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| Volume XLII, Number 4 & Volume XLIII 1 Winter 2006 & Spring 2007 |
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| The
Sou'wester |
| ISSN #0038-4984
Copyright, 2007, by the Pacific County Historical Society. No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the Society's Editorial Board. The Sou'wester is a quarterly
publication of the Pacific County Historical Society and Museum.
The Pacific County Historical Society is a non-profit 501(C)(3) organization,
located in South Bend, Washington.
In addition to the Sou'wester, the Society publishes a quarterly newsletter for its members and operates the Pacific County Historical Society Museum in South Bend, Washington.
The history of Raymond is rich with great stories and we’ve only scratched the proverbial surface. Early Raymond was such an intriguing melting pot of immigrants and cultures that there is ample material for at least another Sou’wester, at the very least. We’re still behind with our publications in spite of producing three double (more like triple) publications in a row. There’s another in the works for fall featuring South County history and we’re working hard to catch up and stay on track with 16 to 24 page quarterly issues. We have received considerable feedback about the railroad issue. Your comments and, yes, corrections are appreciated and it’s rewarding to know that our work is read. My wife, Denise, has once again provided an invaluable service for us by relentlessly proofreading and cleaning things up and Doug and I are both grateful for her work. Steve Rogers, PCHS president
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A bird's eye view of Raymond. (PCHS photo) Larger Image |
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“By the time of his death, the former logger had become an almost legendary figure for anyone in the Pacific Northwest with an interest in writing, journalism, history, current affairs, or the area’s leading industry, forest products. His byline in magazines and newspapers, including the Oregonian for 36 years, was known to readers across the country. Author of three dozen books and one of the nation’s most popular historians and commentators, he taught at Harvard, lectured at Reed College, and was known as the “Lumberjack Boswell.” He was the nation’s leading spokesperson for what he called the “Far Corner” – Oregon, Washington, and Idaho. As one scholar recently wrote, “he single-handedly put the region on the literary map in the mid-20th century.”Here, from Holbrook’s book Far Corner: A Personal View of the Pacific Northwest, are his words about Raymond during the depression years ca. 1935. Where the railroad that came to tidewater was once a city of five thousand, all of it built either on pilings or on dredged-in land. Its business district contained several new concrete buildings, but also block on block structures straight out of Western or Yukon fiction; false-front establishments, many with fearsome architectural embellishments, called pool rooms, card rooms, tobacco stores, clothing stores, hotels, rooming houses, sports centers, restaurants, and what not. A big business on First Street was the retailing of moonshine and homemade beers and wines, all illegal in the days of Prohibition. The upstairs of many of these places were made into rooms for transients, and there was generally believed to be a chambermaid for every room. |
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The sidewalks and some of the streets were planks set on stringers supported by piling. At low tide they were about ten feet above water; andFrom Stewart Holbrook’s Far Corner. (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1952. pp. 13-14.) |
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The street has never been more than four and a half blocks in length, and in its heyday it could, at times, exude an urban, eclectic aura. In its heyday, it was a place with a rich ethnic mix of characters: Finns, Poles, Swedes, Swede Finns, Chinese, Lebanese, Lithuanians, Jews, Ossetians (a part of Russia), Latvians, Germans, Austrians, Norwegians, and more. It was a busy place, cosmopolitan in character, and in its earliest days the social and business center of Raymond. Imagine a weekday morning walk down woodplanked First Street in 1920. There would have been the aroma of fresh baked breads and pastries wafting from the Finn and Greek bakeries, and of the coffee from the Greek coffee house. Further along, an early bird restaurateur would be picking up special cuts at one of the meat markets. To be ready for the lunch crowd, the roasts would have to be in the ovens soon. The early morning street was a busy place, and in the background, the din of the nearby mill machinery accompanied the chatter of merchants opening their shops, and of Finnish or Lithuanian mill workers making their way from the rooming houses to their jobs at one of the several sawmills. |
