Quartzsite

A couple of years ago I was invited by my cousin, LuAnn to visit with her and her father (Uncle Lou) in Quartzsite during the annual “rock show.”  That’s not a music concert, I mean real rocks.  At the time, I was not able to get away for the trip, and a few months later I saw a special by Huell Howser wherein he visited Quartzsite during the “Expo” and that cemented my desire to go and see what all the hullabaloo was about.

Yesterday, we drove to Quartzsite.  It is 185 miles from my driveway and from the California border it is 18 miles into Arizona on interstate 10.  We were on the road by 6:00 a.m. and by 7:30 we were having breakfast near the Coachella Valley, 77 feet above sea level and the home of that Hollywood legend, Bugs Bunny.

From Indio, it is a 27 mile climb to Chiriaco Summit at 1,715 feet above sea level.  20 miles beyond the summit, we passed Eagle Mountain and Desert Center and continued a slow descent for another 50 miles to reach the Colorado River and the CA/AZ border at 257 feet above sea level.  The 18 miles from there to Quartzsite took us back up to an elevation of 1,200 feet but dropped back to 925 by the time we entered the town.

Although the event in Quartzsite is mostly about rocks, there are other goods on display also.  Antiques, books, yard-art, and lots of tourist trappings.  I must say, these “rock-hound” people are the friendliest sort.  They love to talk about their craft and many of them can look at a piece of rock and tell you its country or state of origin, and what dig site produced it!  It was all really quite amazing and there are not many things in this world more beautiful than a cut & polished rock.

For the craftsman, there were folks selling raw materials.  Fifty gallon drums of rocks were very evident.  Even though we arrived late in the season and many of the vendors had packed up and headed for the “big show in Tuscon” we were not disappointed.  The rocks on display were dazzling and I had to show some serious restraint to avoid bringing home a truckload of them.

For a change of pace, we took an alternate route on our return trip.  From Blyth we followed the river north on route 95 to Vidal Junction.  I know Wyatt Earp had a ranch somewhere along that stretch of road, but I didn’t know its exact location.  At Vidal Junction we headed west on highway 62 through 29 Palms, Joshua Tree, Yucca Valley, and Morongo Valley.

Driving through those communities, I was reminded of the homesteading debacle that took place in the early 1950’s.  After WWII, under the 1938 "Baby Homestead Act,” many returning veterans filed claims on five acre parcels.  Part of the homestead requirements included building a 100 sq. ft. cabin and a 1 year residency.  10’ X 10’ buildings can still be clearly seen scattered on the hillsides as you drive through the area.

Sadly, I did not get to see my cousin LuAnn or my Uncle Lou, but all in all, it was a nice drive and the experiences in Quartzsite whet our appetites for some rock-hounding of our own.  We’ll see how that works out.

Maize

One of the real enigmas of our world concerns Maize.  That simple ear of corn on which the world is so dependent has a secret origin.  Botanically and genetically, it has no known wild ancestor and no way to propagate itself.  If left to its own, without human interaction it would soon die out!  Apparently, the only advantage maize has is its very hard shell that allows it to survive for thousands of years!  The problem is, it is that very same shell that prevents it from self propagation.

What is the enigma you ask?  If a life form cannot propagate itself, how did it survive?  If a spontaneous genetic mutation created it, how did it produce the next generation?  It should have immediately disappeared!  The scientific world (Agronomists, Botanists, and Genetecists) has thrown up its hands trying to explain how maize came to be.  In 1982 it was decided that maize “was not domesticated, but created.”  Cogitate on that statement for a few minutes and the ramifications will boggle your mind.

James Mason, Chapter 2

James Mason loved to roam far – a typical globe-trotter, who covered the English speaking world.  Taking his profession to the South Seas, he spent nine years in Australia, two years in New Zealand and a year in Tasmania, visiting every city, village and hamlet, as he said.  In the interim he made several trips back to the States, the last through the Indian Ocean and Suez Canal, thus circum-navigating the Globe.  He said he had made and lost fortunes, being at one time worth 25,000 pounds Sterling, which he lost through speculation.  Upon his home visits, Prof. Mason always wore a silk high hat, and on one occasion a velvet vest, buttoned with $5 gold pieces.  In addition to lectures and readings on phrenology, he sold medicines of his own preparation, his best staple seller being Dr. Mason’s Arbor Vitae Oil.

