THE JOURNEY
In the fall of 1875, my husband [Albert Barnes Clark], a young Chicago court reporter, our little girl Elsie [Elsie Treat Clark], and myself [Mary Teegarden Clark], bade adieu to our families and friends in Indiana, to seek an out door life in Southern California. The journey of ten days was enlivened by pleasant companions, picturesque scenery, and frequent glimpses of gaily blanketed Indians and their children, who invariably gave the pennies bestowed upon them, to their fathers, to squander in fire water.
Among our treasured possessions for this trip was a small alcohol lamp, or so called pocket cook stove, upon which we were then permitted to cook eggs, make tea or coffee, or, best of all, to cook rice or macaroni for the baby. It was before the advent of dining cars, and with a little child, stops at the eating houses were difficult. This useful stove was the parting gift of Miss Sally Hobbs, a pioneer dressmaker of L. [La Porte], who had made all my best gowns, when I, as a grown child, loudly protested against the stiff whalebones and padding then in vogue, but which I later regarded as marks of distinction. I remember one occasion, when in the absence of my careful Mother [Laura Treat Teegarden], I had inserted slender barrel hoops in my newly quilted petticoat to simulate the crinoline then worn by ladies of quality. I had gone to show the splendid effect to Miss Sally, who was sewing in an upper chamber, when, standing awkwardly against the wall, the vaunted hoops flew over my head and gave me a stinging rebuke, which I have never forgotten. Miss Sally is still enshrined in the memories of many of us, though she fell asleep by the wayside years ago, and went to her well deserved reward in the Better World.
But reminiscences must not crowd out the journey across the Continent, over fertile corn fields of Illinois, Iowa and Nebraska; the mountains and canyons of picturesque Colorado; Wyoming, full of interest to the mineralogist; Utah with its blot of Mormonism;4 and Nevada of the sage brush and alkali, crowded with mining prospectors, until, at length, the Golden Gate, in all its glory, burst upon our view. There stretched before us a vast ocean, whose boundaries were then more inaccessible than in this age of expansion, but flags of nearly every nation were even then flying in the harbor, from the familiar stars and stripes to the proud orange and red of Spain, the Union Jack, the Japanese standard, whose prowess has since become so great, and the pennants on the queer Chinese fishing junks. It was a sight never to be forgotten, and over all was the soft, cloudless sky, enveloped in the balmy, fragrant air, smiling down a welcome to the new comers. Is it strange that once a Californian, one never proves recreant to his faith in the land, which enchants and holds one in its spell?
Our first stop was with some cousins at the Occidental Hotel in San Francisco, where we were welcomed in true California fashion, and regaled with all the luxuries of the season. A drive to Cliff House was arranged for the first morning, where we breakfasted to the music of sea lions in their native haunts. Across the Bay, at Vallejo, a hospitable home threw open its doors to us. Here I had my first glimpse of the graceful pepper and the acacia tree, the stately Australian eucalyptus and the golden orange, bearing ripe and green fruit and blossoms at the same time. In the flower garden, roses of every hue, pansies, heavenly blue plumbago, violets and carnations, ran riot in a mass of gorgeous color and delicious fragrance; while Japanese honeysuckles and a great variety of fuschias clambered bravely up to the second story windows. In this home, I first met “John Chinaman”, who, in this case, was named “Ah Fong” and had on his right hand an extra finger, which added an element of mystery to this native of the Celestial Kingdom.
It might be interesting to mention here, that some years after this visit, the only daughter of these cousins, after extensive travels in foreign lands, married a Norwegian lawyer, who now represents his country at the Egyptian Court, while his wife, a woman of rare accomplishments, graces society in winter in Alexandria, and passes the summers in Norway, where her children enjoy all the pleasures of life among the fiords of that picturesque land.
From Vallejo, we continued our journey southward by boat, touching at Santa Barbara, the home of artists and poets, one of the choicest spots in all California. Here we left the steamer and drove into the beautiful Montecito Valley, where for an hour or two, we sat under the vine and fig tree of our old friends the B’s [Bond’s], whose garden was a revelation to us, and whose Smyrna figs and cream, food for the gods.
On to Los Angeles City of Angeles by steamer via Wilmington, thence by rail to Anaheim, an early German colony, where we took a lumbering four horse stage coach five miles to Richland, now known as Orange. We arrived at candle light, and halted at the only hostelry known as the “Hygean Home”, kept by one Dr. Clapp, the whole place a travesty, for comfort there was none. The beds were rudely carved of redwood, without springs, and with straw ticks and calico curtains and valances.
Devoured by curiosity, I arose early the next morning, from an uneasy sleep, to see what manner of country was to be our chosen home; and the first thing I saw was a diminutive owl perched on the window sill, bowing and blinking at me with almost superhuman wisdom. As far as eye could reach, the boasted orange trees were mere whips between rows of corn. An unpalatable breakfast, served by a Chinaman, and the discovery that “ditch” water was the prevailing beverage, gave me a mild fit of the blues.
As it had been heralded over the country side, that we, the new comers, wanted to buy a home, the settlers came to take us about to see their real estate. We drove in beach wagons, through sheep ranches of immense extent, over arroyos, and through canyons, in search of a home. What a misnomer, when only one house in the small settlement of a store and a blacksmith shop, could boast of a real brick chimney and a rag carpet! The only way to get meat was to have the stage driver bring it from Anaheim, five miles away, and pay him a commission.
Another feature of the country, which set in a few days after our arrival, was the Santa Ana wind, which came across the Mohave Desert, lasted three days, and blew a perfect cloud of dust and heat—a mild edition of the African Simoon. The sunrises and sunsets were magnificent, and the mountains grand, but we missed the twilight hour of home . . . as to fleas in the Hygean Hotel, they were legion, and we waged many hard battles to vanquish them, but without success. One dear lady from New York state somewhat allayed the pangs of my homesick heart by inviting me over to eat water melon and home grown raisins; and her kindness continued through all the years, as, one by one, my little children picked clove pinks in her sweet garden, whose scent wafted me back to my father’s garden of long ago.
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