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| Many mill workers would lunch
at one of the several cafes on the street, typically featuring their blue
plate specials. Today’s oldest citizens, who were youngsters in the
late 1920s and 1930s, might recall the hectic lunchtime at places like
the
Royal Grill, Eagle Café, Moose Café, or the Sunday dinners at the Lincoln Hotel. Forget the myth that First Street was nothing more than a skid row, as it was nothing of the sort in its early days. Granted, the block between Commercial and Alder Streets was the “bowery” part of town, but the remaining three blocks included the heart of the city. During the 1910s and 1920s First Street housed the city hall, two banks, law offices, groceries, meat markets, labor temples, women and men’s clothing shops, fraternal organizations, a mortuary, a variety of other family businesses, and close to a dozen cafes. For entertainment and relaxation, there was a movie theatre, a Finnish sauna, Russian bath house, a piano and sheet music shop, confectionary shops, ice cream parlors, and for a short time, a small gymnasium. There were several rooming houses and hotels. And yes, between Commercial and Alder streets, in small upstairs hotels and private rooms, sailors and loggers visited the “ladies of the night.” Willapa Bay was a favorite stop for seamen on the cargo ships making regular visits to the sawmills, and it was known that Raymond endured a worldwide reputation among the sailors of the international merchant fleet. |
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| Prior to the First World War
there were more retail businesses on First Street and its neighboring side
streets than in all of modern day Raymond. In those days there were
at least a dozen saloons, squeezed into the single city block, on the street’s
south end, between Commercial and Alder. As late as the 1930s, shopkeepers
on the north end (the other three blocks) would warn customers and families
to stay away from “that part of town.”
A series of anti-beer and liquor laws, dating from 1913, and lasting until 1933, began to affect the saloon owners and shopkeepers, especially the European-born. The prohibition era, combined with the movement of Raymond’s commercial district toward Third Street and beyond, led to significant changes in the 1930s and 1940s, which is more recognizable in the memories of today’s group of senior citizens. The days of Prohibition in Raymond, South Bend, and the Willapa Valley is a story unto itself but Raymond’s saloons managed to stay in business as pool halls and “social clubs.” Bootleggers and police were kept busy. At least one dairy farmer supplemented his income by delivering milk bottles painted white, filled with the product of a secret still. The youngsters who grew up between World War II and the Vietnam War recall a different First Street. By then it was a collection of beer parlors, card rooms, aging rooming houses, and a few fading grocery stores and cafes. Two or three houses of prostitution, historically tolerated by the city and police, continued to operate, but a corrosive political climate had turned against the “old days.” People growing up during those years have their own memories of the area, and some may have been told by parents to stay away from “that street.” Searching back before the ‘forties, to the period of time between 1903 and 1930, the amateur sleuth can discover a street that had been the city’s focal place of business and social life. Even in the years immediately following World War II, through the 1950s, First Street clung to its former character, its businesses and social gatherings still reflecting a vibrant role in the life of the city. The First Street of Raymond’s early years is a dimming memory; Ray Wheaton’s “Howling Wilderness” is gone. The few older buildings still standing are the lamentable relics of a more glorious, or possibly infamous, past. The Cedar Tavern finally closed just a few years ago, a crumbling reminder of what once was. And as for the glory years, an accurate communal memory threatens to fade and disappear, as the men and women who recall the area’s youthful exuberance grow old and pass on. |
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After prohibition was lifted in 1933, there was a big change, and beer parlors and bars were located in various parts of town. Here is an incomplete list of the saloons and bars between the years 1904 and 1920: |
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It was all about timber, and three years prior to the building of the Siler-Cram mill, the Willapa Harbor Pilot printed the following:
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Upon his arrival in Pacific County, Norman first lived in Lebam, and after a few years moved to Raymond. During these years he worked at a variety of laboring jobs, including farming, sawmills, shingle mills, agricultural work, and in the shipyards. Along the way, he became involved in local politics, and was elected to the Raymond city council from 1916 to 1918. In 1922, Norman became involved in the wholesale and retail tobacco business, something he would do for the remainder of his life. In one of his promotional political pieces, he claimed that his business had made him a “heavy taxpayer.” Although Norman derived much of his support from organized labor, he was a (Theodore) Roosevelt Republican, which was the progressive or moderate wing of the party. It might be noted that in the early 20th century, Pacific County was a Republican stronghold, and until 1936, Democrats rarely were elected to public office in the county. In 1918, City Councilman Norman was elected to the State House of Representatives for the 1919 and 1920 sessions. While serving in this position, he was a member of the committees on Appropriations, Fisheries, Labor, Municipal Corporations, and Industrial Insurance. The 1920s and 1930s were a time of much road building, and Norman aggressively helped to secure road appropriations for the Ocean Beach Highway, and also sought support for the Kelso-to-Naselle-to Seaview road, which was considered vital to the local area. He also fought against the Naselle River toll bridge being under the control of Peninsula interests. His position was very popular with most people who disliked the toll. In 1925, Norman was elected to the State Senate, a seat he held for ten years. Trouble for the Raymond Republican came in 1927 and 1928, when son Howard and two other young men were arrested for a large amount of stolen cases of cigarettes. The theft occurred at the Northern Pacific train depot in Raymond, where a carload of cigarettes was broken into on a particular night in December, 1927. Locks were broken, and the cigarettes were missing. It was then discovered that the cigarettes were at the Norman Tobacco Shop on First Street. It first appeared that Fred was in serious trouble, but son Howard confessed and took the rap, along with another young fellow. Both Howard and his friend served prison terms. To Howard’s credit, he returned to his hometown, where he maintained a solid position in the community and raised his family. A member of the Raymond Fire Department for more than two decades, he tragically died fighting a fire in 1948. For Fred, the control of cigarette tax stamps for all of southwestern Washington state (and elsewhere) was a lucrative business. The tax was put on each pack (a stamp), and the distributor paid a very small amount for each stamp. A charge was then added to each pack or carton. |
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| In 1942, Norman ran for the
United States Congress, and won. After serving a two year term, he
ran for reelection in 1944, but was defeated by Democrat Charley Savage
of Shelton. Not to be denied, the Raymond Republican turned the tables
on Savage in the 1946 election, and was returned to Washington, D. C.
Only three months into the new term, Norman suffered a fatal heart attack,
and died on April 18, 1947. He is buried at Fern Hill Cemetery in
Menlo.
In retrospect, there are interesting questions about Fred Norman’s political career. To begin with, it was a colorful era, with many local politicians who challenged for leadership, including Percy Sinclair, McGowan, John Kleeb, F. A. Hazeltine, A. C. Little, Ed Connor, and last, but not least, Terry Pettus. Pettus, a well known figure in Puget Sound politics as well, was a short term editor of South Bend’s Willapa Harbor Pilot, from 1938 to 1940. Registered as a Democrat, it was recognized that Pettus had strong ties to the Communist Party. Although Congressman Norman was a longtime member of the G. O. P., he was not closely allied to fellow Republican and South Bend Journal publisher F. A. Hazeltine. Hazeltine, who was more aligned with the conservative wing of the party, was a lifetime teetotaler, something Norman was not. In addition, for many years the Republican Norman had the full backing of organized labor in Pacific County. The late Bob Bailey, who knew his political history better than anyone, said that Norman’s successor to the congressional seat, Russell Mack of Hoquiam, also had not been a compatriot of Norman. (Mack was also the longtime editor and publisher of the weekly Hoquiam Washingtonian.) In truth, Norman was not without his political friends, and in powerful places, too. One of his best supporters had been former state Governor Roland Hartley. (Hartley served from 1924 to 1932.). |
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Little is known of his youth, but he told friends that he had run away from home at the age of 12, and had worked on ships, both as a cabin boy and as a cook. As for his cooking skills, Reizner was well known in Raymond for taking charge of the food at Elks Club events, as well as other community festivals. His friends all praised his cooking when invited to his bachelor apartment above the Lyric Theatre, where he prepared dinners in his well-stocked galley. When he first arrived in Raymond, Reizner was employed at the Frank Rose Market as a meat cutter. He later bought an interest in the business. In 1907 he established the small People’s Theatre on First Street, Raymond’s first movie theatre. A year later Reizner built the larger Lyric Theatre, which was located farther up the street. The Lyric remained the city’s leading theatre for more than ten years. Besides the early silent films, the Lyric was the site of vaudeville shows, operettas, high school plays, and community productions. Reizner operated both the People’s and the Lyric for a brief time, but eventually closed the smaller house. Around the same time, he acquired South Bend’s Dime Theatre, which later was destroyed by fire. After that he purchased Bale’s Opera House, which was renamed the South Bend Lyric. In 1920, the blossoming impresario built the larger Tokay Theatre, at a cost of $150,000. The theatre had a seating capacity of 1,200. Four years later he also built the South Bend Tokay Theatre, at a cost of $100,000. In addition, he operated a small theatre in Lebam and managed the Grand Opera House in South Bend. Reizner was well known for his civic involvement, and his sponsorship and aid to local young men. He always hired high school students, and at the time of his death both Paul Schwegler and Bill Mason were employed at the Tokay Theatre. One youth, Bernard Mulligan, Raymond class of 1924, had actually been adopted by Reizner. He also paid all of young Mulligan’s college costs. At the time of Reizner’s death, Mulligan was a sophomore at the University of Washington. Reizner died on April 13, 1927, at the Riverview Clinic hospital. Close friend and Raymond businessman Frank Nixon was named temporary administrator of the estate. The Tokay theatres were closed for the week after Reizner’s death. In 1936, the Basil family purchased the South Bend and Raymond Tokay Theatres. The South Bend Tokay was closed at the end of World War II, while the Raymond Tokay operated until the mid-1950s. |
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Guglielmo Tognarelli came to America from Italy in ca. 1904, making his way from Ellis Island, across the country to Tacoma and finally to Little Falls, Washington. (Little Falls became Vader in 1913). Guglielmo had left his 28-year old wife Armida and three young daughters, Ada, Rosina, and Gemma, in their hometown of Ponte Buggianese. At Vader, Guglielmo struggled to earn the money to bring his family to America, and he often worked double shifts loading coal cars for the Northern Pacific Railway. In 1905, probably in the first half of the year, he received a letter that Armida was ill, possibly with typhus. Guglielmo returned to Ponte Buggianese, and in early 1906, a recovered Armida became pregnant with their fourth child and first son, Mario Enrico. Later that year, before Mario was born, Guglielmo returned to America. Three years later, in Feburary 1909, Armida departed Italy for America with Guglielmo's brother, Gustantino, and three year old Mario. Upon reaching her destination, Armida and her family established their home and prepared to save more money to send for Ada, Rosina, and Gemma. When it was time for the three girls to come to America, only Gemma, the oldest, wanted to leave Italy, and consequently, Ada and Rosina stayed in Ponte Buggianese with their grandparents. The two girls never came to America. In 1913, Gemma crossed the ocean in the company of five people from Genoa. Two years after her arrival, at the age of 15, she gave birth to her first son, John. She married Fred Pelligrini from Aberdeen. In 1914, the Tognarellis moved to Raymond when a Dr. Campbell sold them a First Street building that became the Venetian Gardens. The building was two stories, and approximately 60 feet wide and well in excess of 100 feet long. The family lived upstairs, and also rented rooms to as many as 14 people. On the ground floor, the family operated a beer hall and restaurant. The downstairs kitchen was large, 30 by 30 feet in size, and was located in the lower back of the building. The bar was separated from the dance floor by a lattice work, with two arches, one on each side of the building. There were booths along each side of the dance floor. A juke box provided the entertainment. Unfortunately, the business was hindered by a series of state prohibition laws in the decade before the federal Volstead Act was enacted in January, 1919 outlawing the sale of beer and other alcohol. During Prohibition, nearly every saloon owner had turned to bootlegging. Guglielmo, who sold a lot of illegal liquor and beer out of his kitchen, continued to do this for a number of years. Eventually, the federal government made an effort to stop him. |
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| Daughter Leta believed that
it was sometime in 1925 that Guglielmo lost an eye in a fracas in the restaurant.
