Just a few years ago at Uncle Jotham’s funeral in Long Beach I was touched to see a whole pewful of these men who had worked for him in the old days at the ranch, even John O’Connor among them.
I recall Sunday evenings at the Alamitos when Uncle John got out his fiddle, and men who had other instruments came into the parlor and we had a concert that included Arkansaw Traveler, Money Musk and Turkey in the Straw. There had been a piano in the parlor at the San Justo, but neither Cerritos nor Alamitos boasted piano or organ.
To this day the employees on the Alamitos come to the home for merry-making at least once a year when the hostess provides a Christmas party with a tree and candy and a present for everyone connected with the ranch, from the great grandmother of the family down to the last little Mexican or Japanese that lives within its borders.
Although sheep were the earliest interest gradually cattle were added. Instead of the large herds ranging freely, as they had under Don Temple and Don Stearns, we kept them in great fenced fields, on both the ranches and over on the Palos Verdes. Those were exciting mornings when, at dawn, the men and boys started off for the rodeo, or round-up, on the hills beyond Wilmington, Uncle Jotham and father in the single buggy with two strong horses that would take them up and down ravines and over the hills where no roads were; the boys of the family, and the vaqueros, on horseback. I couldn’t go, I was a girl and must be a lady,—whether I was one or not.
But fashions change, and the Alamitos girls today have always been horsewomen with their father, and can handle cattle better than most men; and then they can lay aside their ranch togs and don a cap and gown and hold their own in a college, or in filmy dress and silver shoes, grace a city dance,—competent and attractive daughters of California.
Aunt Susan, grandmother to these girls, was most hospitable, especially to children, and Uncle John, with his jokes and merry pranks, a delight to them. I shall always hear the sound of his voice as he came in the back door of the hall, danced a sort of clog and called some greeting to his little wife. He always wore at the ranch boots with high heels,—cowboy boots.
Often there would be gathered at the Alamitos, in addition to the children who belonged, half a dozen cousins with their friends, and the small Hellmans, whose father was a part owner in the ranch. The house was elastic, and if there were not beds enough there were mattresses and blankets to make warm places on the floor. The privilege of sleeping in the impromptu bed was a much coveted one.
A favorite resort was the great barn, a still familiar sight to passers-by on the Anaheim Road. It was made from an old government warehouse taken down, hauled over from Wilmington and rebuilt at the ranch, forty odd years ago. It afforded magnificent leaps from platform to hay or long slides on the slippery mows. Up among the rafters were grain bins, whose approach over narrow planks added a spice of danger—a mis-step would have meant a thirty foot fall, but we never made mis-steps. In the central cupola Fred and Nan kept house, while the babies were parked in the bins.
“Old Sorrel,” a friendly mare, lived down in the pasture beyond the wool-barn, and might be ridden for the catching. She seemed to like to carry a backful of small people, extending from her mane to her tail. Fred had a real horse, “Spot,” for riding but “Sorrel” was the playmate. Harry had one of those favored horses of old California, cream-colored with silvery trimmings, and he called him by the general name of his kind, “Palomino.”
There were fish to be caught in New River below Alamitos, catfish and carp that could be taken home and eaten. One day Fred and I, wandering about, came upon some that had been speared and left by poachers. We were indignant, but could do nothing to the men we saw drive away. However, we could prevent the waste of good fish, so we took them to the house, neglecting to tell the cook that we had not just killed them ourselves. They could not have been too dead, for no one suffered from eating them.