In the spring of 1902, Father visited us on the farm [two miles south of (Delphos, Iowa?).  He had returned to the U.S. via England and Canada.  In Massachusetts he visited his brother, John, and family.  Evidently, he did not see his sister by the mother’s second marriage.  He invited me to travel with him for a few weeks when school closed so about the last of June, I took the Great Western [railroad] to Kansas City, transferring to Kearney, Mo.  Father met me at the station and we walked to the hotel.  A small porter was along and I learned he had once traveled with a midget troupe, but grew too large to be an attraction.  A Dr. Gardner was with Father and in the evening we went to a street corner where a large platform was erected.  Lectures were given on phrenology and the excellent properties of Dr. Mason’s Arbor Vitae Oil.

This was the home town of the notorious James boys.  Frank, the older, was living at the hotel.  He and his wife sat at the large boarding house table with us.  He was a horse fancier and each summer trained and groomed a trotting horse he would sell in the fall at fancy prices.  Then in winter he would take tickets at a St. Louis play house.  One day I brought him his mail.  He was a tall, wiry individual, then in his sixties.  While he never mentioned his former life, he had told others he had put it out of his thoughts, and it was as though it had never been.  One evening we [Father and I] walked out to the old James farm, three miles in the country, where an admission charge was made.  There was the old log house with rifle holes on the second floor [It was built in 1822.  Mr. James took it over in 1845.  Jesse was born Sept 5^th, 1847 and shot by his fellow outlaws April 3, 1882 in (…..illegible side note).  Just outside stood a great elm tree beside the grave of Jesse James.  Two men could not reach around the gigantic sentinel.  Jesse’s daughter [had] married a neighbor boy, named Barr, living close by.  The old mother of the boys, Mrs. Samuels, who lived across the street at the other hotel, was said to have been quite put out that “the daughter of Jesse James would marry a Republican.”  She had lost an arm and a little [n 8 – years] son when a bomb was thrown into the old house by soldiers searching for the sons.  Her [second] husband, Dr. Samuels, was once hanged, but she cut him down in time after the men had gone.  Young Jesse lived in Kansas City, where he practiced law, and his daughter became an actress.  On Wednesday he came in to make arrangements for the removal of his father’s body to the Kearney cemetery.  This rite was performed the following Sunday [June 29,] a rainy day, but we had left town on Friday.  [Mrs. Frank (Ana Ralston) James lived to the age of 91, dying July 6, 1944 at or near Excelsior Springs, Mo., she left a son, Robert.]

At Liberty, home of Wm. Jewell College, we stayed a week.  We were then alone, so I took a turn at selling medicine in the crowd.  At first I moved about so quietly that Father encouraged me by jokingly asking me where I had disappeared to when I finally got back for more of his fine liniment.  On the evening of July 4, so much liquor flowed that we remained indoors to avoid the drunken brawls and street rioting.  The Negroes hid themselves early, but a hapless Chinaman got his optic badly discolored for loitering too long.  There being no one else to combat, the boozers [seemingly] could not resist bending flasks over one another’s craniums.

Then we went to Excelsior Springs, a health resort, continuing our work.  The water was salt and sulphur.  Having little to do by day, while Father was giving phrenological readings, I worked a couple of weeks at the Hotel Castle Rock, dispensing remedies evenings.  Business was good.  I longed for the home folks, however, and not being particularly needed there, I went back to the farm.  Father, while apparently robust, told me he suffered a great deal from a pain in the back of his neck [lined out-causing the muscles and tendons to become stiff and sore.].  I have wondered if this did not ultimately result in his demise.  He was a very dynamic speaker, a trifle shorter than I, but much heavier.  With his heavy hair and flowing sandy beard, he was known by  everybody right after reaching a town.

Father and I kept in touch with each other.  He wrote me many beautiful letters filled with advice and suggestions I have treasured through the years and passed along.  In the five weeks we were together, we got to know each other better and the experience was valuable from an educational standpoint.  Long a successful salesman, he was very fond of the book “Twenty Years of Hustling,” and presented me with a copy on my nineteenth birthday.  He said the writer’s [author] experiences were the closest duplication of his own possible.  He had a small star tattooed on one forearm.  Asking him about it, he said as a boy at sea he had it done, thinking it was smart, and that now he cautioned against such disfigurements of the person.  Among his interesting observations in the South Seas, he once saw a kangaroo leaping along a highway, paralleling their train.  The odd creature was keeping up with the engine.  Father enunciated a doctrine worthy of emulation.  He said: “When considering a purchase, I always ask myself the question, ‘Do I really need it?’”  [This I have amplified somewhat to, “Can I do without it?”].

Father was spending some time in San Francisco and making plans to go to Mexico.  He contemplated entering the medical profession, being qualified under the laws there to enter that field.  On April 18, 1906 [at 5:13 A.M.,] a great earthquake rocked the city.  It was a relief when a telegram came saying he was safe.  Then he wrote saying that while asleep in his suite of rooms on Market street he was rudely awakened by a heavy piece of masonry falling on his hip.  Being a man of peaceable disposition, as he said, he wondered why the onslaught.  He was not kept long in doubt as other pieces began to fall.  Dressing hurriedly he left the building a few minutes before it collapsed, and threading his way through panic-stricken crowd and between swaying buildings he reached safety.  All his equipment, books, instruments and other materials so painstakingly gathered were gone, so he gave up going to Mexico.

Father in 1908 was traveling by team and buggy in Oklahoma and invited me to spend the summer with him.  Having made arrangements to go into the furniture store I could not well accept.  I wish of course we might have been together more.  Father had been keeping in touch with me right along, and I heard from him in October.  That was the last word ever had of him.  Persistently through the years I wrote to firms and friends he had been associated with, but the trail ended there.  A Prof. M Tope had known him in Australia and recalled that Father was an accomplished violinist.  None, however, had heard from him since about the time I did.  I was forced to believe some sad mishap had befallen him and he was gone.

[Nelson Mason never discovered what happened to his father.]

Great Grandfather, James Mason

This is the story of James Mason, my Great Grandfather.  It was written about 1935 by Nelson Mason, James’ son and my Grandmother’s brother.  The author, Nelson Mason was a family genealogist when research had to be accomplished by snail mail.  It is mostly the account of the one time Nelson and his father spent some time together and includes a letter written to Nelson by James Bardin, the man James Mason worked for after he returned from his first sailing expedition.  All the notes in [Brackets] were added by me, Robert Henderson.

James Mason’s father [Robert Henderson’s Great Great Grandfather] was a ship’s carpenter residing in Boston, a man standing nearly six feet in height.  His wife was of Irish lineage and very probably was one of those who came to Boston from Ireland in the great Irish migration of 1847, due to famine.  To this union there were born two sons: James [Robert’s Great Grandfather], born January 23, 1856, in Boston, and John, Jr., two years younger.  The father was a protestant; the mother, Catholic.  When the boys were respectively eleven and nine years of age, John Mason, while building a house in rainy weather, contracted a cold and pneumonia, and soon his family was left to face life as best they might.

James Mason accepted employment on a farm.  Here, finding the duties imposed upon him unduly strenuous, he wrapped his few belongings in a handkerchief and ran as fast and far as breath would permit.  Then, hiding until dark, he proceeded into the city, and next morning shipped out of Boston harbor as a sailor.  Following the sea for several years he returned to Boston finding his mother married again and with a young daughter.  His brother John Jr. was comfortably settled with an uncle.

Striking out toward the west, James stopped over night at the Bardin farmstead in Dalton, Mass.  Then a husky lad of seventeen he was offered work on the farm and accepted.  Having had little opportunity for education he took advantage of the rural school facilities.  Unable then, to divide by long division he nevertheless made such rapid progress that he was the local teacher two years later.  Town reports state he taught at the South, the East, and the North schools, and lastly at the Grammar school in the village during the years 1878 – 79 and 80.  The reports indicate “he gave excellent satisfaction to all concerned.”  In the census of 1880 James Mason is found at Dalton, a school teacher, with birth-place of both parents given as Ireland.  This probably was true in the case of the mother, but not of the father.  The Bardins doubtless gave this to the census enumerator during James’ absence at school and as their best guess.  He was there in 1883, as indicated by Irene’s birth certificate obtained from the town clerk.  He united with the Congregational Church of Dalton.

Learning of the science of Phrenology, James went to New York City, enrolling at the American Institute of Phrenology, later known as Fowler & Wells, from which he was graduated November 12, 1880.  Here he met Martha Scott Fair, slender brunette of Sandyville Iowa.  They met again in Denver, Colo., where on June 1, 1882, they were married at the home of the bride’s maternal uncle and aunt, Isaac and Sarah Cooper.  Everybody said it was an ideal match.  James was a man of fine bearing, fair, ruddy complexion, blue eyes and aquiline nose, with heavy, straight brown hair and sandy whiskers.  It was popular then to wear a beard and his plans to be a world traveler and health lecturer clinched his decision to allow no razor to come upon his face from the age of 19 to 49.  He was 5 feet, 8 inches in height, reaching a maximum weight of 220 pounds.  He became a dynamic, forceful public speaker.

Upon their marriage James and Martha Mason went to Dalton, Mass., where he resumed teaching.  There on February 15, 1883, a daughter, Irene Leila, was born.  Determining to enter upon his profession of phrenology, then at its height, Prof. Mason moved with his family to Cleveland, Ohio, traveling out from there.  They made their home last at 250 Oregon Street, where an elderly widow, Mrs. McKay, resided.  The city Engineer’s office advises that this is now [ca. 1940] 2136 Rockwell Avenue.  The Cleveland directory for 1884 shows: “MASON, James, Phrenologist, 376 St. Clair,” and “McKay, Esther, wid. John, r. 250 Oregon.”  They resided at this address when the writer [Nelson Mason] joined the family on January 18, 1884.

A letter from James E. Bardin of Dalton, dated February 2, 1928, says relative to the life of James Mason:

He worked on the farm, studied, went to night school and picked up education to teach a country school.  He taught in three districts here in Dalton.  I went school to him.  He went to an academy at Wilbraham, Mass. – (this undoubtedly was Wilbraham Academy, an old institution still in a prosperous condition.  It is in the nature of a college preparatory school.)  He then taught the grammar or high school a few years, boarding at home and riding back and forth on a wooden velocipede.  While teaching in this school he would go to a professor in Williams College, in Williamstown, Mass., for special instructions.  (This is a nonsectarian men’s school, high in the Berkshires, and operated by a private corporation.  Here the Institute of Human Relations held sessions in 1935, 1937 and 1939 [The 1939 session, under the auspices of the National Conference of Christians, and Jews, was the largest group of Protestants, Jews and Roman Catholics ever to assemble in the history of the world.]  Then became interested in phrenology and went to school in New York for a year, - went on a lecture tour of the west, headquartering for a time at Bozeman, Montana.

Mr. Mason worked out a butter stamp or mould that would cut and stamp butter from tub or as made.  These mould were made in different sizes from individual prints—one-half pound and pound cakes.  One was made for cutting pound cakes of lard, which was not successful because lard is so sticky.  While in this business his headquarters were at home.  The wooden stamp was made in a nearby town, and the other parts were made and nickeled in Waterbury, Conn.  (Several moulds are still in the family attic at Dalton.)  On his way from the west he married Martha A. Scott of Iowa.  They came home and my parents helped them get started in housekeeping in one part of a neighbor’s home.  Irene was born there February 15, 1883.

After that Mr. and Mrs. Mason moved to Cleveland, Ohio, which is the last we knew of them for a while.  Some years later we received a letter, signed by James Mason from a city in eastern Massachusetts, stating that he had fulfilled his heart’s desire to go around the world, and would call and see us but we never saw him.  One other thing, he worked with the Board of Assessors one year with my father, making out the taxes for the town, for Mr. Mason was a good penman.  (He had taught penmanship.)  I saw the book last summer as I was looking back for records.  I am now on the Board of Assessors.  His brother, John, lived here a short time when James was away.  He was a laborer on the railroad.  I do not know what became of him (A tin-type of John was seen in the family album.)

[On Oct. 11, 1946 James Bardin was killed by a car {without (illegible side note)……..?} into the herd of his cattle he was driving, in his 80^th year.]

[Tomorrow, Chapter 2]

Thoughts of yesterday

It seems silly to me to argue whether Clovis man is the oldest in the Americas, or if the first people “walked across the Bering Straits, or if they traversed an “Ice Free Corridor” when they moved south to populate what is now the U.S. and South America.

With all the evidence it is clear to me that beyond the Aztecs and the Mayans, before the Egyptian Kingdoms, the Assyrians, and all the other so-called ancient civilizations we know about, there was another world of people who populated this planet.  They were technologically advanced, even beyond what we are today.

Then, something happened.  It could have been disease or warfare or other natural disturbances, but something almost wiped out human kind.  The few souls that were remaining struggled to survive and for the next few generations they were scavenging for food and living in caves or whatever shelter they could devise.  There were people everywhere, but they were sparse and technologically speaking, they were starting from ground zero.

After a few years, stored gasoline would be used or turned to gel and combustion engines would become useless.  There would be nobody refining oil, making steel, or producing much of anything except food.

After a while, all the metal objects would rust away, wood products would rot or wear down to nothing and the only things that would remain would be stone edifices, pyramids, henges, etc.  These edifices would probably become congregation points for the people who survived, their link to the past, and legends would grow up around them.

Even assuming a population growth rate of 4.0 percent (only achieved by the country of Liberia) it would have taken a tribe of 20 individuals 100 years to reach a population of 1,000 persons.  After 200 years, the tribe would be almost 50,000 people strong who, no doubt, would have split up into several different tribes, probably already warring amongst themselves and other surviving tribes  By this time, all technology would have been lost as well as many talents.

This is the stage where we find our ancient ancestors, the Assyrians, Aztecs, Mayans and Egyptians.  This is where we start recording history again and the cycle continues.  There are legends on all continents by diverse peoples that point to this scenario, the legend of Noah’s Ark is just one of them.

Remembering Uncle George

Old Uncle George!  He wasn’t really an uncle, just a family friend, but we called him uncle.  His real name was George Burbank, and he lived alone on Natoma Street in San Francisco, just about 3 blocks south of Market Street, in a four story walk up that was probably built right after the great earthquake and fire of 1906.  Even at the time, I was well aware of the dangers of that building.  Staying the night at Uncle George’s was comparable to sleeping on a match head!  If any one of the idiots living below fell asleep with a lit cigarette, there would be little chance of escape.

Despite the dangers, I visited Uncle George as often as I could.  It was a nice getaway for a young teenager living in the Sacramento basin.  San Francisco or Frisco as we called it, had much to offer and there wasn’t much of it that I did not see.  A typical trip would find me at the Greyhound Bus Depot in Sacramento, boarding one of those Scenic Cruisers for the 2 hour drive to the Frisco bus depot, just two blocks from Uncle George’s.

Dinner, the first night always started with a shrimp salad and was followed by steak with macaroni and cheese, a favorite of mine to this day.  Uncle George was a Ham Radio enthusiast and had a large “Heathkit” model on his kitchen table.  He worked during the day at “Gumperts,” a company that had something to do with food products.  I think Uncle George worked in the warehouse, but I’m not sure.

I was usually up by the “crack of noon,” and often would take in a movie at the Fox Theater on Market Street.  The Fox Theater was a site to behold.  It was the most magnificent theater I’ve have ever seen.  The seating consisted of the lower floor, the Mezzanine, and two balcony levels, all in red velvet.  Two side stairways exiting the Mezzanine emptied onto the main stairway that must have been 25 feet wide at the top.  The main stairway was divided by a polished brass rail and flared out into a lobby of plush flowered carpet, all in crimson and greens.  Inside the theater, was one of the largest pipe organs on the West Coast and on weekends there was usually somebody playing music until the movies started.  At the time, I took all this in stride, but looking back I can see that I was witnessing the last of its kind.  They don’t build theaters like that any more.

After a movie, it was not unusual for me to walk to Powell Street and catch the cablecar to Fisherman’s Wharf or Golden State Park or, if I had extra money, Fleishacker’s amusement park.  In those days you could hop on the cablecar while it was moving and hang on the side rails for the entire trip.  The last time I was in Frisco I noticed that they don’t allow that anymore.  All passengers have to be seated, and the car must come to a full stop for loading and unloading.  Much of the charm has been lost.

At the time, no trip to Frisco would have been complete without a visit to the “Emporium.”  The Emporium was a department store ahead of its time.  Five floors of goods where you could find anything from a safety pin to an airplane!

Two or three days was usually sufficient to temporarily satisfy my need for the “big city” experience and I was soon on my way home again.  I probably reenacted this scenario two times each summer between my 14^th and 17^th birthdays.