According to grandson Richard Guglomo, one evening after the restaurant
was closed and the doors were locked, there was a knock at the door.
Looking out the peep hole, Guglielmo recognized that two government agents
were outside demanding to be let in. Guglielmo said, “No. We are
closed.” The agents persisted. He refused, and one of them
kicked open the door. The family believes that the other agent had
a knife in his hand, and in the melee, Guglielmo was stabbed in the eye.
The children later said that they thought the entire family was in the room watching, except for Mario. Leta was six or seven years old when she watched as her father's eye fell out of it's socket and into his hand. Immediately after he was stabbed, the agents left. Albert went in search of Mario, who was old enough to drive his father to the hospital. Mario and Albert angrily searched the entire town without locating the agents, but the family claimed that the two never showed their faces in town again. Leta remembered that the agent who stabbed her father was blond and of medium build. No charges were ever filed against Guglielmo. When the judge asked a question, Leta translated the question into Italian. At the same time, she would give her father the answer. Then he would repeat to the judge what Leta had told him. Leta later said that she thought that the judge knew full well what was going on. According to the Certificate of Naturalization he was 70 years old, a white male, with brown eyes, gray hair, was 5 feet 8 inches tall, weighed 177 pounds, had a left glass eye, was married, and his former nationality was Italian. He signed his certificate as Tognarelli Guglielmo (a reversal of his given name) on both the certificate and the picture. To all his customers in Raymond, he was known as Charley Guglomo. Guglielmo died peacefully in his sleep in 1967, after being hospitalized in South Bend for about a month. The cause of death was listed as pneumonia and old age. The death certificate was signed by Deputy Clerk Rose Adams, for her boss, Verna Jacobson, who was the Pacific County Clerk for the Superior Court. Richard relates that on his grandfather’s Naturalization Certificate he signed his name Togniarelli Guglomo. This is a misspelling as evidenced by his birth certificate which has his name as Tognarelli Guglielmo. On the back of the certificate the clerk wrote: "By order of the Court name changed from Tognarelli Guglielmo December 13, 1944, Verna Jacobson, Clerk." Italian name usage is surname first, then the given name, Guglielmo. Richard also assumes that when his grandfather first came to Vader, the locals believed that his first name was Tognarelli and his last name was Guglielmo. Somehow the Guglielmo got switched to Guglomo. Richard remembers as a child that his grandfather was called Charley. |
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After arriving in Tokeland, the boys borrowed a rifle intending to spend an hour target practicing along the beach. According to Freddie, he was walking ahead of Ray when he was distracted by something behind him. With the trigger cocked, Fred whirled quickly. The bullet was discharged, striking his brother in the right side of his chest, penetrating to the heart, and lodging near the skin, two inches below the left arm pit. Freddie ran to the Kotino home for aid, but on his return with Dan Kotino, they found that Ray’s body was lifeless. The boy was carried to the Kotino home and later that evening Kotino took the boy in his launch across the bay to the South Bend General Hospital. The body was later removed to the Albro Dickinson Mortuary in Raymond. The twins had been born in Vader, but spent most of their lives in Raymond, where both had just completed the eighth grade. Ray’s funeral was held at the Catholic Church with the Reverend Father Victor Couverette officiating. The pall bearers were: Edward Saling, Richard Springer, George Knight, Floyd Williams, and Chris Zambas. Burial was in the family plot at Fern Hill cemetery. Although his headstone reads he was born in 1911, he was actually born in 1910. |
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| Both Fred and Albert were deeply
troubled by the accident for the remainder of their lives. Leta later
said that her parents shielded Freddie from the grief and funeral as much
as possible, but that in retrospect it was probably not the right thing
to do. Fred may have been better able to handle his guilt had they
been able to deal with the death openly. Leta also said that her
father never ate at the dinner table with the family after Ray was killed.
