June 26 • Remembering some early Reno sawbones…

aaameds

How his all began…

Some of you have emailed me that I haven’t written a story for a while. That’s probably mostly due to me breaking my left leg on May 10 and being unable to walk around my new town from our house at 740 Ralston Street. I’m grateful to Dr. Peter Althausen for fixing my feemer, the big bone in your leg. He works for the Reno Orthopedic Clinic and in a while I’ll tell you a little bit about them. And I’m also grateful to Dr. Wlodarczyk for writing a column for me last week and helping meMadScientist get my head out of my ass insofar as chronology of my stories. I’m going to start taking his advice. Some of you mentioned that his photo resembled another person who was in a movie 40 years later, that movie was probably “Young Frankenstein.”

I’m a lot better now and am walking around on a walker and supposed to be getting a cane soon instead. But I learned a lot about post-war Reno’s medical stuff in the past few weeks. One doctor I came to know is named Frank Russell. He has a little office in Sparks, a hoot and a holler east of Reno (hoot and holler – I love that expression of my Uncle John’s!) Frank is what I guess grownups call an old-fashioned family doctor, and does a lot of work for the Southern Pacific Railroad. His wife Fran is also his nurse. He takes care of everything, and his advice is most often “If it’s wet put something dry on it; if it’s dry, put something wet on it…” He’s a pretty cool guy. I didn’t know it after the war, but in years to follow I’d have two sons and Dr. Frank would deliver them both (actually and grammatically, which I try to be, a doctor delivers the mother, not the sons, but that’s a battle I’d learn to lose for the rest of my life!).

My leg was for the purpose of this story  set by two doctors at St. Mary’s Hospital down the street from our new house on Ralston Street. One doctor was Dr. Jack Palmer, who dad says is a “GP” but leans toward pediatrics. But does it all: General Practice. He’s a neat guy and dad says he’s a pretty good golfer. His kids, Grace, Jayne and Pete would become my lifelong friends.

The other doctor who worked on my leg (with Dr. Althausen,  who in reality did the whole thing many years after the other doctors had passed away) in this tale was Dr. Wesley Hall who had a little office near St. Mary’s Hospital, across Elm Street from Dr. Palmer’s.  Most doctors in Reno practiced alone, and had little houses for offices. Dr. Hall was a wonderful man, whose wife E’lise would live on until 2017. He Smoking Report Anniversarywas from the south and came to Reno after the war. The coolest thing I remember about Dr. Hall was that one morning my dad saw in the Nevada State Journal a picture of a couple of famous people who I didn’t know, but dad and mom did. The man in the picture was a singer, I think. But I remember my dad saying, “That’s Wes!) It turns out that Mr. Dondero, a friend of Dad’s in the Jaycees, took the picture for Time magazine at the Riverside Hotel in 1951. The magazine and the newspaper ran the picture, no one noticing that Dr. Hall was visible over the singer’s right shoulder, in a national magazine! And that photo has run once a year since then, and I always notice Dr. Hall. Pretty neat.

St. Mary’s Hospital was just down the street from our house and was the lead hospital in town. It started as a school, St. Mary’s Academy run by the Dominican Sisters. When the University of Nevada moved in from Elko fewer ladies went to St. Mary’s Academy and Bishop Whitaker School but to Nevada University instead, and there was a big health scare in the 1910s and the school quit being a school and became a small hospital, run by the nuns, called Sisters’ Hospital. In a few years it became St. Mary’s Hospital.

The other hospital was a long way out on Mill Street and started as a part of the county’s poor farm, then became Washoe Hospital. It came close to closing in 1949, but a guy who knew how to run hospitals moved to Reno and dad sold him a house. His name was Clyde Fox, and he started a club for Reno’s ladies to join and raise money to keep the hospital from having to close. Mr. Fox and all those ladies started a really neat thing called Tombola Days in the park across Mill Street. They had lots of games and booths and music and in later years a guy from Sparks brought two elephants named Bertha and Tina and gave us kids rides. And the fire department set up its new hook-and-ladder and let us climb up the ladder. Tombola Days went for many years; soon I’ll tell you more about it.

But the good news was that Mr. Fox saved the little hospital, which became the Washoe County Hospital and later Washoe Medical Center and then some name after that I was too young to know. And the ambulances would go to either hospital. They were run by off-duty firemen from Sparks in an old Navy ambulance but it worked!

As I wrote above, most of the doctors had their own little offices, and then started going into larger buildings with three or four of them together. One was behind my dad’s office on California Avenue (he’d moved by then from A Street in Sparks). Three of his friends who were “orthopods” according to dad bought an old barracks from the Army that had been on East Second Street by Washoe General Hospital, and moved it to the northwest corner of Marsh Avenue and Humboldt Street [it’s still there]. Their names were Jim Herz, an old Sigma Nu; Jack Sargent, and Bill Teipner. They called it the Reno Orthopedic Clinic. They were great guys, all; fine historians, Herz the curator of an incredibly-complete photographic history, and Teipner, a golfer with “million-dollar hands as a surgeon, and a four-bit backswing as a golfer.” Teipner performed the first hip-replacement surgery in Nevada.

