(ELEVEN)

Harry's Hillside House
in later years

5

Chicago, Illinois
3907 Prairie Avenue
August, 1901

  May and Hamilton’s home was only two blocks from Lake Michigan, but no onshore breezes alleviated the unbearable August heat.  It was a spacious two story house with enough bedrooms to accommodate their two children, John McCallum, five-and-half years old, and Katherine, age four; Mother Emily, Pearl, and now Harry.  May’s close friendship with her brother was renewed—if under a cloud.  He slept late, moved about with some difficulty—painful to see in a man only thirty years old.  He enjoyed some afternoons with little Jack and Katie, taking them to the lakeside park; sitting with May and the good doctor long sultry nights on the porch.

  He talked of schemes to renew the land in Palm Springs—surely she must know all of them would return one day.  May promised him he needn’t concern him­self—he could count on them for support—even see him through college.  Perhaps he could study law like John Guthrie.  As to returning to California, she tried to con­vince him it wasn’t possible—certainly not now.  Privately, Hamilton feared that Harry’s cough, fortunately infrequent, might lead to tuberculosis.

  Pearl hardly spoke to Harry.  She seemed to be living out the role of “educated, sophisticated belle,” now that she was attending Miss Stone’s School.  Harry’s earthiness annoyed her.  Secretly she feared she might become like her brother.  Why hadn’t he made something of himself like father?  What would become of her if she got stuck with acres and acres of worthless land?  What could she make of her life?

  Pearl sensed, even at twenty-two, she shared Harry’s crazy affection for the earth, a fascination for land, and particularly Palm Valley.  But what if she turned out to be like him, burned out at thirty?  He looked like a Forty-Niner.  How could she entertain her friends with him in the house!

   “Hey, Pearl, we gotta get you back out to the desert and the devil wind,” Harry teased, “get some of old Lord Tahquitz into your soul.  You look like a marsh­mallow bon-bon.  When’s the last time you were on a horse?”

  In mid-September the weather turned cold and Harry’s condition worsened.  His coughing attacks increased.  His lingering tuberculosis seriously affected his heart.  Hamilton told them that Harry couldn’t last the week.  A pall fell over the household.  Emily and May took turns sitting at Harry’s bedside.  Hamilton did everything he could to save him, but it was hopeless.

  At one a.m. the morning of October 19, 1901, one month to the day before his thirty-first birthday,   Harry Freeman McCallum died at the Forline home on Prairie Avenue.

(TEN)

Pedro and Will Pablo
friends of the McCallums

4

  May, Hamilton, and their two children, with Emily and Pearl, moved to Los Angeles after spending a few weeks with Harry in Palm Springs.  Hamilton, an M.D., developed a keen interest in attending the Mission Indians in Palm Springs, so his trips to the desert were frequent.  Harry’s suit to force the Riverside companies to take up their options for power lines failed.  How could he have hoped to extract money from dried up streams and a river called Whitewater?  White, indeed—from cracked clay and parched stone!  To raise money to pay off Louise, he was forced, with May and Hamilton’s Power of Attorney, to sell May’s land in Section 19 for one hundred dollars to J.F. Casey.  In April, he sold another ten acres of her land for two hundred and fifty dollars—satisfying most of the five hundred dollars Louise had asked for.  As indicated in the journal, Harry also gave Louise all his land; that is, his land in Section 19.  He couldn’t give her any of the undivided Syndicate property.  Louise was taken care of and vanished from his life.

  In the summer of 1900, May, Hamilton and children returned to Chicago with Mother Emily and Pearl.  May begged Harry to come with them, but he refused.  It seemed impossible Harry could survive.  He’d become superstitious about the moun­tain as his father before him but unlike his father, he didn’t have resources to protect it.  However, the foot of the mountain did include the McCallum Ranch, and Emily still had clear title to it.  No debtor could touch it.

  To get supplies in and feed himself, Harry borrowed, on September 20, 1900, one thousand dollars from M.W. Stewart Company, a ranch supply house in Los Angeles.  The Stewart Company wanted the McCallum Ranch as collateral.  Harry flatly refused.  He’d die from starvation before he’d pledge the Ranch—which he could do easily using his mother’s Power of Attorney.  The Company wouldn’t accept land in Section Nineteen as security.  Finally, they agreed to accept as collateral Emily’s land in Section Eleven.  At this time he also borrowed ten thousand dollars against Palm Valley Water Company stock.

  He realized if he failed to make good on the Stewart Company loan, the company might get judgment not only on Section Eleven, but the McCallum Ranch itself—and even May’s property—threatening to take any land which Harry con­trolled as “attorney in fact.”  Pledging his mother’s property was a terrible risk, but he had no other choice.  The ten thousand dollar loan against Water Company stock would help see him through the winter and spring, at least.

  Several months passed.  Still no rain; no snow on the mountains.  His health began to deteriorate dangerously.  Sometimes the cough was so bad he’d lie for hours in bed at Hillside House, too exhausted to dress himself, suffering ghastly visions—distorted memories.  He knew he must somehow get back to Chicago.  He’d go insane if he was alone much longer.

  In the spring of 1901, using Emily’s power of attorney, he sold Hillside House, property which comprised two hundred and fifty feet of Ranch land extend­ing out from the moun­tain.  It would help pay the train fare to Chicago.  His mother still held title to acreage at the foot of the mountain and most of the Ranch.  And he retained title to the Syndicate property.  Perhaps he’d return in the fall.  Maybe the drought would end, reviving a thirsting land.  For now the dream was over—and the nightmare.   The remnants of John Guthrie’s Eden lay abandoned against the foot of San Jacinto.

  The one-thousand dollar debt to M.W. Stewart Company, and ten thousand dollars in liens against   Water Company stock were still unsatisfied.

  (NINE)

Tahquitz Culvert

3

Harry's Journal

Feb’y 8, 1899.  Palm Springs.

Over two years since the last writing herein!

On Feb’y 5, 1897, my father died of heart failure, leaving my mother, two sisters – May and Pearl – and myself the last of the family.  Words of mine cannot describe the changes since.  Yes, it was a terrible affliction and now it is a great loss.  Many years ago we all were carefree, we were ambitious, and life was the usual thing which most people have found it to be.  Then our time came, commencing in 1891 when Johnnie died.  Next my health broke and is delicate even to this day.  Then May married and left us to live in Chicago, which was not a trouble, but it was another of the steps which were breaking up our old home; then the Country had a financial panic and times became hard with us, increasing into the time when father died.  Since then I have seen things go from bad to worse, in expenses of maintaining a burdensome Water Company and an unproductive ranch.  Yet money matters have been easy since June of last year as my credit appears to be good.  Mother and Pearl have had everything they wished for.  At present the ranch is paying a little, and the store and Postoffice well.  After a hard fight I was appointed P.M. here in June of 1897.  The water company expenses are reduced to a minimum, and there is a good prospect of disposing of the Whitewater river, owned by the Company, at a good price.  The reason of the financial pressure is that Palm Valley has ceased to improve and is going backward, it being proved that after all it is a desert region and is not much of a fruit region.  The Water Co. depended upon the planting in Palm Valley and all the stockholders depended upon the Company.

[new page]

As the McCallum interests consist principally of this stock, we were hard pressed, for the expenses of maintaining the Company’s ditches and protecting its water rights remained nearly the same as when more land was irrigated, and this deficit was raised by stock assmt.  I am Prest. of the Company and upon realizing that Palm Valley could never support the Company, I tried to dispose of one of our water rights to other places . . . [illegible] the Whitewater river, leaving the company’s other water sources for the use of Palm Valley, which could be abundantly supplied therewith.  This matter has kept me pretty busy and some prospect of success has come our way.  In 1897 I negotiated with three different Canaigre [hemp] companies, but they all quit doing business as their company sprung from these and I negotiated with them, and they . . . [illegible] went out of business.  In 1898 I took up . . . [illegible] Riverside and to dispose of the power along the proposed route of the line of conduits.  One Company paid me $1,000. for an option to Dec. 1, 1898 to purchase for $150,000. in cash and certain first mortgage bonds, but failed to take it up.  I am now trying to force them to, and meanwhile I am looking into the question of selling a domestic water supply direct to Redlands City, and water power to the S.P.R.R. [Southern Pacific Railroad].

My father had been failing for two or three years before his death, but his mind was as strong and vigorous as ever.

My mother and sister Pearl have been here for three months and my sister May (Mrs. Dr. Forline) arrived two weeks ago to remain until Dr. Forline can close up his business in Chicago and come to California to settle.  The health and prospects of all of us are very good, excepting my slight cough.

[Note – The following paragraphs about Louise have never before been published]

Harry’s 2/8/99 journal entry continues:

Last year I married a young lady secretly.  My friends and relatives were very much opposed to it

[new page]

so we did it secretly, intending to use that as a closing argument when we should afterwards marry publicly.  On the date set for the public marriage, however, I was served with a proceeding to annul the marriage ceremony by a regular divorce.  It was a stab which has changed me forever, as it was a surprise, everything having been arranged for the wedding.  More money than I had or could get was asked for in the Complaint.  Upon her attorney learning the facts, he dismissed the case and it never came into court.  Then I realized that we never could live together, and as we never had begun, I arranged with the young lady for a quiet divorce, which was done and I am again single.  I do not blame her now for I learned that certain persons put her up to the fight for money, and she did not know what she was doing.  I gave her all of my land in Palm Valley and . . . [illegible] money, and paid all her expenses amounting to about $500 or more, and believe she . . . [illegible]  provided for.  As . . . [illegible] a working girl since I met her, and she is now in a position to own something for herself.  She had many of the finest womanly qualities, and the only thing she ever did was this act of treachery and though that was a terrible thing, she allowed it because she was weak and easily influenced and did not know.  I hope she will become better and happier with every year of her life.  I thought it was alright to be married secretly, but now I believe that there is no good reason for it under the sun, and that if two people cannot marry when they want to they should wait until the time when they can marry publicly and properly.  It is my own fault that so much trouble has been caused, for a man is the responsible one always.  If she were a designing woman, then I should not have married her at all; while if she were a good woman (which I believe she is) I should not have married her initially . . . [illegible] it could have been done publicly, or not married her . . . [illegible] when I did do it secretly.

[new page]

Following immediately after this last trouble, there has come in an era of things which promise well.  For instance, my health is infinitely better, while last year I had repeated attacks of congestion of the lungs and began raining blood.  Then financial matters are promising.  The health of my two sisters and mother is splendid and they all are in fine spirits.

In addition to all these changes in our fate and fortunes during the recent past, there have also been great changes in larger matters and in public affairs.  Southern California has been going ahead rapidly and a boom is predicted within two years – a healthy boom.  Then the U.S. itself has just had a war with Spain, defeating that country overwhelmingly within three months, and a treaty of peace has just been ratified in the U.S. Senate granting to us the Philippine Islands and Porto Rico [sic], and also Cuba, the latter to be allowed . . . [illegible] once we establish there a . . . [illegible] and we are a world power.

My private mail has just arrived.  As a matter of future interest I will state what it consists of:  Two or three periodicals, two advertising circulars; one quotation on sugar; one postal card regarding a money order . . . [illegible] of Mrs. McMillan’s (our cook); a letter from a man . . . [illegible] Walters asking how he can get a money order paid, there being no P.O. there; a bill for dry goods from The Boston Dry Goods Store, receipt from same for part of last month’s account; a letter from Mr. Beard of Modesto asking that my Express team meet him and his wife & niece at the R.R. station tomorrow; a letter from Mr. Boggs recommending Mr. Pierce as a guide for in a trip I propose taking soon over Yucaipa Valley and other places; a letter from J.M. Elliot of the First National Bank of L.A. saying that his bank thinks that the pay’t of their loan to me depends too much upon my sale of our water stock, and that there is some talk of depreciating values in Palm Springs real estate; a letter from Rud Reinhardt regarding work on our ranch; a letter from the . . . [illegible] saying they will soon send a young man for phone work here; and finally a letter from Swift & Co. asking that I continue to buy our bacon . . . [illegible] from . . . [here the journal ends.]

  (EIGHT)

Hamilton Forline, M.D.

A Trust in Crisis

1

  The tiny wedding chapel on South Figueroa in Los Angeles smelled too much of cloying white gardenias, reminding Harry of oppressive Sunday mornings in the Calvary Presbyterian Church in Oakland when he was a child.  Emily was with him now, resting in a hideous purple-plush ottoman.  Dr. and Mrs. Welwood Murray rode up from Palm Springs to stand as witnesses.  An over­weight schoolmarm in black satin and ruffled bodice played doleful melodies on a small organ behind the flushed minister.

  Harry wondered why the minister smiled so much.  The expression seemed painted on, hypocritical, as if he must smile in his sleep—even when he was angry.  Like this wedding ceremony—hypocritical.  A month ago, after the family partition, Harry had taken Louise to San Bernardino for a quiet marriage before a Justice of the Peace; then on the Southern Pacific all the way up the coast to San Francisco—a room at the Palace, no less!  Never in her life had Louise experienced such luxury.

  Why had she insisted on a public ceremony?  Because of his mother, for the McCallum name.  And property.  Louise had her pride.

  “I’m no better than a prostitute,” she told him as soon as they were back in Palm Springs, “a servant!  If you won’t declare me openly, introduce me to your mother, your sisters, how can I feel like your wife, take my place as I ought!”

  She threatened to leave him if he didn’t marry her publicly.

  “One of my sister’s in Chicago,” he snapped at her, “the other’s in boarding school in Los Angeles.  They aren’t the least concerned with my personal life.”

  “You don’t know that.  Anyway, your mother’s in Los Angeles.  She’s going to find out about us sooner or later and when she does, how do you think I’ll feel, sneaking behind her back when all the time I’m your wife?”

  He couldn’t answer that one.  He should never have married her at all; and certainly he shouldn’t have let her talk him into this public ceremony, but it was the best he could do.  His mother was here as witness, and even the Murrays, Palm Springs most prominent citizens, out of only a dozen or so year-round inhabitants, it’s true.  Still, how could Louise complain?  How else could he prove to her he wasn’t ashamed to have her as his wife?

  He was grateful that at least the afternoon was cool.  There’d been an unexpected April shower with thunder and lightning freshening the sultry air.  Not much of a downpour, but bringing some comfort.

  He left the grinning minister, told the Murrays he was going to step outside and grasped his mother’s gray-gloved hand on the way.  South Figueroa was deserted; he paid little attention to an occasional carriage clattering along the damp road, an ice-wagon making deliveries, water dripping from the tail gate, noisy kids chasing after it hoping to snitch any small chunks of ice they get their hands on..

  No sign of Louise.  What was taking her so long?  She was supposed to meet him at the chapel at two o’clock; already it was past two-thirty.

  Murray’s hand gripped his shoulder.  “Where is the young Lassie?” he asked.  “Lost her way, perhaps?”  Murray’s eyes sparkled.  Harry was certain he knew about the secret marriage and enjoyed sharing a confidence.

  Harry turned to him, straining to smile.  “I don’t know, Dr. Murray.  A friend of hers was supposed to bring her over from downtown.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “I don’t know.  Someone she had to see, she said—had an appointment with him this morning on Spring Street.”

  “H-m-m-m.  That’s where all the shyster lawyers hang their hats.”

  Harry choked back sudden fear.

  “Well, Harry, no sense standin’ around out here like the jilted bride­groom.  Come on inside and jaw with your mother.  She’s worried about you.”

  “She’s always worried about me.”

  As they turned to go a black-suited figure sitting straight as the clapboard of a buck wagon rode up, quickly dismounted and hitched his horse.  He stumbled toward Harry awkwardly, came up the steps and held out a long and narrow folded paper.  It looked like a subpoena.

  “Harry Freeman McCallum?” the stiff, scrawny man rasped.

  “Yes. . . .”

  “Don’t take that!” Murray said.

  “Sorry, but it’s his,” the man said, clapping the paper into Harry’s open palm.

  “What is it?”

  “Divorce proceedings.”

  “What?”

  “From Louise McCallum, your wife, naming you as defendant.”  He turned on his heels, swinging back to the street.

  Harry was too stunned to follow him.  He wanted to knock him down.  As for Murray, all he could do was growl an indistinguishable curse.

  Louise claimed community property asking for half of everything Harry owned.  The worst part of it would be explaining a divorce to his mother.  What had he done to provoke Louise?  They might have had children—a family.  A bad influence, it must have been—some devious lawyer advising her that Palm Springs would never amount to more than a pile of sand and cactus so she’d better get what she could before Harry lost it all to his creditors.

  Harry’s property in Palm Springs amounted to very little, except for the Syndicate property, and he couldn’t sell it or give it away because it was undivided.  He’d already borrowed heavily against his Water company stock.  He couldn’t use his mother’s power of attorney to borrow against the Ranch, the only land worth anything.  And no matter what, “Johnnie’s Ranch” must be protected from creditors.

  Within a month, Louise agreed to a settlement out of court, ordering Harry to pay her five hundred dollars “for expenses” and half of all his property.  On October 13, 1898, he sold his 40 acres in Section 19.  It brought him only forty dollars!  Fortunately the court ruled Harry’s inten­tions had been honorable since he intended to marry Louise in public; thus she couldn’t claim a right to community property since she’d refused the public ceremony.  But where was rest of the five hundred dollars to come from?

  As if finding cash would settle anything for him—least of all, any hope for a decent existence!  Now would come long nights with only the scratch of jackrabbits to fill in the awesome loneliness.

2

  Harry appealed to May.  He knew she understood he couldn’t use Emily’s Power of Attorney to raise money because this could threaten title to the ranch.  May didn’t hesitate.  Not only would she and Dr. Forline sign their joint Power of Attorney to Harry regarding their interests in Palm Springs, they agreed to come out to California to lend moral support.  And so, in December, Harry received the following document and subsequently was able to satisfy Louise’s demands for settlement by selling some of May’s land in Section 19:

This 23rd day of November, A.D. 1898, Cook County, Illinois.

Know all men by these Presents.

That we, May McCallum Forline and Henry Hamilton Forline, husband and wife of the City of Chicago . . . have made, constituted and appointed . . . Harry F. McCallum of Palm Springs . . . our true and lawful attorney, for us, or either of us, and in our names . . . to sell, assign, transfer, set over and deliver to any person or corporation whomsoever, all our . . . interest in or title to a one-sixth or whatever other interest we or either of us may have in or to Four Thousand Shares, or any other number of amount of the capital stock in that certain corporation known as the “Palm Valley Water Company” of Riverside County California, and . . . further giving and granting unto the said Harry F. McCallum . . .  full power and authority for us . . . to grant, bargain sell, convey deed, quit-claim, assign or transfer or lease to any person or corporation whatsoever, any and all real interest in or title to in the State of California . . . with full power of substitution and revocation, hereby ratifying and confirming all that our said attorney shall do or cause to be done by virtue hereof . . .

 May and Hamilton did not sign the Power of Attorney to wash their hands of Palm Springs.  This is verified by their moving one year later to Los Angeles, and spending time in Palm Springs with Harry.

  Harry couldn’t ask Pearl to get involved.  She was only 19 years old.  Her 40 acres in Section 19, equal to May’s title, would not be jeopardized.  First of all, she was still a minor and Harry, his mother, and May considered it their absolute respon­sibility to take care of Pearl—in the short-term, or until Pearl reached matur­ity and was able to look after herself.  Or until she married, and that seemed years away.  They reasoned it was vital to keep Pearl out of any loan transactions.  It might be necessary some day to hide ownership by transferring title of property into her name to protect the ranch.

NEXT - Harry's Journal - February 8, 1899 - omitted in Katherine Ainsworth's "McCallum Saga."  And never brought into litigation for a Constructive Trust, 1967-1969

  (SEVEN)

The McCallum Ranch - 1898

5

  The offices of Brown and Hadley on Spring Street in Los Angeles smelled like the inside of a badly ventilated cigar factory.  Old Hadley disliked fresh air, not that there was much to be said for the atmosphere outside this Thursday morning—another hot, hazy, February day.  Breathing in the small, glassed-in room was inhibited even more from the fat stogies the geriatric lawyer insisted on smoking, until Harry politely suggested his mother would either have to leave the cubicle or faint.  Hadley got up and opened a window, offering some relief.

  Nineteen year old Pearl, her face tensed in what seemed to be a perpetual frown, her brooding hazel eyes concen­tra­ted most of the time on Harry, sat on one side of the square, rose-varnished table with Emily.  May had arrived by train from Chicago only a week before, taking the Southern Pacific line from Deming, New Mexico, coming in from the south through Indio directly into Seven Palms station.  She sat next to Harry at the table opposite Emily and Pearl, trying to focus on the tiresome details being thrust at them by her brother and the lawyer, thinking, if only Harry weren’t so serious!

  Hadley shuffled back from the window to his chair at the head of the table, perching there like a treed grizzly bear ready to jump, blowing smoke rings.

  Emily primed herself to sign the stack of deeds lying in a neat pile in front of Harry.  Writing was difficult for her.  She believed she was familiar with most of the procedure.  Harry had explained it to her often enough.  But now he insisted on going over everything again.  He wanted his sisters to understand thoroughly the purpose and vital importance of the “partition.”  It was now ten days since the court had made its distribution of John Guthrie’s estate, naming Harry F. McCallum as executor.

  “The court’s decree is so simple it’s not necessary to explain at all,” Hadley growled.  “Just sign the documents and we’ll have done with it.”

  “No,” Harry said, speaking with more force than he’d intended.  He continued quietly, “I want the family to know what they’re signing.”

  “Yes, yes, Harry,” Emily said impatiently, “I think we should know—”

  “And understand as well,” May said.

  “It’s a simple matter.  To put it in a nutshell, we’ve got to protect ourselves against some Simon Legree taking away our property, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen unless we partition our shares to each other into specific lots.  Most importantly, we could lose the ranch, failing as it is, and if my schemes don’t work out.”

  Pearl sighed audibly, fidgeting with the buttons on her high-necked blouse.  Harry grimaced, keeping his eyes down on the table.  He wasn’t going to allow his young sister’s stubborn temper to interfere, not if he could help it.  Didn’t she know this was for good of all?  He was beginning to sweat; his head starting to pound.  Pearl could go to blazes if she refused to appreciate what he and their attorney were trying to accomplish.

  “I still don’t understand why we have to split everything up,” May said softly, quietly flipping through the documents in front of her.

  “Well, let me try to . . . suppose something happens—I mean, suppose I have to borrow money—and it looks like I’m going to have to borrow something to keep things going.  There’s livestock to feed, and the General Store, and I’ve got to have something to live on.  The question is, what do I use for collateral?  I could pledge the Water Company stock but that might prove to be worthless.  We certainly can’t use the Ranch as collateral because no one of us owns it specifically, or any of the other real estate.  So my debts could be satisfied by taking the most valuable property—the Ranch.  But that’s not going to happen, because we’re going to give Mother title to the Ranch and some other property as part of her one-half share in Father’s estate.  Each of us will sign a deed over to Mother for the Ranch and some other land over.  So, Mother will own the Ranch; the rest of us, other parcels.  You got it?  I’m promising you I will never borrow money using the Ranch as collateral.  Who knows,” he grinned at Pearl, making an attempt to draw her in, “some of us may want to build another home on the slope of the mountain one day.  The mountain’s got value, as long as we’ve got control of it.”

  Pearl, still fidgeting, sulked in silence.

  “What Harry’s trying to explain,” Hadley cut in, pulling the soggy stump of his cigar from his mouth, “as it stands now, if the family can’t pay its debts, the entire estate will be in jeopardy because none of you owns anything specifically, no parcels of land in particular.”

  “Partition,” Harry said, “simply means deeding land back and forth to each other to satisfy each of our shares.”

  May leaned forward.  “Yes, but I still don’t understand why we have to partition.  We trust each other, and we have joint ownership—”

  Hadley grunted.  “Got nothin’ to do with trust, young lady.  Expediency!”

  “Of course we trust each other!” Harry said impatiently, sucking in his breath.  “Don’t you understand anything I said?”

  “In the partition,” Hadley interrupted, “the three of you—the three children—will sign over your interest in the Ranch to your mother so she’ll have clear title to it, giving her power of attorney to Harry so he run things.  As Harry has promised, he’ll never encumber the Ranch with liens.  And, just as important, with title to the Ranch, your mother can pass the property back to you three children someday.  The partition is equitable and proper, so let’s get on with it.  Harry and I have worked this all out with maximum protection for Mrs. McCallum and you children.  You’ll find transfer of titles in front of you deeding the McCallum Ranch to Emily McCallum, and also eighty acres in Section Eleven—also to Emily McCallum.”

  “Remember,” Harry explained, wiping his brow, “father bought that land in Section Eleven for Mother before Johnnie died when he thought of extending the Ranch across Main Avenue.  It’s close into town—that big square north of the reser­vation up as far as Chino Canyon but on the other side of East Street.  Then we have four hundred and ninety acres of land in Section Nineteen, farther out in the desert, which Father wanted to keep the Syndicate from developing.”

  Pearl suddenly sat straight.  “What’s the dollar value of all this property—in Section Nineteen?” she asked shrilly.

  Harry smiled.  “Glad you’re interested, Pearl.  Twenty-five dollars an acre, appraised value, for both Sections Eleven and Nineteen—”

  “So both Sections Eleven and Nineteen have the same value,” Pearl gloated.

  “You haven’t caught me in a lie, Pearl—”

  “Pearl, hush up!” Emily said, “let your brother get on with it!”

  “Yes, Sections Eleven and Nineteen do have the same value,” Harry continued sullenly, “and we have a responsibility to Father who bought the Section Eleven land for Mother.  Anyway, Pearl, what’s the difference?  Whatever belongs to Mother belongs to all of us.”

  “We know that,” May said.

  “The McCallum Ranch is worth two hundred dollars an acre, in case you want to know that too, Pearl,” Harry said, “but like I tried to explain, what’s the difference?”  He held his breath, interrupting himself with a cough. “Section Nineteen will be divided among all of us, one hundred and eighty acres each to May and Pearl; one hundred and fifty acres to me, and eighty acres to Mother.  It should be understood we’ll use this land if we have to—I mean, sell it, or put liens on it, to keep the Ranch going.”

  “Why did Father buy that land in Section 19?” May asked.  “Isn’t that out there the other side of Indian land where the gully runs?”

  “I remember,” Pearl said.  “It’s where the water from Tahquitz runs down in flash floods.”

  “That’s right, Pearl,” Harry said.  “Father bought Section 19 to keep his old Syndicate partners from bringing industry in—cement factories and the like.  The section would’ve been perfect for their purposes—the only land close to the village that is.  Nobody will ever want to live there.  You know how Father fought with them.  They wanted to turn Palm Springs into factories and God knows what—”

  “Yes, yes,” Hadley interrupted.  “Let’s get finished with this.”

  “First let me explain the Syndicate property,” Harry said.  “I’m taking title to all of it.  That is, you’ll be cross-deeding this land to me as part of my one-sixth share.  In case you want to know, Pearl, the property is worthless, in a sense, because I can’t do a thing with it—can’t sell it or borrow against because it was never divided among father’s partners.  Until it is, clear title can’t be given to anyone, got that?”

  “There are other minor partitions for you to sign,” Hadley said, “a Possessory claim, and George Hayman has an option on ten acres of the Section Eleven property. . . . “

  The partition of February 3, 1898 gave title to the McCallum Ranch to Emily McCallum, along with the family’s land in Sections 11, and a portion of Section 19.  None of the land partitioned to Emily, May and Pearl was Syndicate property, which now belonged to Harry—his father’s undivided 27.48 percent interest.

  But one additional matter had to be settled.  Who would control the Palm Valley Water Company stock?

  Emily had anticipated the problem.  About half-way through the shuffling of papers and scratching signatures, she paused and said, “Mr. Hadley has suggested I give you my power of attorney, Harry, so can manage things.  Won’t you need me to sign over documents—other matters?”

  “Your Power of Attorney will take care of that,” Harry said.  “I must have your majority interest in the Water Company if I’m to run things and be President.”

  “Will  you need my Power of Attorney?” May asked.

  “No, only from Mother for now.  Because of her Water Company stock, primarily, to run the corporation.”

  The following day, February 4, 1898, Harry took his mothers’ Power of Attorney to a notary public:

  I, Emily McCallum . . . constitute and appoint Harry F. McCallum . . . my true and lawful attorney for me . . . and for my use and benefit, in all matters pertaining to my property, both real and personal, stocks, bonds, and other securities and in connection therewith and in control thereof . . .

  He did not, however, immediately record the document with the County,  nor did he use it against his mother’s land until almost three years after the family’s 1898 partition in a transaction of a loan from the M.W. Stewart Company, a ranch supply house in Los Angeles—a transaction which the next generation of McCallums would know simply as, “Emily’s grocery bill” even though Emily probably knew nothing about the loan at the time it was made.

  The cross-deed partitioning of property in John Guthrie’s estate, February 1898 firmly established a   Family Trust for the benefit of future McCallum genera­tions.

This concludes A Family Trust.  Next:  A Trust in Crisis

  (SIX)

Aerial View
Modern Day Palm Springs
Tahquitz Canyon on left
Most of land on  right
in John Guthrie's Inventory
including present day airport

4

  The inventory of John Guthrie’s estate took longer than Harry imagined.  It wasn’t completed until September 7, 1897, seven months after John Guthrie’s death.  In spite of Harry’s determination to make a go of it, his urgency faded once he and Emily were in Palm Springs.  The failure of the land was inescapable.  It had reverted almost to dust.  He was right.  They couldn’t have sold any of it that year if they wanted to, not for any kind of profit.  The only parcel worth anything was the sixty to eighty acres of the McCallum Ranch.  Because of the mountain.  And because some day—maybe some day there’d be a city here; maybe not a farming commu­nity as his father envisioned, but a city nonetheless.

  Emily returned to Chicago.

  In Palm Springs Harry not only had the burden of getting feed to the livestock, stocking the general store, caring for the horses and farm equipment, but had to compete for appointment as Post Master.  This meant writing lengthy letters to Washington outlining his qualifications (he relied heavily on his father’s reputa­tion) and trying to convince the local people—especially Welwood Murray—not to oppose him.  But there was opposition.  He couldn’t’ seem to convince the few year-round settlers to believe he could handle the job in spite of his young age.  He was now twenty-six.

  In June he won the position, and with Murray’s backing.  In August in Western Springs, Illinois, May gave birth to a girl, her second child, naming her Katherine.  May wouldn’t be able to make the trip to the Coast before the end of the year.  In Los Angeles, Harry continued to see Louise.  She’d found a job on Spring Street as secretary to an attorney.

  At last, toward the end of summer, Harry had scrawled out the details of the “Estate of John G. McCallum.”

  In cash on deposit, proceeds from sales of lots and “full re-payment” of a Water Company assessment against O.C. Miller”; store accounts and stock of goods in the “General Merchandise Store at Palm Springs; furniture etc. in Hillside House.  . . . in Ranch House [the Adobe]; Tools, materials, livestock, etc. of McCallum Ranch; contracts to sell land and a “Certificate of Proof of Claims against Pacific Bank of San Francisco . . .” all this totaled about four thousand dollars.

  The Bear Valley Irrigation Preferred Stock was worthless.

  “Property in the possession of the decedent when he died:  1 watch and chain $50, 1 diamond stud $25, 1 pr. Cuff buttons $5 . . .”

  Completing the Inventory of Personal Property was Palm Valley Water Company stock, J.G. McCallum owning six hundred and twenty-two shares valued at $83,215.

  “Real Estate owned outright by J.G. McCallum at appraised value of $24,400, as follows:

  Eighty acres in Section 11.

  The McCallum Ranch in Section 15 . . . “consisting of about 60 acres, clear of mountain . . . and all land planted to trees, vines, and forage crops.”

  “Four hundred and ninety acres in Section 19.

  “Possessory Claim” to almost one-half of “Section 36 . . . and improvements thereon.”

  Thus, J.G. McCallum at the time of his death owned, in recorded deeds, six hundred and thirty acres in Palm Springs.  He also owned another five hundred and fifty acres of “Syndicate” land in more than one-quarter interest, or 2748 / 10,000 shares.  The Syndicate land was still undivided; and so owners of specific parcels, undeter­mined.  John Guthrie’s share of five hundred and fifty acres had an appraised value of $4,249.09.

  Completing the Inventory of Real Estate was one hundred and fifty-six acres in Siskiyou County, and “Lot 63 in the Myers Tract in Los Angeles . . . and improvements,” and Lots 5 and 11 . . . Fort Hill tract in Los Angeles . . . ” overlooking the Civic Center.

  All of the estate was designated “Community Property,” and the total appraised value, $120,498.40,” Judge W.H. Clark consenting.

  Then, on January 25, 1898, the Court awarded undivided interests in the estate to John Guthrie’s successors, one-half to Emily; one-sixth to each of the surviving children.  Harry’s anticipation of this distribution had been correct, and if the family were to defend the McCallum Ranch against credi­tors, certain legal steps would have to be taken.  May now had a son and daughter and planned to have more children.  McCallum successors were a reality, not a fancy.

  “Of course,” Harry wrote May, “we have joint ownership in everything father left us—it sounds ridiculous even to mention it—but we’ll have to parcel the land to each other to protect ourselves from eventual, though not certain, calamity.”

  On February 3, 1898, Emily, Harry, May and Pearl met in person in Los Angeles to divide their shares of John Guthrie’s legacy.  This meeting is proof beyond doubt the intention of McCallum heirs to join together to establish a family trust in perpetuity.

  (FIVE)

The Adobe
First McCallum home in Palm Springs

3

  As the Limited squealed beneath the long, wooden sheds of the depot, Emily was relieved to see Harry looking almost civilized standing on the platform spruced like a young college student, his shock of black hair slicked back—stiff, high white detached collar, dark suit and string tie.  His large ears, mark of a McCallum, reminded her immediately of John Guthrie, but no time for dwelling on that now.  They exchanged greetings and a perfunctory hug.  A horse drawn cab was waiting.

  Escorting her into a suite of rooms at the St. Charles, he closed the door.  She thanked him for reserving the suite and said she’d better freshen up since they still had time to get to Rosedale for the services and burial.  It was good to be in Southern California again, in the City of Angels, to feel and breathe the stinging warmth of February air, even though a smoky pall hung over the tall buildings.  You could hardly see the Sierra Madres or the Santa Monicas in the west because of the dry haze.  Still, the atmosphere was pleasant enough, if not as invigor­­a­ting as it might’ve been after a February rain.

  Harry studied her when she returned freshened and began to busy herself in the large, over-furnished room—unpacking, making tidy piles of underclothing in the drawers of the mahogany chest—linen, bits of colored and white cloth—women’s things.  She worked with some difficulty because of her gnarled hands.  The arthritis had indeed worsened.  He could see her grimace from pain.  Otherwise she looked well; color was good, though her large, dark eyes were saddened; her tense mouth turned down at the corners.

  Harry’s respect for his mother was a detached kind of reverence.  They’d never been close.  In the Eighties when he was in his teens, Johnnie and Wallace got most of her attention, but Harry hadn’t resented it.  He loved his brothers—espe­cially Johnnie—as much, if not more, than his sisters did.  Still, he wished that his mother had shown more affection toward him.  Right now, he wanted to hold her and comfort her.  How grief stricken she must be.  He remem­bered life in Oakland when she and John Guthrie were inseparable—most of the time.

  To Harry, Emily was a woman of mystery.  She never talked about the past much—never those three years in Jackson, the rough and ready mining town in Amador County before John Guthrie came along, and—as Harry liked to romanti­cize when he was a kid—“rescued” her from a fate worse than death.  An unmarried woman in gold mining days was easy prey for n’er-do-wells and rascals of every description.  As he exploded into adolescence and made discoveries for himself about what went on between men and women, he made up fantasies about his mother running away from Jackson to bawdy San Francisco; becoming a dance hall girl on the Gold Coast, where John Guthrie met her and saved her from a life of sin.

  It was strange his mother married a man so much older than her twenty years, particularly at a time when men outnumbered women ten-to-one.  But if his mother had been a “fallen woman,” it’s unlikely his father would’ve married her at all.  At thirty-six, he was too much in public life in 1862 to risk it.  Had his mother been that kind of woman, she certainly changed radically; so had a number of matriarchs on Nob Hill.  Emily’s reputation of high-toned respectability in San Francisco seemed to dispel any rumors of her origins.  He also knew her slow acceptance into the gaudy Nob Hill group was occasioned by her devotion to the home, the church, and the quiet life of the Oakland suburb—not because of a lurid past.

  Emily turned away from the dresser, speaking softly.  “Well, Harry,” she said, “I’m ready to go to John Guthrie. . . .”

  Later that night Emily picked her way through a steak and potato supper at the St. Charles.  Relaxed conversation was difficult for them.  In the suite, they sat quietly for awhile.  “Harry,” Emily said finally, “I think we should forget about Palm Springs—”

  “What?”  Her firm voice startled him.  He sat upright.

  “Leave it.  Palm Springs.  Sell the land and get out, for whatever it’s worth.”

  “No, Mother—” He leaned toward her, afraid his cough might return, searching for the right thing to say.  This was life and death for him.  “Does May feel that way?”

  “We’ve never discussed it.  What kind of life is it for you, Harry?  What future can you possibly hope for down there?  It killed your father.”

  Harry stiffened.  He hadn’t expected a fight with his mother—a fight for his life.  What could he do if he lost his responsibilities in Palm Springs?  Nothing—he’d have nothing.  Louise would bolt—he’d find himself utterly alone—and where would he live?

  “Have you been well, Harry?  I notice your cough is almost gone.  Remember what Palm Springs did for your brothers, Harry. . . .”  She broke off, trying to stifle a cry.  “And then, Wally—”

  “Wally didn’t care a hoot about Palm Springs.”

  “Harry—”

  “No, now listen to me!  We can’t give up.  Father wouldn’t have wanted us to.”

  “What good is it?  What can possibly be done?  I don’t want to lose you too, Harry.”

  “This drought isn’t gonna last forever.  It’s got to end sometime.  We can’t just chuck it all—everything father built up for us.  And my health’s okay.  C’mon, Mother, get hold of yourself.  I’ll manage.  And anyway the land’s not worth much now—we’d sell off at a terrible loss.  Now’s no time to sell.  I’m not sure anyone’s interested in buying our land.”

  “Your father was dead set against holding land for profit.  It you can’t make use of it, he used to say, get rid of it.”

  “We are gonna use it.  I got all kinds of plans.”  Agitated, he pulled himself up and walked away to the window, staring out at the city.  “You gotta have more faith in me.”

  “I do have faith in you, Harry.  I know how diligent you’ve been, and how difficult, staying with your father all these years in Palm Springs.  And I realize the sacrifice—”

  “I only did it—only did what I wanted,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  “I only did it because I wanted!” he shouted, turning around.

  “Yes, I suppose you did,” she said quietly, surprised by his sudden show of temper.

  “I don’t think father ever thought he was going to die.  Thought he’d live forever.”

   “Yes.”

  “Look, Mother, we still got the ranch, and we are going to make use of it.  Maybe not today, or this year or the next, but some day.  I don’t plan to make a profit on it—now or ever.  It’s ours—the family’s.  When I spoke of selling land, I didn’t mean the ranch.  Not an inch of that’s ever going to go—not while there’s a decent breath left in my body—not while there’s a McCallum alive.  That’s a promise.”

  “You are determined, you’ve convinced me of that.  I suppose that’s enough for me.  I have confidence you will—”  Her voice trailed off.

  “You must be worn out, Mother.  Better get some rest.  I’ll sleep out here, if you like, but I gotta get back to the springs tomorrow, or the next day for sure.”

  “I’d like to go with you.”

  “Okay.”  He smiled.  “You’re gonna have to unpack all those drawers again.  Let’s get an early train.  I’ve finished all my business in town.”

  “What business, Harry?  Are you making loans?”

  “Not yet.  Not exactly.  But our credit’s still good, thank God for that.”

  “You never found John Guthrie’s last will and testament?”

  “No.  I told you, he thought he’d live forever.  And besides, why should he make a will?  He wanted everything to go to all of us—to the family.  What need of a will?”

  “But won’t it tie your hands?”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble.  The court will make a distribution according to State Law—half to you and the remainder to us—something like that.  We can work out the details later.  First I gotta make an inventory.  Shouldn’t take long.”

  “How long?”

  “Maybe a week or so.”

  “Won’t May have to come out?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s going to have another child.”

  “Yeah?  Hey, that’s good news.”

  “Don’t say ‘hey’, Harry.  Hay is for horses—sorry, must think you’re still a child.”

  He sat next to her, taking her hand.  “Maybe we can handle things by mail or something.”

  “And you’re determined to hang on in Palm Springs, Harry?”

  “Yes, Mother, I am.  It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Well, then . . . ”  She rose unsteadily, smoothing the folds of her taffeta skirt.  Harry came to her.  She held his arms, staring into him, speaking softly, a slight tremor in her voice.  “So, we keep on going for your father.  As a girl I was taught death cannot destroy the soul of a man, or a woman.  I still believe   it, Harry.  John Guthrie’s left us, that’s all.  It’s up to us to carry on.”

  (FOUR)

Emily Freeman McCallum

A Family Trust

1

  Emily didn’t want to go to John Guthrie’s funeral, not twenty-two hundred miles cross-country on the railroad.  Not in winter and alone.  She’d insisted to May she’d never make it in time.  The trip still took almost three whole days, even on the crack “California Limited,” and in spite of all the “Wonders of the Nineteenth Century,” the men who ran the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe hadn’t solved the problem of avalanches which could block passes for hours unless the snow sheds held.  Half the distance to Los Angeles was over four mountain ranges, to say nothing of the dreary journey back again.  She simply couldn’t do it.

  But in his second telegraph, Harry said there’d be an inquest into John Guthrie’s death and this would take several days.  May suggested there might even be an autopsy; time enough for Emily to get to the burial, and Harry promised a special memorial service for her in case she was delayed by snow.  When May and Hamilton also agreed to provide her with money for an extended visit in California after the funeral, Emily acquiesced.

  Now she wished she hadn’t.  It was the train more than anything.  Trains reminded her of life with John Guthrie, especially the early years, and the trip would give her too much time to think.  She herself had experienced an incipient rail adven­ture when she crossed the Isthmus of Panama with her parents on the Columbian line in 1859 at the age of seventeen.  That tropical nightmare on the narrow-gauged, dinky open-coach was one she’d never forget.  It was a miracle they hadn’t all come down with yellow fever.  Some did.  Some died.  The trip up the coast  had been worse.  It took longer—an entire month! jammed on an overcrowded boat, the steamship, “Orizaba” which later was to carry California’s first Senator, William McKendree Gwin, back to the East Coast.  Before the Civil War had ended, the “Orizaba” was destroyed by fire in San Francisco harbor.