Guglielmo would eat in the kitchen at the counter while the others ate
at the table. Leta speculated that her father might have decided
that if he could not eat with the entire family he would not eat with them
at all.
She also said that both Guglielmo and Armida forgave Fred many times before they died but it made no real difference to Fred, as he was tortured by the event all of his life. Fred’s son Michael has also revealed that he talked to his father about it once but that Fred was too emotional to say much about the incident. Ray’s twin brother Albert was also tortured by losing his close sibling. In later life, Albert exhibited signs of extreme mental instability. Grandson Richard (son of Monte), who did the research on this story, has suggested that it is not uncommon for twins who have lost their siblings to experience emotional loss that is difficult heal. |
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A key to this story came from the interviews of two people, Leo Rubstello and Gus Asplund, Jr. Leo was the batboy for the team, while Gus was a U.W. student, who helped with the management of the club. Gus is gone now, but I am left with fond memories of meeting and reminiscing with each of them. In my opinion, both Leo and Gus are giants when considering the local lore of Raymond sports. Gus loved to come to Bellevue, and eat a hearty lunch. As we sat in the restaurant (we met several times, mainly to talk about the local history), I would turn on the tape recorder and let Gus talk. The following is a good part of what was said, probably back in the spring of 1996. Bless you, Gus, for the time you spent telling me your memories of Raymond and that summer of 1935. “My given name is Helmer Asplund, but I’ve always gone as Gus Asplund, Jr. Dad, whose original name was Gus Liff, came to the U. S. from Sweden when he was fourteen years old, and he worked in the lumber camps of Minnesota for about four or five years and eventually became a timekeeper and ultimately managed one of the camps. He worked for a fellow whose name was Asplund, and at some point Dad took the Asplund name. |
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Dad’s business was the Mission Club, which was on First Street. You know, around 1920 First Street had about everything. I remember I had a paper route, and I would sell my extra papers, so I would go to the houses of ill-repute to sell a few papers. Everyone treated me beautifully, and paid me in cash. Finest people in the world, for me. |
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Doc Owens was a fine person, and John Lavinder liked baseball. John worked for the Willapa Electric Company, and had been involved in other teams. John and Doc liked the same things, especially with that team. Doc’s office was a popular place to meet, and the town merchants would donate, and they would get their company name on the back of the baseball jerseys. If you paid your money you were part of it. |
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Some of these guys could have kept going in the Coast League, and higher than they ever did. But there were reasons. We were lucky at Raymond to get these really good guys. And then we had our hometown guys on that team, like Ed Rosentangle; Matt Pavalunas, who was still in high school; and Pug Allen, who was a great ball player in those days. Pug had a chance to move up to the Coast League. He hit over 0.400 for us, and I don’t know, but I always wondered if it was fear of failure that held Pug back.During one of our following meetings, Gus recalled other ballplayers who joined the Raymond club, such as former big league and Coast league pitcher Roy Chesterfield, and Tacoma imports Al Somerville and Rudy Tollefson. I think that Ray O’Dell brought Chesterfield in. Both of those guys had played for the Portland Beavers in the PCL. Ray later became an administrator for the Raymond schools. In our last meeting, Gus reminisced about his mother, who maintained the family home on the Island. “I had the time of my life back in those days. My mother thought it was terrible that I would get up and sing in front of people. To her, that was showing off. She would whisper, ‘Oh, you can’t do that.’ My mother was very talented, she could play the piano, she could sing. She had talent coming out of her ears. She only went through the 8th grade, and she always held that against herself.” Matt Pavalunas, was one of Raymond’s all time sports stars. During his senior year, Matt led his basketball team to a split with neighboring Valley High School. The victory over Valley was the Vikings’ only loss of the season. And that was the Valley team (96 students in the school) that won the 1936 State Basketball Tournament, defeating the likes of Walla Walla, Everett, Hoquiam, and Lewis & Clark. Matt went on to play a vital role on the U. of Oregon’s “Tall Firs,” the team that won the first NCAA championship in 1939. Pug Allen, the Timber League batting champion of 1935 (0.417), is the father of the author. |
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Liina, Maija, and my mother Tekla had boardinghouses. Cooking was the way the sisters earned their living. Then my mother, Tekla Ågren, married my father, Herman (Hempa) Anttila, which he later changed to Antilla. I have often wondered why it was important to have two l’s and only one t in the name, but I never asked. My folks bought their first boardinghouse—called the Willapa House—in Raymond with a one dollar down payment. About three years later they sold the Willapa to buy the Lincoln Hotel building on First Street, the boardinghouse where I grew up. I have many memories of the hard work Mamma (who wanted to be called Mamma, not Aiti) did in the boardinghouse. Mamma was only five feet tall but she could lift a hundred-pound sack of flour onto her shoulders and carry it six steps up to the kitchen where she had a big wood range with three ovens and a huge griddle. She had to get up at 4 am to fire the stove, since wood was the fuel used and the loggers had to have an early breakfast, which usually consisted of mush (oatmeal), bacon, eggs, toast, pancakes, syrup, jam, and coffee. The dining room had six square tables, each seating eight people. The men brought their dishes to the metal-covered kitchen table after breakfast. Each then picked up his lunch bucket, which was always in the same spot. After breakfast Mamma and her workers, the dishwashers and waitress, went upstairs to make the beds. On washdays, the towels and pillowcases were boiled in a huge kettle on top of the stove, but the sheets were sent out to be laundered. Mamma handscrubbed the towels and pillow cases! Ironing the pillow cases and sheets was done after lunch. Her chores eased considerably when we bought a washing machine. After the room chores, Mamma would put a pot roast on the stove and then start baking the pies, cakes, and pullaa (Finnish coffee cake). Pies were made daily but cakes and pullaa were usually only made once a week. Mamma was happy in her work. She would sing the current big hit song, such as “I’m sorry, dear, so sorry, dear that I made you cry” as she slapped the crust into the pie tin. The tune may have been off key, but that didn’t matter, Mamma was happy. After baking the pies, she and her helpers made the sandwiches for the next day’s lunch buckets carried by the loggers to their jobs. The mill workers ate lunch in the boardinghouse. Lunch (or dinner, as it was called then) consisted of steamed potatoes, pot roast, two vegetables, salad, bread and butter (including hardtack), coffee, milk, buttermilk, and pie. Each could eat as much as his heart (stomach?) desired! The waitresses kept the serving platters full. Even so, we served fewer people at lunch than at breakfast or supper. |
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| Mamma caught a few winks after
lunch and the waitresses and dishwasher had a couple of hours off.
I was eight years old and crazy about swimming. One of the waitresses,
Helen Hundis, often took me swimming in the Willapa River, since I wasn’t
allowed to go alone.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, Mamma had to fire the wood stove for supper. And soon the aroma of whatever she was frying for the evening meal permeated the whole boardinghouse. Supper was what we call dinner today. There was always a dish of pork chops, meatballs, oysters, ham, or something of the same nature served with potatoes, vegetables, salad, bread, milk, and dessert. When the loggers came home—they did consider the boardinghouse home—they put their lunch buckets, which often were muddy, on the metal-covered kitchen table. One of my early jobs was to place the washed buckets on the shelf above the stove to dry and then put the dried buckets on two long tables in the kitchen. Each bucket had to be placed on a particular spot to help Mamma put the right coffee thermos into the right bucket when the thermos bottles were added in the morning. She remembered exactly how each man liked his coffee—black, sugar with cream, black and no sugar, cream and no sugar. I still have no idea how she accomplished this feat. The coffee was made in a huge granite pot which had a pouring spout, with egg shells usually added to the grounds. Mamma poured cold water into the pot and when the water began to boil, she turned the heat off. She poured coffee into the thermos bottles, telling by the sound when a thermos was full. When I was older it became my job to fill each bucket with two sandwiches made the afternoon before, a glass cup filled with fruit, two hardboiled eggs, little cone, made by the dishwasher, which held salt, a piece of pie, and some fresh fruit, an apple, pear, orange, grapes, or a banana. We catered to the preferences of each man. One boarder who didn’t like fruit was always given an extra helping of beans, which he loved. Supper, also an “eat all you desire” meal, was served in the kitchen. The desserts were laid out on a table which the men might eat at their leisure during the evening. Hot coffee was always available from the pot on the stove. Each boarder, however, had to wait on himself. The cost for all this food? Room and board was $28 a month. Breakfast, if bought separately, was 25 cents, dinner or supper was a little more, 35 cents. And if a boarder missed a meal, Pappa would deduct the amount from the monthly bill. |
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| Mamma’s work wasn’t done even
though the boarders were enjoying the evening dessert. She had to
prepare for the next morning’s breakfast by slicing the bacon from a big
slab. She would lay the slices into big pans to be put into the ovens
in the morning and she had to prepare the pancake batter before retiring.
Her day, seven days a week, started at 4 am and ended at 11 pm, but I never
heard her complain about the long hours. She had no vacation, because
she didn’t like to be away from the boardinghouse.
In the summertime the loggers went on the “hoot owl” shift, which started at 4 am. Mamma had to get up at 2 am then but she didn’t get a chance to return to bed because the mill workers had to have their breakfast shortly afterwards. Sunday was a more leisurely day since those loggers who had families out of town went home for the weekend. Perhaps, it just seemed to be more leisurely since breakfast was served much later. I thought Cream of Wheat was something special because it was not served on weekdays! Sunday dinner was chicken and dumplings— yum! I usually ate six or seven dumplings, which pleased Mamma very much because she thought I was too thin. Mamma, of course, didn’t buy cut up chicken. She started almost from scratch, with whole “undressed” chickens, which she cleaned and cut herself. I did not consider holidays, especially Thanksgiving and Christmas, great days of joy when I grew older. Why? Well, I became a waitress and so many people, even from as far away as Olympia, would come to eat at our boardinghouse. But I can’t blame them, even though I felt some resentment since we really didn’t make any money from them. Adults paid only one dollar and children 50 cents for the holiday meal! It was cheaper to eat in our boardinghouse than prepare the meal at home. Mamma’s life was not entirely devoted to the boardinghouse. She loved the Finn Hall, called the Suomi Hall in Raymond. It was her only real recreation. She went every Saturday night if there was any event there—a play or a dance—and there usually was. All Finnish kids went to the hall with their parents. There were no babysitters then. And I, of course, went with Mamma. Some of the kids at the hall were very small, but that didn’t matter. When any kid pooped out, he was simply laid out on a bench and allowed to sleep. My Uncle Arvi usually played the piano, accordion, or the violin for the dances—three tunes to a round. I, like the other kids, usually walked around the floor between rounds waiting for the music to begin again. |
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INTERVIEWS, DISCUSSIONS PERTAINING TO RAYMOND HISTORY: 1950-2007
LIBRARY WORK
Dave Wolfenbarger and Joe Basil have much information to offer, but, unfortunately, this issue will not benefit from that material. Hopefully, there will be a Raymond History that will appear in print within the next year and a half. Dave and Joe’s knowledge will be of great importance in that publication. Steve Rogers has been immensely helpful with materials and photographs. Actually, Steve’s work makes these issues possible. Without him, The Sou’wester would not exist at this time. BOOKS FOR SALE
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Sou’wester Pacific County Historical Society PO Box P South Bend, WA 98586 Support your Pacific County Historical Society |
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