And 50 years later, a member of their nascent clinic – Pete Althausen, one of the foremost hip surgeons in the world now, would give me a new femur/hip bone. Pretty neat, huh? And the little clinic has a hundred employees in four locations now. (Of course, I didn’t know all this then….)

Many of these one-room doctors found their ways into our lives – Dr. T. C. Harper on West Second Street did the employment physicals for almost every business in Reno and Sparks. He aforementioned Frank Russell was the Mighty S.P. Railroad’s doc. Dr. Roland Stahr was a good guy; had an office at the dead south end of Sierra Street (originally Granite!) that got hit by cars a half-dozen times until Sierra Street was swept around to join with Plumas Street south of California Avenue.  Doc Stahr was a good guy.

To wrap this up and go out and play in Whitaker Park where I see my buddies gathering, I’ll mention a doctor I remember – he lived four doors from our house – whose name I’ll skip out of deference to his family who might read this, a doctor who I’m told three times a year I should write a column about. I haven’t in print, but will make brief mention on a website. I don’t need to be told much about it. We came home from Lake Tahoe one 1954 summer Sunday to a host of cop cars and vans in front of the doctor’s sumptuous house in Northwest Reno. Seems that his wife was found in a bathtub, a possible drowning victim. Whoops; a number of her bones in the neck were broken. Murdered. This sort of thing didn’t happen in 1954 Reno, and traffic up Sunnyside Drive was incessant for a week.

The doctor went to the state prison. But lo; in college, possibly 10 years later, I’m pumping gasoline for Standard Stations in Kings Beach.  A man in a fine car comes in; I fuel it up and he hands me a Chevron credit card. I glanced at it – yikes – I’d just pumped that doctor’s car full of Supreme.

Ten years later. Enough – come back in while, we’ll stroll the old streets once more….

 

 

June 8 • The “kid” gets professional help

…how it all began

Welcome to the six-year-old kid’s collection of early Reno memories. The “kid” is indisposed this week and has asked me to forego the HIPAA restrictions of a doctor-patient relationship, and craft a message to explain a current dilemma in his life. I hope the reader will understand.

 Permit me to introduce myself; my name is Dr. Wenxiu Wlodarczyk, earlier of MadScientistPrague, Czechoslovakia and presently domiciled in Reno, Nevada. I am engaged in the practice of child psychology, having received a Doctorate in Child Nueroses from the University of Prague prior to World War II, and an advanced degree following the war from The University of Southern North Dakota. I have come to America under the Tillotson Act as a refugee, escaping a brutal relationship with the diva of the Vanemuine Ballet in Estonia, who is as most Estonian divas in the 22.8 stone (320 pound) range with a foul temper and a crappy cook to boot.

 I am happily living in the Belmont Apartments facing California Avenue, and maintain a psychology practice at One East First Street in the First National Bank building, on the top, third, floor. It is right across the street from the new hotel that the Mapes family is building. I also have a relationship with Mr. Sam Ginsburg in his appraisal business here in this building, and work closely with Dr. Randall Ross of the Reno School District at the Babcock Building with all those little nutsos in the school system. I am licensed to sell automobiles in Nevada with Pio Mastrioanni, am the duly empowered Consulate to the admiralty of Estonia by President Truman, and play fourth-chair cello with Dr. N. A. “Tink” Tinkham with the Reno Municipal Band. I was first chair cello prior to WWII with the Philharmonisches Staatorchester Mainz in Prague until our symphony was decimated by the bomb from a Luftwaffe music critic.

 I am in a relationship with one of the elevator operator ladies of the bank building, who, like the elevator operator in the Medico-Dental Arcade next door, is short in stature, as am I. I am 1.37 meters (4’6”) tall, tall for an Estonian cello player.

 Now then, to my treatment of young master Breckenridge. He came to me voluntarily, and told me in the greatest of confidence that while other six-year olds are content to blow up outhouses, fill paper bags with cow-manure, light them and ring a person’s doorbell and watch him stomp out the bag, move park benches around and other childish activity, he enjoys writing. But – he started writing as if school was starting in 1946, and has attempted to maintain a chronology, speaking only of what is known as of the time it’s written, and maintaining a time-of-year…lately he’s been writing of school starting at Mary S. Doten School which happens in September, but all the while it’s spring in Reno and his writings should be of summer. And some in a time-frame after 1946 – maybe later in his short life.

 He is bothered by this, and came to me, as a noted local child shrink, for my guidance and advice. I am working basically for free, for the promise of when he writes his first book about Reno, if ever; when he gets a paycheck from the local paper for doing a column, HA!, I said to that, and his pay for playing banjo in some place in his vivid imagination that’s going to have a Friday-and-Saturday Summer night “melodrama” – the place known as the “Liberty Belle” or something like that, so God only knows if I’ll ever see a nickel for listening to him babble.

 But, I told him, stick with the dream, throw the clock and the calendar and the seasons out the window and just sit down and write all he wants (I also told him that he ought to learn how to type!)

 So – if you ever see him writing again, throw away the time of year, relative to the past segment. Throw away the year 1946, or ’48, or whatever. Don’t look for any logic, is my advice, and you and Karl’s scribbling will get along just fine…!

 

    

 

 

May 26 • Making new friends, for life..

..how the story began

karlatwhitakerWell, we’ve lived in Reno almost two months now and I’ve started school at Mary S. Doten School down the hill from our house at 740 Ralston Street. My baby sister is almost out of her bassinet, and the little red-haired girl from next door has a new baby brother a few days ago. I don’t know this in 1946 but he’d go on to be a dentist in later life. But I’ll write about them later.

I was playing in Whitaker Park across the street from our house and a car drove up and a guy in a suit got out. He had a great big camera and asked if he could take my picture. I said, “Sure!” and he did, up against a tree on University Terrace with the Eichbush mansion in the background. He asked me where I lived and I pointed across Ralston Street to the first house  down from the corner. He said he’d bring me a picture, and then got back into his car.

A few days later there was a knock on our door just after Dad got home from work in Sparks. Dad went to the door. The man with the camera was standing there with an envelope. He started to give dad the envelope then both men let out a holler: “Bud!” “Karl!” They talked for a half an hour and Dad got him a beer and they kept talking. Dad finally  introduced “Bud” to Mom: “This is my childhood friend, Bud Loomis!” Dad said. “We were buddies before the war…” They talked and talked what seemed like all night.

It turned out that “Bud,” whose real name was E. Frandsen Loomis, graduated from Reno High like my dad did in 1931. Then he went to some school called “Stanford” and became a lawyer. He was a great fan of China, and went to China to be an advocate for American companies doing business in China.

But China got mad at the outside world, and in some year, maybe 1937, closed its borders to Westerners like Bud and threw them all out of China. Bud came home to Reno and brought a whole lot of Chinese stuff with him, Dad thought maybe “bootlegged,” whatever that meant. Bud’s love for China continued. He and his new wife Cebe took the old carriage house for the Reid mansion on Court Street and turned it into a Chinese house and they lived there. It was right across the Truckee River from some land that Bud’s grandfather Andrew Frandsen, a sheep raiser, owned. There were and still are some steps from the Court Street mansion criss-crossing the hill down to the carriage house.

LearBuildingAbout that time Bud’s mother, whose name was Anna Frandsen Loomis but we all called her “Dosh” later after the war, gave the land to her church and hired a Negro architect from Los Angeles to design a church. My family attended that church after the war, it was called the Christian Science Church, but my dad seldom went. I met the architect whose name was Paul Revere Williams when he visited the church in 1951 but this is only 1946 so I can write about that yet. Back to Mr. Frandsen:

Mr. Frandsen and his wife Cebe had all this Chinese stuff with nowhere to display it because the floods kept sweeping it out of their house. So they got some land from the Chinese people in Reno, for whom Bud acted as attorney, on the Truckee further east on Lake Street. He and Cebe would in a few years build a motel they’d call the “River House” with Chinese architecture and some artwork from China in every room. And they’d build a bar at the west end and call it the “Bundox,” a word he learned in China that meant “a remote place.” Bud and Cebe had more fun running the Bundox than he did being a lawyer so he almost got out of business.

Bud and Cebe had children, Drew (Andrew) and Del, who were about my age and we became good friends (they later had two younger sons). Del and Drew have both passed away, Drew killed in a theft of his automobile, but that was long after 1946 so I can’t write about it yet. Their cousins – Bud’s sister Mary Alice Blakely married Bill Blakely, another friend of Dad’s – were Jim, Janet and David Blakely who would also be my lifelong friends. His other sister Inez married Scoop Johnson an insurance man, and their kids also played with us.

But, this is about Bud and Cebe, and Bud’s mother Dosh. She built an apartment house further west on Riverside Drive, that Mr. Williams designed. And she ran the Frandsen Apartments on West Fourth Street that her dad built (he also built the Dania House, that later became the Reno Little Theater on Sierra Street.)

Anyway, they were my new friends, and Dad’s old friends, and became some of the closest friends of the family for many, many years. Dosh would take me in her 1951 Cadillac to get my driver’s license but that was long after 1946 as I write this.

And it’s all because of that picture that Mr. Loomis took of me, without even knowing who I was! Pretty neat, huh?

Come back once in a while and we’ll read some more about growing up in Reno. And the Blakely family and the Sala family and a lot of other stuff. But now I’ve got to walk down the hill to school. See ya.

May 18 • New wartime buildings all over the place

Nye

…how it all began

I’m back writing again, sure would like to learn how to “type” on a machine like a lady at our school has. School’s been going for a couple weeks now at Mary S. Doten elementary school a couple blocks from my house on Ralston Street.

The weather is really nice now, Dad says it’s the best time of year in Reno. Me and the little red-haired-girl next door have been playing in the park across the street. And there’s been a lot to see, big trucks going all over the place towing steel buildings around. Today they put one with a round roof on our playground at school. It’s called a “Quonset hut” – I think I’m spelling it right.

Dad says they’re all coming from a place downtown by Washoe General Hospital, an Army base called Sierra Army Depot. Apparently it was built by the Army right after World War II started, a few weeks after I was born. It was on a bunch of old meadows and fields between the hospital and the Truckee River. It grew fast until Quonsetthere were over 60 buildings there, mostly building made somewhere else out of steel and hauled in and bolted together. There were a lot of these Quonset huts like the one Mr. Bevelaqua and his two sons are hauling around on big trucks. Four of them wound up on East Fourth Street as a market, later it would be a good store for Twin City Surplus [below on the left]. There were square buildings also that got moved around Reno. Dad says if you drive east on the Lincoln Highway you can see a lot of them.

The Sierra Depot was built to fix Army cars and tanks and stuff that got wrecked in darrelthe war, and they would come to Reno on railcars. A lot of people worked there. They lived in a little village up east of the University of Nevada in little houses set in a circle that would be there 80 years later off Highland Avenue. Over 6,000 military trucks and tanks and stuff were hauled in and out of that base by the little brick hospital. After the war was was over last year the Army started to take it down immediately, and that’s why all these buildings are being moved every day. Two “barracks” – buildings where soldiers lived – were hauled to Ninth Street north of our home on Ralston Street to be a veterans’ center – Darrell Dunkel Hall they called it [above right]. That’s a funny name: “Dunkel”! They hauled a couple more to the corner of University Terrace and Washington Street for an apartment house, and one cut in half to the center of Whitaker Park for the kids to use for storing stuff and doing projects at the park. Apparently a lot of Reno parks got other halves of barracks. If one is a “half” why are two of them “halves” and not “halfs”? I’m having trouble learning how to write. So I’ll probably make a good reporter someday because my language is so crappy (I’m not supposed to say that word.)

TwinCityOne barracks went up to Little Italy that I wrote you about a month ago. It was for the Italian men that Mr. Ginocchio brought from Italy to work in the iron works on Chestnut Street. These little buildings went all over Reno and Sparks, all five of the elementary schools got one for extra classroom space, the University got quite a few of them. The hospital got a couple of the Quonset huts. In later years their first “computer,” whatever that is, would go in one of them. But this is only 1946 and I don’t know anything about “computers.”

Eventually, and it didn’t take long, all of the Army buildings on East Second Street were hauled to Reno and Sparks, and only two big Quonset huts were left – one would stay until at least 2017 beyond the hospital on the south side of East Second Street. That’s the last one.

Dad said the gates into the place were on East Second Street at Kirman Avenue, and the fencing ran all the way to a fence on the Kietzke farm. And the Army did a pretty good job of keeping it secret. There were no stories in the newspapers about it nor any photographs of it. It was a secret base right here in Reno, that 6,000 vehicles went through, but few knew anything about it.

And now the Bevelaquas are hauling it, building-by-building, all over! Of over 60 buildings, I’ve heard that over 45 of them were still around Reno and Sparks in 2000. But this is only 1946 so I won’t write about it. I can keep a secret also.

Aside from all that, life is good here on Ralston Street. The fireworks at Mackay Stadium are over for the summer but now there are football games. Dad likes 1946UNfootball and we’ve walked to a few games. Everybody is excited because the Wolf Pack’s new coach Jim Aiken is building a great team and St. Mary’s Gaels are coming to town. I got to go to the radio station last week and met Mr. Stoddard and Mr. Cafferty – he told me I could come in early some morning and listen to him when he went on the radio as “Cactus Tom.” I’ll tell you all about that soon.

There’s really a lot of things to write about coming up. Some new “diesel” train engines are starting to come through town and a new hotel is almost done right in the middle of downtown Reno built by a rancher named Mapes and his son, who Dad thinks is a hotshot punk. But Dad says the hotel will be the highest building in Nevada and will stay open for hundreds of years.

In my crystal ball, I can see Dad working on a giant haylift loading airplanes for cattle next winter in the snow, and a guy who owns a club downtown named Fitzgerald getting shot up by the railroad tracks. I’ll write about that stuff also. But now the little red-haired-girl next door wants to go across the street and swing in the park so I’m done today. See you soon….

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May 7 • The Sunday in 1948 that downtown Reno burned

karlatwhitakerHow it all began…

Well, I’ve managed to get into the doghouse with a bunch of my friends because I haven’t been writing anything down lately. I’m on the horns of a dilemma, an expression my dad uses that I have no idea what he means. The problem is I want to write about some stuff that hasn’t happened yet but it’s still only the summer of 1946, I’m six years old and still live on Ralston Street. So I’ve decided to just make believe about some fires and floods and stuff happening about Reno and to hell with logic and chronology.

I keep thinking that I ought to pay attention to what’s happening around Reno after the war so that someday I could write about it in a newspaper (we have two newspapers in Reno, the Nevada State Journal that comes out in the morning and a separate paper the Reno Evening Gazette, an evening paper). Someday maybe I Pascuccicould get a job writing in one about stuff like this. And get some friends to help me; my friend who actually hadn’t been born in 1946 named Gene Pascucci (pictured) sent a little story about Mackay Stadium that I’m going to put up when I get this letter to you written. He always said he’d grow up to be a dentist…we’ll see!

Reno150Somebody said  then that when Reno turned 150 years old in 2018 there will be a big party. I probably won’t even be around then but I’d like to contribute something to the celebration if there is one.

One thing happened that was pretty historical, on August 15th of 1948 – Dad was mowing the front lawn with the push mower on this Sunday morning, Just before noon we could hear a lot of sirens downtown and a big plume of black smoke came from downtown, just east of Ralston Street. I knew it was a big fire, so I hopped on my bike and started toward downtown. Jimmy Doll and Johnny Molini were on their bikes too. We pedaled toward the smoke while every fire truck at the firehouse on Commercial Row came out toward the smoke. Boy, would I get in trouble for riding off when I got home. Maybe I won’t even go home…

It was Sunday morning, and people were getting out of church, all the churches were downtown then – St. Thomas Aquinas, and along Church Street west of Chestnut [Arlington]. Years later I’d count seven churches within two blocks of St. Thomas. And all had people in them, and all were getting out about the time the smoke started. By the time we got to the fire there were probably already 400 people there, according to the fire chief. And all were in the firemen’s way.

Santa_Fe_HotelThe fire was in a building on Lake Street across from the Toscano Hotel behind the Greyhound terminal, where my grandmother would arrive a couple times a year from her home in Petaluma to visit my mother. She actually liked my father better than she liked my mother and they used to sit on the porch of Ralston Street and drink wine and laugh ‘til it was pretty late (she was from Ireland, which explained that). But they’re another story for another day.

The fire was growing incredibly fast and soon enveloped the buildings across the alley south of the Santa Fe Hotel [artwork credit Roy Powers]. The buildings had been bought by the guy who was going to move the bus station across the alley from Center Street to Lake Street. The buildings were going to be torn down but the fire was doing a pretty good job of wrecking them right now. Then somebody hollered, “There’s dynamite in one of the buildings!” and the firemen and all the churchgoing folks started to run away. There was no dynamite, they’d learn later, but something did blow that building higher than a kite and scattered burning building and roofing material and metal and glass a block in every direction from the fire. It blew the windows out of the Mizpah Hotel across Lake Street, and some more buildings nearby. There were a lot of civilians injured by that, and I heard that St. Mary’s and Washoe General Hospitals called all their employees and doctors to work on Sunday, helping over two hundred people until well after midnight, with burns, broken bones from the walls falling, and cuts from the flying glass. The paper the next day gave their names and many were Chinese – probably from the Mandarin – or Basque, from the Santa Fe. Most of the herders were away on this summer day.

We were all skeered, ‘cause we knew we were in trouble for coming down here. There were a lot of rumors – one was that the fire chief had died. He was a nice guy, Mr. Evans, who let us kids climb all over the apparatus and slide down the pole on 1947 Fire ladderCommercial Row (I’m adding a picture of a brand-new fire truck Reno bought, an American LaFrance 1948 hook-and-ladder). But Mr. Evans was OK; the chief who died was Sparks Fire Department’s chief, Frank Hobson. And two other Reno firemen died when the explosion hit – Glen Davis and Earl Platt, who both still would have family around Reno 70 years later. Sparks had sent its two engines and a pumper to the fire to help, Sierra Pacific Power, the Red Cross, the Army Reserve, Nevada Bell and the airbase north of town all sent help also. And Isbell Construction and Southern Pacific Railroad sent some big cranes and Caterpillars to knock the brick walls of the buildings down.

The power company turned up all the pumps nearby to raise the water pressure which by then was falling all over town north of the Truckee. But the buildings kept burning, and the firemen worked mostly to save the Santa Fe Hotel across the alley and the Mandarin Café to the south. And succeeded. It took over five hours before the flames quit and it was overnight before anyone could even get close to the buildings.

When all the dust settled the next day, Monday, five people had died in the fire and some 270 had been treated, with 39 people admitted to the hospitals. Most of the downtown and the schools were closed. It would become known as the Lake Street Fire, or by some the Greyhound Fire, and would stand as the biggest fire in modern times that’s ever occurred in Reno in terms of injuries and fatalities, (there would be one nine years later* on Sierra Street that would do more property damage.) But now it’s only 1948 and I don’t know about that one yet.

The fire was put out; the burned-out buildings would become the site of the new FireMagnoliaGreyhound station, that building still there and now owned by Harrah’s Club. Frank Hobson’s flag-draped casket would pass in front of my dad’s office on A Street in Sparks in the hose bay of a Sparks pumper, and Johnny, Jimmy and I would ride our Schwinns back up the Ralston hill, where our parents, not knowing whether or not we’d perished in the fire, soundly spanked us for taking off to the fire. (I might add, as we had a couple weeks before, when the old downtown YMCA burned down, but that’s another story for another day!)

But it was pretty exciting. Come back once in a while, we’ll tell another story!

*Here’s the story of that fire that was nine years later

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April 19 • Fireworks at Mackay Stadium!

…how it began

KF_headshotSchool starts but it’s still summer in my new town of Reno, and Dad wants to go to the stadium at the university by our house on Ralston Street and watch the fireworks! They’re put on every Friday all summer by a night club downtown owned by a guy named Harold, so it’s called “Harold’s Club.” In a few years he’d quit putting that little comma up high between the “d” and the “s” but that wouldn’t happen until 1949.

It’s Friday, so dad and I are walking down University Terrace toward the university. Mom’s staying home with my sister Merilynn, she’s still in a bassinet. We walk past my friend Bill and Margaret Eddleman’s house and then around a big curve. There’s a rock wall on the south side of the street and no sidewalk. Just below that wall the Orr Ditch is flowing full. The wall was built a few years ago as a government project to keep men working after something called the “depression,” when everybody was out of work. I heard that they also built a big lake with an island in the southwest corner of Reno by the old airport that was turned into a golf course. We’re going to go to there someday. I’ll tell you about that when we get there. I’ll write about it.

But tonight is fireworks, and they are free to watch. We walk past Mr. Goodwin’s house, a friend of Dad’s who owns the Kentile floor covering business in Reno. He’s the president of Reno’s banjo band, and there’s about 20 guys out in his front yard playing banjos and we can hear them from around the corner.

We get to Sierra Street and cross it and walk down to Virginia Street. It’s the main highway to a town called Susanville. We keep walking to University Street, the next street, and go through some big granite pillars with dates on them, a gift to the university when every graduating class donated some landmark with their class’ date on it. Then we turn left and go up the hill into the university itself.

There’s a couple of cannon at the top of the hill, and two twin buildings, called Morrill and Stewart Hall. We keep walking up past a big grassy park about as big as a couple blocks downtown. Dad said it’s called the “Quad,” or Quadrangle. Dad says MackayStatuethe Quad copied a design by Thomas Jefferson for the University of Virginia’s campus. All around it are a bunch of old brick buildings where kids go to learn something. There’s a statue of a guy named John Mackay at one end of the Quad, put there by his son Clarence who also paid for the stadium that we’re going to, so they named it after Clarence when it was built in 1908. Then we walk past a building called Lincoln Hall where a lot of guys live.

Mackay1Then we cross a dirt parking lot to the stadium – Mackay Stadium – and go in. It’s all concrete steps like seats on the west side where everybody sits. And there’s no lights, so it’s starting to get pretty dark. Across the stadium is another grandstand for the kids that go to the university to sit on. Behind that, on the left side of the picture, is a “fieldhouse” where all the lockers and showers are for the ballplayers. It’s getting dark and everybody is excited about the fireworks starting to begin.

There’s a loudspeaker system that’s pretty crackly but it works, and a guy in a whiteHarolds Club Buick suit gets out of blue Buick woody station wagon with bull horns across the roof, and he starts talking in the middle of the field. And here my nose is getting long like Pinocchio’s because this is supposed to be 1946 but the Buick is a 1949 so I must be fibbing, but hey, I’m only six years old.

The guy in the white suit and Stetson hat is Mr. Smith himself – Harold – and he welcomes everybody to the fireworks show. Then RoaringCampthey play some music by some guys called the “Sons of the Pioneers” over the loudspeakers and make it pretty plain that he wants everybody to come to Harolds Club soon. Even the kids can go, because he shuts off gaming in the “Roaring Camp,” the name of his western museum, every Saturday morning between ten in the morning and noon, just so us kids can go in the museum. We can’t go other times because there’s people gambling.

OldMackay2The fireworks start soon and they’re really neat. It seems like half the town of Reno and Sparks is there in the stands on both sides of the field. The stadium is pretty full, and it holds almost 2,800 people on the west side seats. A lot of people brought blankets and are sitting on the grass on the football field. And they’re all “ooh”ing and “ahh”ing with the fireworks that go on for about a half-hour. They’ve been going on all summer, and tonight is the last night.

We get a Coke at the stand that some bunch of guys, Dad’s friends, run, the “Lions” or “Tigers” or something like that. I’d get to know them pretty well in years to come, because Dad got involved a year later in the “Friendship Train” collecting stuff to send to a town called Berlin somewhere in Europe that was blockaded by another country and the people were cold and starving. Two brothers named Sewell built a grocery store down the street, and loaned it to Dad and his friends to collect groceries and clothes and stuff. But that’s a year away so I can’t write about it yet. I’ve just got to grow up faster so I can write about the Friendship Train and the Lake Street Fire and some other cool stuff that hasn’t happened yet.

But, tonight’s tonight, 1946; we’re in Mackay Stadium and about to walk back home to Ralston Street.

Come back again, we’ll walk somewhere else!

(By the way, Dad says if I’m going to steal pictures I’d better say where I got them; some of the pictures, of old Mackay Stadium, are from the University’s Special Collections archives. I don’t know where they got them…)

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April 9 • School starts! Yippee… 


karlatwhitaker

From the beginning…

This is a big day for me. I’ve lived here on Ralston Street for five weeks and am finally starting school! The school is just down the hill but Mom says I have to take a ride from Mrs. Cook who lives up the street and is coming by the house any minute. We’re going to pick up Cecelia Molini (Pearce) and Marilyn Burkham (Bell) on the way. I had no way of knowing this in 1946, but I’d know Tom Cook, Marilyn and Cecelia for the rest of my life.

The school is huge, kind of a dove-grey building in what grownups call Spanish DotenPostcardMission design. It’s called Mary S. Doten after an old teacher. There’s another three of them almost alike; one over by the fairgrounds called Orvis Ring, another teacher; McKinley Park down by the Truckee River named for the president and Mount Rose a way out of town south on Arlington Avenue. Named for the mountain, I s’pose. They are all about 35 years old now. There’s another elementary school right downtown called Southside, and some out in the boondocks (that’s a new word I just learned!) like Brown and Huffaker and Galena and Franktown. Dad said that there are 18 school districts in Washoe County, Reno is just one of them.

It’s a nice school, I can see that as Mrs. Cook drops us off and cries about something, don’t know what that would be. The front is like a courtyard with wisteria and a fountain bubbling around the flagpole. The teachers get together and plant flowers in the beds. All the rooms have big windows, and there are huge white glass bulbs SchoolLighthanging from the ceiling. There’s a great big “auditorium” with a stage at one end, the room big enough to hold every kid in the school. Which is about 240 kids. Downstairs are rooms for the kindergarten, where we’re going, and a boiler room where Mr. Minetto the janitor lets us put our galoshes in the winter to dry off while we’re in school. Next to that is a lunchroom, big enough for all of us at once with benches and tables. Most of us bring our lunch in metal boxes with Mickey and Donald on them. We have Thermos bottles but they break all the time.

Our teacher is Miss Parker. She’s really cool. There’s two kindergartens, one morning and one afternoon. We do all kinds of neat stuff. Now I’m forgetting what grade I’m in as I write, kindergarten, first with Mrs. Smith and second with Mrs. Angus. I know in all the rooms are these old desks with tops that lift up for our books, a hole in the top for an ink jar, which we don’t use anymore, and a seat that folds up. There’s a bunch of them bolted together so they stay in a line.

Above the blackboard are letters, in some kind of weird cursive shapes that I guess that we’re going to learn. I still print stuff like I am doing now. We do the “Pledge of Allegiance” every morning, and on Fridays we do the Nevada state song. We’re pretty good singers. And we’re learning all kinds of stuff, about Nevada, the other 47 states and some other countries like England and China. Mom always says we have to clean our plates because the people in China are starving. Her logic eludes FireMagnoliamy little brain but we keep eating. We have movies once in a while in the big room upstairs about ranching and farming, and some firemen came by once and let us play on the engine and showed us how to be safe. Some of the students from the university up the street called “fraternity” men came and sang to us. They’re really old guys.

We have “Bank Day” every week. Our teacher puts up a blue sign that says “Tomorrow will be Bank Day,” and turns it over the next day to read “Today is Bank Day” in red. Most of us put in a quarter every week and save quite a bit of money in a school year. Each year a man comes to take our classes’ pictures and we all are supposed to wear our good clothes and stand still on the front steps of the school. Looking back at all those pictures we’d usually see about 30 or 31 people in each class, which was about normal.