  John Guthrie, who idolized Abraham Lincoln, himself a former railroad attorney, held a fascination and keen interest in railroading, even though he’d never involved himself with Californians who pioneered the transcontinental link—except on one occasion, at the Pacific Railroad Convention in 1859.  Rather he made his fortune in litigating disputes over Mexican Land Grants which raged in central California in the 1850s.  Even these controversies were tied inevitably to the rail­road—as well as to gold fever.

  No man in public life could escape some entanglement with those ribs of iron which cut through the lands of old ranching communities; brought hundreds of thousands of Chinese into the state which affected the rewrite of the Constitution in 1879; and underwrote the political clout of a handful of men.  Controlling interest in railroad companies meant gaining the sanction of the federal government itself—if through bribed officials.  Fortunately for his survival, John Guthrie had kept his peace with the Central Pacific, although he disagreed with them on many issues—particularly their ownership of vast acres of land.

  Now looking out the clouded window of her compartment at the Kansas plains, farmlands lying fallow in February’s winter cold—now that John Guthrie is dead, Emilie muses, what does it matter?  “Passed on,” she corrected herself.  She’d have to face it.  If only she had something to do!  She couldn’t just sit here two more days, idling time.  Already the first half-day and one full sleepless night out of Chicago, she was restless and disturbed.

  And exasperated.  Last night the porter seemed to take forever locking in the bed.  After he’d finished, she’d ordered tea and biscuits from Harvey’s dining car.  The “California Limited,” in service for five years, boasted a train of six to ten cars in 1897.  The family—Wallace, May, Harry, Pearl and John Guthrie had taken it to Chicago in the summer of 1893 for the splendid World’s Fair, where May had renewed her acquaintance with the young Hamilton Forline.

  She unfastened the cloth buttons at her neck and settled into the long, maroon-plush seat near the window, opening her small, buckram-covered Bible, fingering through its thin pages to Psalms.  She could feel dull pain in her knuckles, but she was used to it—“long suffering,” she muttered aloud.

  She pushed close to the cold glass to catch the somber light from an over­cast sky.  Oppressive.  The clouds were like a sheet of pewter plate, without defini­tion.  The only moving things in an endless gray were passing telegraph wires.  There’d be snow before dark, she was certain.  They’d most probably get caught in a blizzard.  Or would they have reached Colorado by afternoon?  As many times as she’d made the trip, she never could remember where they’d be at a given hour or day.  But, then, always before she’d traveled with the family—and this was the first time she’d traveled in winter—making her even more uncertain of the schedule.

  How did the men who ran the railroad ever expect to get through Raton Pass in the New Mexico Territory in February?  Snow most assuredly would cover the tracks and they’d have to spend an extra day sitting in this suffocating train while the gangs dug them out.

  The car was overheated now.  The only air which filtered in under the door and window frame was cluttered with the gritty smell of coal.  Mr. Pullman’s “miracle” was a fraud, as far as she was concerned.  By noon she’d have a ring of the filthy stuff around her neck.  How could she hope to tolerate it?

  What is the matter with me?  Why have I become so intolerant and skeptical?  Am I to spend the rest of my days complaining and fretting over things I can do nothing about?

  In spite of her fifty-five years and arthritic affliction, which now threat­ened even her ankle and knee joints, Emily’s features hadn’t aged.  Her face was firm and round, the white skin tight over broad, high cheekbones.  The look in her huge eyes had changed perhaps.  In earlier portraits, her deep set, brooding expression was tinted with optimism—a look of curiosity.  This look had faded.  She’d sunk back into herself.  Not suddenly, but most certainly from the time she’d been forced to give up their splendid home in Oakland and move south.

  San Bernardino—even Los Angeles!  How could they compare to the grand siren across the Bay, San Francisco.  A City of Sin, corruption and violence, it’s true, but its cultural life certainly unsurpassed by any other California city.  Some­day San Francisco would become a truly great city—if those who governed California ever  freed themselves from the stranglehold of the Southern Pacific Railroad, and their indifference to local villainy.  And if the city survived a holocaust that was sure to come from earthquakes.

  In 1857, two years before Emily and her parents settled in Jackson in gold mining country, San Francisco experienced a sharp jolt which made a gap in the earth twenty feet wide and forty miles long before snapping shut.  In 1865, the city rocked again.  Emily and John Guthrie, married in 1862 and living in Placerville in that year, hardly felt it.  But San Francisco was jolted once again in 1868; five people were killed by falling glass and bricks.  Emily and John Guthrie, living in Oakland, felt the jolt.  Minor it’s true, but unnerving.  Johnnie was only four; Wallace, two.  Another child was expected the first of the year.

  When they felt compelled to leave the north in 1883 because of their sons’ sickness, they left behind many good friends and good times; it was just three years after the founding of the San Francisco Opera Company in 1880—three years ahead of the Metropolitan Company in New York!  Emily had given her time to the support committee, and John Guthrie contributed money.  No accident that May was to study voice.

May Guthrie McCallum

  What a tragedy for May!  Emily wasn’t sure her melancholic daughter would ever get over the disappointment, failing to achieve ambitions on the operatic stage.  She was too hard on herself, but now that she was starting a family of her own, perhaps—

  Allowing the Bible to fall into her lap, she continued to stare out into the colorless morning, listening to the mournful wail of the train whistle, the relentless clatter of rolling wheels.

  Was John Guthrie really gone?  How could a man like her husband ever “die”?  Impossible—not his unceasing energy, constantly renewed like water from the mountains—or the return of winter wheat on the plains of Illinois.

  But then, the streams in Palm Springs had dried up, hadn’t they?  And water caused Johnnie’s death, water from the orange groves bringing on the fatal chill.  And in six years John Guthrie had become a stranger.  It was as if the very blood had drained out of him after Johnnie died; as if his life force had been sucked into the granite slabs in Tahquitz Canyon or by the evil Tahquitz himself.

  But this was idle, savage rumination.  To purify her mind, she tightened her grip on the Bible.

  Memory persisted, however, heathen, irresponsible memory.  Am I not just plain human like everyone?  She sighed heavily, tasting the coal smoke and dry air.  She simply couldn’t help herself.  She would remember.  John Guthrie hadn’t “died” at all.  The power of such a man couldn’t just blow away like devil winds on the desert.  There may have been sixteen years difference in their ages, but he’d always seemed much younger to her, at least until Johnnie and Wallace passed on and the drought came.

  She would remember, yes she would.  God would forgive her.  Is there a God?  What have we done to deserve his punishment?  But she had to hold onto something substantive now that John Guthrie was gone.  Now that she’d never see him again—not in this world.  Never hold him close, feel his strength, smell the manly warmth of his body.  Ah yes, but that was long ago.

  She remembered well the first time John Guthrie came to visit her parents in Jackson—something to do with a land claim her father was litigating—a piece of earth long since depleted of gold.  Silhouetted in the doorway of their small cabin, a dull, twilight sky etching his form—she hated using the word “beautiful” for a man, but how else could she describe him?  Clear blue, wide-set, down slanted, eyes with the cast of a dreamer; long, thin mouth, broad nose and wide face, and huge ears—she marked the ears because they spelled gener­osity—and ravenous black hair; chin whiskers without moustache, mimicking, she was to learn, the ample chin adornment of his friend, John Neely Johnson, fourth elected governor of California.  Tall, lean and virile, but with an aura of gentleness and refinement that tricked some people into thinking he was soft—an easy target to get their way with him—a foolish mistake.

  She was nineteen when she met John Guthrie in 1861.  He was thirty-five.  Her parents, both English born, had brought her to California from her birthplace in New Haven, Connecticut.

  At the time of their marriage in 1862 and long after, he was a man who knew how to treat a woman—an uncanny sense of what a woman needed, wanted—felt and desired.  He never used her like a brood sow, even if she did bear him six children (the first one died in infancy).

  At first she worried about behaving with such abandon; her Presbyterian upbringing was stronger than she realized.  After all, did not man and woman join only to propagate the race and not for pleasure?  Could the conjunction produce anything except children conceived in sin?

