was the phrase he used. I did not feel this but understood what he meant. It was the thought that something as scenic as this running water might offer you not only aesthetic solace but also golden riches; the thought that the earth itself was taking care of you, was in favor of you. This perhaps was what lay at the very root of the hysteria surrounding what came to be known as the Gold Rush: Men desiring a feeling of fortune; the unlucky masses hoping to skin or borrow the luck of others, or the luck of a destination. A seductive notion, and one I thought to be wary of. To me, luck was something you either earned or invented through strength of character. You had to come by it honestly; you could not trick or bluff your way into it." (Patrick DeWitt)
My love for the pioneer days grows each week. I can't believe how unappreciative I was as a child growing up here. I remember driving to Stanford with my Granny and rolling my eyes at the endless golden hills, glaring at the oak trees with extreme boredom, wishing something else was there instead.
And though I still can't stand the bleating heat of those hills, I don't mind staring at them from the road.
As usual, this past week has been busy. Clar had to go to Fairfield for her cosmetology exam, an eight hour affair that began at six in the morning. She rented the four of us hotel rooms for the night before, but before that adventure, the girls and I went to Filoli to check out an elaborate twentieth century country estate.
Mr William Bowers Bourn, owner of the Empire Mine, a hard rock gold mine in Grass Valley, decided to celebrate his wealth by building this Georgian mansion on 670+ acres, right outside of Woodside.
A few years prior, their only daughter married an Irish man. To celebrate, the family purchased Muckross House and the surrounding 11,000 acres in Killarney. Because the landscape was similar to Crystal Springs Lake, here, the family decided to build a similar house. When the daughter died of pneumonia, her husband decided to donate the house to the Irish Nation, becoming Ireland's first national park.
In mourning, the family had their ballroom covered in murals depicting Killarney. Waterfalls flank the door, landscapes, each at least fifteen feet long, decorate the walls.
William had named Filoli after his personal motto: "Fight for a just cause; Love you fellow man; Live a good life."
After a series of strokes, he was confined to a wheelchair, a thing which so embarrassed him that he had his ornate gardens designed to hide his figure.
"A prime example of the California eclectic style, Filoli provides an inspiring vision of a new Eden, with bountiful land, plentiful resources and emphasis on self-sufficiency."
From Filoli, the girls and I headed to Woodside in search of beverages. Immediately, we stumbled upon the Pioneer Saloon, the bar my parents met at thirty years ago. My father was in the bar's house band and my mother was there with her sister, scouting entertainment for an upcoming high school reunion. After an initial blow-off, my father finally came around and the two have been ridiculously in love ever since.
Clearly, a product of this wonderful state, I wasn't too surprised to find myself in a Clampers bar the very next day.
Let me tell you about Fairfield. It sucks. There's nothing to do there. The boys had gone out bar hopping the night before, while Clar and I holed up for early sleeping. They claimed the bars were brightly lit and populated with only three people, two of which were involved in some sex act in the parking lot.
By the time everyone awoke the next morning, a feeling of dread was washing over me. What were us city folks gonna do in this tiny town until mid-afternoon?
Jesse: "Drink!"
We wound up at this bar in downtown, and immediately, Jesse started telling me about the Clampers, a fraternity that was somewhere in between the Elks Club and the Hell's Angels. We asked our bartender what she knew and she immediately pointed to this plaque behind the bar, indicating that this was one of their meeting halls.
Cloaked in urban lore, it is difficult to pin down the actual origins of this group, other than that they were established in California in 1849. E Clampus Vitus (ECV) is either a "historical drinking society" or a "drinking historical society" intent on maintaining the history of the west often overlooked by more notable historical societies.
Moving through old settler towns, they would demand all newcomers to be initiated, a process often involving wheelbarrows, cold sponges and ladders. Oh, and massive amounts of alcohol. Intended to make fun of organized fraternities, these men would wear red shirts, black hats and levi's, and they wold give each other titles such as "Noble Grand Humbug", "Roistrous Iscutis", "Grand Imperturbable Humbug", "Clamps Vitrix" and "Royal Gyascutis." Their meeting halls were in places labeled, "Hall of Comparative Ovations" and typically found in the back room of old saloons.
Among their members are Mark Twain, John Mohler Studebaker, Gene Autry, and Ulysses S. Grant. Grant gained membership when, during the Civil War, he spent thirty days in Arsenal Guardhouse in Benicia for being drunk on duty and shooting cannons at the Martinez shoreline. Other, non-believable members, include J. Pierpoint Morgan, Horatio Alger, Julius and Augustus Caesar, Solomon, Henry VIII, Sir Francis Drake, and perhaps Joshua Norton, "Emperor of these United States and Protector of Mexico."
ECV petered out after the Civil War but were brought back in 1930 by Carl Wheat, director of the California Historical Society and writer of the 5 volume cartographic study, "Mapping the Trans-mississippi West."
Under his leadership, as "Perpetual Noble Grand Humbug of Skunk's Misery", the "organization has raised historical plaques in many places throughout the West (often those sights such as bordellos and saloons...), with a traditional 'doin's', or party, after each plaque dedication."
One such plaque is in San Francisco marking the old Hotaling's- a whiskey warehouse that survived the 1906 earthquake: reads:
"If as they say, god spanked the town
For being over-frisky,
Why did he burn the churches down
and save Hotaling's whisky?"
Though they are a silly group more interested in drinking camaraderie, they do take their members seriously, protecting each other and each other's families.
Back then, protection was very much needed.
According to Patrick DeWitt in his novel The Sisters Brothers, San Francisco was "a good place to kill someone, I have heard. When they are not busily burning the entire town down, they are distracted by its endless rebuilding."
I'm not sure what my next adventure will be, but I'm hoping it involves camels, architecture, and some liquid libations, and you're invited.
Some pictures for you:
