Placerville, Where The West Was The West
One has to keep reminding himself that most all of this took place forty five years ago. That seems such a few seconds of time, but when considered within the context of time, specifically, it seems weird to even be a part of what was going on. An example of this might be in my driver’s license. In thirty seven years of having a drivers license, which I tried to get when I was one day younger that sixteen years of age, and that made me wait out the weekend, and then I took the test, received a ninety-five written and a hundred on the driving, which is not difficult to do when you’re driving a 1972 Oldsmobile Black Station Wagon that was approximately, three of today’s cars in length and weighed about as much as a half-loaded semi going down the highway.
When one takes this test and receives his first license, you put your current address, height, weight and hair and eye color on the form and that is when it becomes permanently sealed.
So at sixteen, I had hazel eyes, and I really don’t know if they are that color, the name sounded fun to me, and I was 6’4” in height, which I have lost some of over the years, that seems really odd. But the thing that I put down was weight. 250 pounds of me, and yes I was a bit pudgy then (laughter ensues) but I put it down. Over thirty seven years of holding that license, I have never had a single ticket for a moving violation (knock on wood) but, my weight has always shown to be 250 pounds, regardless mind you, of whether I weighed 198 pounds (my wedding day November 1, 1980) or 450 pounds (yes as bad as it seems, there was a time) and if my license had been renewed annually, it probably would have been printed with rotating numbers to keep up. It always said 250 pounds. So some things never change.
At the time described inside this writing, President Abraham Lincoln had been dead less than a hundred years. Idaho had become a state seventy two years ago. TV was black and white, and the list goes on and on.
There was a group of us that took the little trip up to Placerville, that was about fifty miles north of Boise, and it took about two hours to make the trip. It was on the western edge of the Boise National Forest, and took a while to creep up there in the old Apache truck. Ed, Donna and Debbie took their Jeep up and they seemed to get there in about an hour and a half.
Placerville hadn’t changed much, because there were about 50 people that lived there in 1964, and close to fifty that live there today. In 1865 there were close to 5000 people living there and Placerville was rather the center of attention in Idaho. Mostly for gold mining (placer-mining, shallow field mining of gold and silver, hence Placerville), and according to the Internet, it looks as though the place hasn’t changed much since we were there. Still dirt roads, grass that looks short but has never been mowed, and as odd as it sounds, the cemetery still sets up on the die of the hill, and looks exactly like it looked back then. (That sentence really sounds dumb written down, but it made sense to me to write it that way.)
At the Placerville Pioneer Cemetery is the grave of three fiddlers. These wandering musicians made their living providing entertainment in the remote camps, but in Placerville, their luck ran out. Actually there were only two musicians, Fred Cursons and L. Moulton, and the third mad was a miner carrying a considerable amount of gold dust. George Wilson, the miner, was the intended victim of a robbery, while the musicians were killed simply to ensure their silence against the killer. It’s somewhat understandable if understanding is even possible, because Placerville was so far from reality, that the three to four months of decent weather, meant eight to nine months of snow.
The killing took place in June of 1865, while the trio of men was walking from Placerville to Centerville. The brutal murders created a wide-spread furor, and in a few days authorities arrested John Williams, who was known by reputation as a gun slinger and a gambler. In spite of nearly being lynched when he was arrested, a verdict of not guilty was handed down by the District Court a month later. No one else was ever apprehended, and the true murderer remains lost in time. That seems worthwhile, since the story would not have been as good if they had caught the guy.
Mom and Donna Jones had brought picnic lunches and while there was a good trip through the cemetery, looking at the headstones and the fence around certain graves, and the unreadable stones, and the graves of three fiddle players, and on and on. There was a certain fascination with the headstone reading, and it took me in and has kept me looking ever since.
Pop was always talking to people, getting them to show us stuff, and tell us about things, and reveal history, etc… and the time in Placerville was no different. Somehow he had managed to get in a discussion with a woman, Mrs. Henrietta Penrod, who was right outside her house, and they were talking. She was weathered; in fact she had been born there in Placerville in 1892 and was 71 years old. Her dress was long and a print and she wore an apron on the front of it, and a pair of hiking boots that appeared to large for her feet. She had moved in to her present home in 1913, which seemed to have about a twenty foot by twenty foot floor plan. There was a propane bottle outside the house, and a hand pump for water, and before long we had all been invited inside to look at the house, because she had something she wanted to show us there.
It seemed somewhat normal then, but thinking back it had to be really something to see. She had several pictures hanging on the wall, well, hanging on cords that were nailed into the finish board on the wall, coming down and supporting the pictures that were placed rather high and at an odd angle to the world. The furniture, at least some of it, looked as though it came from 1875 or earlier, anti-madassers, (hair oil that was on the market in the 1800’s and early 1900’s) hand sewn cloths, were across the top of the chairs. There were several books on the table, and a small portrait of her and a bearded man taken years ago. There was no TV it appeared, and that’s when we noticed that all of the lights were kerosene lights, and the place had a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom.
It was where she just couldn’t wait to show us the greatest thing to come along. In the bathroom were a mirror, a toilet, and a bathtub, and directly next to the bathtub was a fifty gallon, white, porcelain, water heater, powered by propane and a gas burner. Her white hair shined, and her blue veins in her small hands showed, as she explained, that just last winter, it had been installed, and they had brought her propane and connected her stove and bathroom to the tank, and she could cook supper and take a bath, almost every day during the winter, and all the rest of the year combined. It didn’t take long to realize that this woman had been bathing in water heated on the stove, which was heated by wood, which she cut and trimmed and made small enough for her fire. She didn’t look it at first, but one could only surmise that she was tougher than the trees she had used for years.