  She soon rid herself of these notions, thanks to John Guthrie.  Better to encourage him to let himself go in her bed and not in one of the beds in those notorious San Francisco bordellos.  She quickly shed all feelings of guilt.  How could she escape John Guthrie’s appetite for pleasure, even if she wanted to?  They lived in a violent age when men took what they wanted and often killed if they didn’t get it.  She was conditioned to profligacy from the day her family followed the route inland to the gold fields—as soon as they got off the “Orizaba” in San Francisco and “settled” in Jackson, a riotous mining town in the central core of Mother Lode country.

  John Guthrie never treated her roughly, and she responded in kind, extracting a lot more pleasure from their love-making than her church friends would’ve deemed proper.  This passionate relationship lasted right up to the year Pearl was born in 1879.  Pearl was conceived when John Guthrie was fifty-two years old.  They’d known almost seventeen years of marital bliss, with perhaps one or two difficult periods when John Guthrie had to travel to Washington, or spent too much time in the courts in Sacramento or San Francisco.  True, he shared little of his public life with her and she didn’t expect him to.  What man did?  Beside all that, his public life—the dramatic and chaotic days of his political life—had ended a year before they were married, climaxing with his trip to Washington, D.C. in 1859 to cast his elec­toral vote for Abraham Lincoln, a man who was born not too far from his birthplace.

2

  Santa Fe’s California Limited crossed muddy Colorado its third day out of Chicago.  Snow hadn’t delayed them after all but Emily, staring out the window at the dry lakes and onyx cinder cones of the California desert, the scarecrow yuccas and distant mountains, was impatient for the trip to end.

  What mad obsession had driven John Guthrie to believe he could convert desert land into an agricultural community?  Yes, he’d had the advantage of the San Jacinto and San Bernardino mountains with their mantles of snow, flash floods tumbling giant rivers off their slopes, and at least a few inches of rain on the desert itself each year.  Nevertheless, it was she who’d insisted on buying the house on Adams Boulevard in Los Angeles.  So caught up in his “second life”—so enmeshed had John Guthrie been with his enterprise, he’d wanted to settle the entire family in the Adobe in Palm Springs as soon as it was put together by the Indians.  It was bad enough they’d had to live in San Bernardino for four years, but to expect her to take up housekeeping in that God-forsaken wasteland, a wind-blown Indian village with no water or plumbing, miles from any store, no schools for the children?  Un­thinkable.  She’d had enough roughing it as a young woman in Jackson.

  John Guthrie hadn’t insisted, only suggested.  He hated being away from his family and was overwrought about Johnnie and Wallace, convinced the dry air of Palm Valley would bring them instantaneous cure, and he would like his family living together under one roof.

  Emily couldn’t say she favored her five children equally as John Guthrie did.  She tried to treat them the same, but it was impossible.  Johnnie would always come first in her heart.  In 1882, when they moved down the coast, Johnnie was only fifteen, bright, intelligent and full of humor, even though sickly.  He had her eyes, large, open and dark, and the softness of his father’s expression.  Johnnie would’ve grown into a refined, worthy man, if only he’d lived.  Even now after six years, whenever Emily thought of her eldest son, she couldn’t hold back tears.  Like John Guthrie, she’d never been able to overcome her special grief over Johnnie’s tragic death.  Wallace’s passing had caused insurmount­able pain certainly, but Wallace had never been as close to her as Johnnie, and he died in Chicago, far from home.

  Harry, on the other hand, had been so serious and “disciplined” as a young boy, like an old man even in his teens, she couldn’t get really close to him.  She smiled quietly thinking how “grown-up,” stiff and formal he’d be greeting her on the station plat­form in Los Angeles.  They hadn’t seen each other since autumn.  She was grateful Harry had taken hold and managed family affairs, and for being a good companion to his father, and she realized he’d sacrificed an education and normal life for his father’s Palm Springs venture, but she couldn’t get close to him somehow.  He lacked Johnnie’s warmth and affection.

  As for her daughters—well, Emily felt a certain estrangement.  But isn’t that natural in a mother’s relation to her daughters? May was a stunning woman, no question, and because of it, Emily experienced a twinge of jealousy as May matured, exacerbated when John Guthrie accompanied her to Boston in 1890.  Lately Emily had grown more fond of May, although she worried about her frequent tempestuous outbursts, followed often by fits of depression.  Hopefully, as her own family in­creased, as she and Dr. Forline had more children to raise, her tem­pr­ament would stabilize.  She was expecting her second child in August, and little John, only two years old, seemed alert enough, reminding Emily of Johnnie as a child, although little Jack looked more like his father.

Pearl - 15

  Pearl was another matter.  As she neared eighteen, she seemed to harden.  Was it that she looked so much older than her older sister May?  Was it inevitable sister rivalry?  If May weren’t so attractive, classic in appearance like the actress Maude Adams, the rivalry might not have developed.  May’s handsome features no doubt rankled Pearl, in addition to John Guthrie’s seeming favoritism shown her—more so after he took her to Boston in 1890.  Pearl reacted to this differently than expected; it was May she resented, not her father.  In fact, Pearl began to worship John Guthrie with stubborn intensity, as if this were the way to win his love.  She began to resent every day, every month and year she’d been forced to live away from Palm Springs and her father—and just because she was a girl!  She could endure living in that “wilderness,” as she called it, if it meant being closer to him.

  Another problem Emily knew she’d have to face one day—Pearl’s growing estrangement from Harry.  Pearl seldom missed a chance to criticize the way her brother was handling the ranch, even though she knew next to nothing about the problems he faced.  Why couldn’t Pearl understand that if they lost the land in Palm Springs, they’d have nothing!  They couldn’t live off May and Hamilton the rest of their lives!

  The year Pearl was born, 1879, had been so confused, disastrous in the end, filled with hope, then tragedy.  John Guthrie’s years of work as attorney and litigator in Sacramento was rewarded in 1878 with his selection as a delegate to the Constitutional Convention.  At last the state he’d come to as a young man of twenty-seven was putting its house in order.  On March 3, 1879, the new State Constitution was adopted in Convention at Sacra­mento and ratified by a vote of the people on Wednesday, May 7.  Between these two events, Pearl was born on April 21.

  Emily’s ascendancy into San Francisco society during the 1870s reached fruition with her acceptance in 1877 by the Nob Hill crowd; although ’77 was a bad year for that seat of power, thanks to the Supreme Court’s two decisions which shook their foundations like the earthquake of ’68; the judges ruling that local communities had the right to fix freight rates, not the powerful railroad people.  Emily was nomi­nated to join the formation committee for the new opera house and even managed to entice a few of San Francisco’s spark­ling galaxy across the Bay to dinner parties in their Oakland home.  Once she got them there, she entertained luxuriously.

  This rural suburb of San Francisco boasted a population of nearly fifty thousand in the 1870s; the homes were small palaces surrounded by liberal expanses of gardens, California live oaks, colorful banks of geraniums, roses, fuchsias, callas, verbenas and several varieties of tropical plants.  The McCallums even had a small fruit orchard, peaches and pears, in the rear yard.  Their two-story house was stately with a columned porch, Federal style, looking very much like an eastern home.  Oak­land was not a backwoods village.  The State University was within its city limits on a site called Berkeley and had become a focal point for educational and social activity.  In 1884, Berkeley had more than two hundred students in attendance.  There were twenty churches in Oakland—Emily’s church, the First Presbyterian, costing over sixty-five thousand dollars to build.  Seven newspapers were published in the city, two daily, and five weekly.  Nearly six thousand dollars a month were expended on public schools.  There were three savings banks, two national gold banks, five lines of horse-cars, three flouring and four planning mills, an iron and brass foundry, two pottery works, one patent marble works, a jute bag factory and three tanneries.  The court house and jail cost two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to build.  And of course, Oakland was head­quarters of the Central Pacific Railroad.

  Then the “Chinese disease” broke its barriers and spread through San Francisco, north along the shores of San Pablo Bay and down into Berkeley and Oakland.  Some said the terrible “oriental sickness” was carried by rats; but if this were true, corrupt officials and those living in splendid isolation on the hills did nothing about it.  The rats were in Chinatown, they scoffed, and there they could stay.  Best not to bother with it.  If the Chinese chose to live in squalor, let them.  They were “pagan, vicious and immoral creatures.”

  Blaming the Chinese for the sickness shocked the McCallums, for John Guthrie especially who had fought California’s indifference and prejudices against the Chinese and other minorities.  He had helped push through the ban on “coolie labor” in the Constitutional Convention for more altruistic motives than most of his fellow delegates, who were concerned primarily with the competition of cheap labor.

  Disease plays no favorites.  It became much more than a “Chinese” disease alone.  Cholera struck into the very heart of the McCallum home.  They could only thank God the baby, Pearl, didn’t die from the plague.  It was difficult for Emily to forget it was the year Pearl was born that their lives changed so radically.  She tried to disassociate Pearl’s birth from the brutal infestation which almost took Johnnie and Wallace and caused them to contract tuberculosis; finally did take both of them before they were thirty.

  Once uprooted and dumped like itinerant gypsies in San Bernardino in 1882, she held the hope she could travel north now and then to visit old friends—continue to enjoy, however briefly, the elegant life there.  An illusion!  Impossible, with Pearl only three years old, and the support John Guthrie needed to fulfill his ambi­tions on the desert; to say nothing of her responsibilities to care for the other children.  But she would miss life in the north.  San Francisco was growing out of its violent gold-mad economy.  The wealth of the railroad mag­nates, in spite of their garish and questionable dealings, at least had made the city the cultural capital of every state west of the Mississippi.

  By contrast, San Bernardino wasn’t much more than a railroad town in 1882; its population, only six thousand and according to the rather exaggerated Central Pacific Railroad Guide boasted: “two banks, four churches, good hotels, two daily and two weekly newspapers. . . two hundred arte­sian wells which spout out pure cold water that ripples through beautiful streets, orchards, and orange groves. Strawberries may be picked in winter as well as summer.  Old San Bernardino is also a town near the railroad.  It was the first settlement, the home of the Mormons who located in 1847.  All now remaining are ‘Josephites’ . . .”  The Guide then describes the route southward:

  Four miles south of San Bernardino soon after leaving Colton, the road crosses the Santa Ana River, and continues an easterly course through Old San Bernardino, and up the San Miguel Creek to the San Gorgonio Pass, where the San Bernardino and San Jacinto ranges unites . . . [the route southward into Whitewater] 101.2 miles from Los Angeles, named from the creek [Whitewater] signifying its great importance in a dry and thirsty land.  [emphasis added]  It is in the midst of the cacti, many varieties being found here. . .  Sandstorms are a noteworthy characteristic of this desert, and especially between Whitewater and Walters.  They occur during the winter and spring.  The winds come principally from the north-west, raising and carrying before them great clouds of pulverized sand and dust.  The approach of the storm may be seen when it is distant several hours.  The fine dust will penetrate every thing.  No garments are protection against it.  These storms last generally one day, sometimes three.

  An item John Guthrie’s Syndicate partners had failed to mention in their handbill advertising the 1887 land auction, although windstorms seldom reached into the valley.  No mention of “Agua Caliente” in the guide, nor of Tahquitz Canyon and the Rincon Reservation.  “Seven Palms” was listed as a “signal station” and from there the Guide skips to Indio twenty miles to the south, except to catalogue “occa­sional groves of palm-trees along the foot-slopes of the San Bernardino Mountains and that about three or four miles west of Indio, the road goes below sea-level, and continues below for about 61 miles!” ignoring the vast stretch of land reaching back to the San Jacintos.

  No surprise.  Throughout the history of Southern California, Emily recalled, the area had been ignored.  The “mountain men” who came overland from the east intruding into Spanish California in search of beaver in the early 1830s, tramped all around the valley, but never through it.  One of this “reckless breed,” Ewing Young, came in from the land of the Yumas and made his way up to San Gabriel near the coast traveling south of the area.  Jedediah Smith followed the old Spanish trail across the state from the Mohave Villages on the Colorado far north of Palm Valley.  John Guthrie might not have been the first white man to discover the valley, but he certainly was the first one crazy enough to think of living there.

  When John Guthrie did go into the area with Will Pablo in December, 1884 and came home expostulating on the wonders of Agua Caliente and “that glorious mountain, covered with snow,” Emily feared he’d lost his mind, but quickly realized he was dead serious, making plans, impatient to start a new life, fired with ambition she hadn’t seen in him since they’d left Oakland.

  She seized the opportunity.  Here was her chance to escape from San Bernardino.  The town had all but floated away in the torrential winter rains—no doubt triggered by the explosion of Krakatoa in Java the previous August.  She encouraged John Guthrie to invest in land in Los Angeles until he was able to set up some kind of homestead in Palm Valley.  He purchased a tract of land on Fort Hill in the heart of downtown.  He bought a home on Adams Boulevard, a few miles from downtown.  A palatial residential area was building along the Boulevard, about twenty blocks south of the central city.

  This “cow town,” the “City of Angels” was emerging from its bucolic past.  In 1884, Los Angeles couldn’t compare to San Francisco or Oakland, but the area with a population of sixteen thousand was the rail center of Southern California.  A public library had been established, an organized fire department; the city supplied with gas and water and a “street railroad extending in every direction.”  Banks, wholesale and retail stores, shops and factories and hotels—The St. Charles was first-rate—were scattered throughout the metropolitan area.  And there were four daily and seven weekly papers.  The dailies, Star, Express, and Republican, circulated all over the southland.  It wasn’t long before society life on Bunker Hill, a section of high hills hardly a stone’s throw from the center of Los Angeles, began to rival Nob Hill’s in San Francisco, as elegant homes were constructed—stately “Victorian” residences, and gas-lit streets.

  In the 1880s Emily saw little of Palm Springs.  John Guthrie spent most his time there, especially in 1885 when he began to supervise building the White­water ditch.  Johnnie and Wallace were in their teens, just out of high school; May, sixteen; Harry, fifteen; Pearl six, all three in school in Los Angeles.

  All of John Guthrie’s family were with him on an afternoon in October of 1885 after an early rain brought mantles of snow to the mountains—Emily with all of their five children.  As the water began to flow through the channel into the village, the Indians sent up a cheer, and Dr. Welwood Murray who’d just come to Palm Valley with his wife and was building a hotel, shook John Guthrie’s hand stiffly, muttering congratulations.

  Almost at once John Guthrie began planting orchards of orange, lemon and grapefruit trees, again with the help of the Indians, who were well paid, Emily recalled.  He got his navel orange buds from the Luther Calvin Tibbets trees in Riverside.  Tibbets and his wife had cultivated their trees for propagation only, starting with seedlings from Bahía, Brazil in 1873.  John Guthrie joined with other pioneer citrus men in the state who’d evolved their own systems of irrigation, cultivation, pruning, treatment for diseases and harvesting.  But unlike the others, he didn’t have to worry about protection against frost.  Before 1890, he joined the Pachatta Orange Growers Association in Riverside.

  In 1888, Harry built Hillside House against the mountain on the McCallum Ranch.  It was more spacious and comfortable than the Adobe.  The family could visit for longer periods.  Water began to flow into the orchards and in front of Hillside House from the Tahquitz pipe.

Flume from Tahquitz Canyon

  Emily avoided the land auction in 1887 altogether, but she heard plenty about it from John Guthrie.  She made the mistake of suggesting to him that perhaps he was taking the entire matter too seriously, fighting with his old friends.  For what purpose?  He exploded and told her to “keep out of men’s affairs.”  Later he apolo­gized, justifying his outburst over concern for Johnnie and Wallace whose health wasn’t improving.

  Spring and summer of 1891 began as an idyll.  Johnnie had gone to the desert to live with Harry and his father.  Wallace wandered in a few weeks later and as soon as school was out, Emily took Pearl to join them.  Disaster had struck May earlier that year.  Her voice was ruined.  She couldn’t sing anymore—at least not with enough strength for the operatic stage.  But by summer, she seemed to have adjusted to the failure.

  Emily could never forget the long, cool evenings in June, sitting on the porch of Hillside House with her children, watching the blue shadow of San Jacinto reaching out, covering the desert like a soothing comforter in wintertime; the steady gurgle of Tahquitz water running through the conduit out into the orchards, little dreaming this very water would cause her son’s death within the next few weeks.  A final glimpse of paradise before tragedy would begin to erode their happiness—until years of contentment would disappear forever.

  The California Limited rolled out of Cajon Pass into San Bernardino.  Emily gazed across the dusty tracks of the railroad yard.  The eucalyptus trees and palms beyond the station house, forlorn remnants, appeared to have lost their green.   Even the clumps of peppers and box elders seemed withered in the hot sun.  She remembered how vibrant they’d been this time of year.  Their life in Southern California began in this town and now it was over—for Emily.  John Guthrie was gone and she hoped never to see San Bernardino again.

  Soon the clumsy, sooty express rumbled along the foot of the Sierra Madres through Pasadena, South Pasadena; across the Arroyo Seco through Garvanza and into the Los Angeles basin.  Before long she’d be with Harry and have to cope with the burdens and insurmountable problems which John Guthrie’s passing had brought to the family.  She could only hope Harry was in good health—free of entanglements—of debtors and women.  Free of foolish speculations which might cause them to lose everything John Guthrie had built for his succeeding generations.  She believed, perhaps it’s time to sell the land and get on with their lives, that the Palm Springs venture was over and done with.