There was quite a bit of exploring to take place in Placerville, but the game of washers seemed the thing to do. Pop and Ed Jones were walking down one of the dirt streets, and they came across a couple of residents playing a game out in the road. They had buried two three-pound coffee cans, the tops even with the dirt of the road, approximately thirty five feet apart, and there were six, one and a half inch washers, that were used to toss between the cans. It was like a game of horseshoes (though less painful if you got hit), and it seemed to keep them all busy for a couple of games.
Watching the old eight millimeter films that Mom took on her wind up camera, show all these people, and the little kids running around inside Placerville, camps, making fires and enjoying part of life. It is interesting to watch those films, mainly because you know that maybe three other people will get to see them and two of them will enjoy watching. There is not but a little bit of love for watching, home movies, especially if it isn’t you being watched.
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| Mine Was Black and had Uncool Tires |
When one takes this test and receives his first license, you put your current address, height, weight and hair and eye color on the form and that is when it becomes permanently sealed.
 |
| I know I know |
At the time described inside this writing, President Abraham Lincoln had been dead less than a hundred years. Idaho had become a state seventy two years ago. TV was black and white, and the list goes on and on.
There was a group of us that took the little trip up to Placerville, that was about fifty miles north of Boise, and it took about two hours to make the trip. It was on the western edge of the Boise National Forest, and took a while to creep up there in the old Apache truck. Ed, Donna and Debbie took their Jeep up and they seemed to get there in about an hour and a half.
Placerville hadn’t changed much, because there were about 50 people that lived there in 1964, and close to fifty that live there today. In 1865 there were close to 5000 people living there and Placerville was rather the center of attention in Idaho. Mostly for gold mining (placer-mining, shallow field mining of gold and silver, hence Placerville), and according to the Internet, it looks as though the place hasn’t changed much since we were there. Still dirt roads, grass that looks short but has never been mowed, and as odd as it sounds, the cemetery still sets up on the die of the hill, and looks exactly like it looked back then. (That sentence really sounds dumb written down, but it made sense to me to write it that way.)
 |
| Placerville Cemetery |
The killing took place in June of 1865, while the trio of men was walking from Placerville to Centerville. The brutal murders created a wide-spread furor, and in a few days authorities arrested John Williams, who was known by reputation as a gun slinger and a gambler. In spite of nearly being lynched when he was arrested, a verdict of not guilty was handed down by the District Court a month later. No one else was ever apprehended, and the true murderer remains lost in time. That seems worthwhile, since the story would not have been as good if they had caught the guy.
Mom and Donna Jones had brought picnic lunches and while there was a good trip through the cemetery, looking at the headstones and the fence around certain graves, and the unreadable stones, and the graves of three fiddle players, and on and on. There was a certain fascination with the headstone reading, and it took me in and has kept me looking ever since.
 |
| Camera Was On B&W |
Pop was always talking to people, getting them to show us stuff, and tell us about things, and reveal history, etc… and the time in Placerville was no different. Somehow he had managed to get in a discussion with a woman, Mrs. Henrietta Penrod, who was right outside her house, and they were talking. She was weathered; in fact she had been born there in Placerville in 1892 and was 71 years old. Her dress was long and a print and she wore an apron on the front of it, and a pair of hiking boots that appeared to large for her feet. She had moved in to her present home in 1913, which seemed to have about a twenty foot by twenty foot floor plan. There was a propane bottle outside the house, and a hand pump for water, and before long we had all been invited inside to look at the house, because she had something she wanted to show us there.
It was where she just couldn’t wait to show us the greatest thing to come along. In the bathroom were a mirror, a toilet, and a bathtub, and directly next to the bathtub was a fifty gallon, white, porcelain, water heater, powered by propane and a gas burner. Her white hair shined, and her blue veins in her small hands showed, as she explained, that just last winter, it had been installed, and they had brought her propane and connected her stove and bathroom to the tank, and she could cook supper and take a bath, almost every day during the winter, and all the rest of the year combined. It didn’t take long to realize that this woman had been bathing in water heated on the stove, which was heated by wood, which she cut and trimmed and made small enough for her fire. She didn’t look it at first, but one could only surmise that she was tougher than the trees she had used for years.
There was quite a bit of exploring to take place in Placerville, but the game of washers seemed the thing to do. Pop and Ed Jones were walking down one of the dirt streets, and they came across a couple of residents playing a game out in the road. They had buried two three-pound coffee cans, the tops even with the dirt of the road, approximately thirty five feet apart, and there were six, one and a half inch washers, that were used to toss between the cans. It was like a game of horseshoes (though less painful if you got hit), and it seemed to keep them all busy for a couple of games.
 |
| The Brownie |
Watching the old eight millimeter films that Mom took on her wind up camera, show all these people, and the little kids running around inside Placerville, camps, making fires and enjoying part of life. It is interesting to watch those films, mainly because you know that maybe three other people will get to see them and two of them will enjoy watching. There is not but a little bit of love for watching, home movies, especially if it isn’t you being watched.
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