We didn’t know anything about it yet, but we’d have peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches with milk from Old Home Dairy or Crescent Creamery each day. I learned later that peanut butter probably killed quite a few of us at our young age but I don’t remember that. And the lead-based paint and the asbestos in the school and the mercury from thermometers that we all rubbed on dimes to make them shiny probably got a lot more. But our classes never seemed to get any smaller so I guess we were just lucky.

school busWe got to know the kids from the farms and dairies and ranches west of Reno. They came in on a bus every morning. There were also a few kids whose dads worked in the hydroelectric power plants west of Reno on the river. A fair number of our classmates’ parents worked on the ranches outside of Reno, and they would live with relatives during the week then go home to their families’ houses for the weekend so we didn’t see them. And there were quite a few kids – usually about ten every year – whose mothers were in Reno for a “divorce” which we didn’t know much about then – they came to school throughout the year and would stay for a while then disappear as fast as they came. I often wondered what happened to them!

We started getting into music and plays – some of us would “try out” to be a character in some show and get dressed up in some weird costumes sometimes and PumpOrganhave to remember what we were supposed to say. And we had singing, usually at Christmas, which we called “Christmas,” and sang carols to our parents in the big upstairs room. Miss Miller, the fourth-grade teacher, had a pedal organ that you had to pump with your feet to get any music out of. I was too short, but she played it pretty well. We sang a lot.

Anyway, it wasn’t long before we were all walking home, up the hill, through the autumn leaves.

My dad and my uncle John are building me a new bike, out of old bike parts because bikes were hard to get after the war. I’m looking forward to that, and soon I’ll be another year older so I can go more places around Reno and have a bike and be able to write down some more of what I’m seeing. I’ll try to take more pictures too…

Come back once in a while and read some more!

write the six-,  soon-to-be seven-year-old, at kfbreckenridge@live.com

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April 2 • Knockin’ around town on a Saturday

  How it began, click here… 

1941_chevvyI’m writing again, in my best handwriting, trying to practice as I’ll be starting kindergarten next week at Mary S. Doten, just down the Ralston hill from our new Reno house. It’s a Saturday morning; Dad and I are off in the Chevy to handle some of his chores, and I’m tagging along.

We take off on Fourth Street through town to Alameda Street. Across the Truckee to the south is the same street, called Wells Avenue because a rancher named Wells used to drive cattle up the street and across the river to the slaughterhouse a block west of Alameda. My uncle John, who just got out of the service, opened a Flying A service station on the northwest corner, almost next to the slaughterhouse. He has a nifty Harley Davidson motorcycle “tricycle” with a box on the back and his station’s name on the back of the box. My grandmother hates motorcycles and people who ride them. Uncle John promised me a ride on his Harley one time and my mother told him she’d kill him if he did that. Women I’m learning at age six are hard to understand.

There’s a neat little store across Fourth Street, Akert’s Market it’s called. There’s a fun guy in there named Ben, probably in college now, who wants to open a store that sells booze and call it “Ben’s Liquors.” My mom told me not to use the word “booze.” Oh well.

Dad said that the city was going to build a fire station on Morrill Avenue, a couple blocks to the east. It would replace the old fire station almost across the street, called “Reno East” which is a duplicate of the one at the dead-end of California Avenue on Virginia Street. This is a busy area of town, East Fourth Street, with a lot of nice stores, hardware, auto parts, lot of auto stuff and garages. Mr. Blakely, a friend of dad’s since high school, operated Eveleth Lumber kitty-corner from my uncle’s service station. It makes custom cuts of lumber and is in high demand from people building houses needing weird stuff like handrails. It is part of a sawmill up the river toward Truckee.

We got back in the car and left to see my dad’s friend Mr. Menante, another schoolmate. His family owns a shop by the railroad tracks on Virginia Street, that takes the tires off cars and “vulcanizes” new rubber and treads onto them and they put them back on your car, to save buying new tires. Dad said it was a wartime thing. Mr. Menante’s business is called Reno Vulcanizing, pretty original. His plan is to move further north on Virginia Street to his partner Mr. Besso’s family ranch, and build a new Reno Vulcanizing shop on what will become Sixth Street.

Mr. Menante told me how my father shot him with a pistol in their senior year in high school, which cost my dad his appointment to Annapolis, which is a big Navy school back east. Turns out they were in a play and my dad’s character shot Mr. Menante’s character, but the gun misfired and bent my dad’s trigger finger so it wouldn’t straighten and he never got to that Navy school. Mr. Menante was a fun guy.

We got back in the Chevy after dad made arrangements to get the tires fixed, and drove across the railroad tracks to have coffee – ugh – how grownups can drink that stuff is beyond me. Dad parked the Chevy at kind of an angle in front of Tiny’s Waffle Shop south of Commercial Row. We went to see Mr. Southworth in his tobacco shop on Douglas Alley. My grandmother, after my grandfather died in 1906, married Mr. Strausburg who was a stockbroker and owned the little building, his office on the second floor, Southworth’s Tobacco on the street level. Mr. Southworth was a nice guy, had a cigar-store Indian in the window that would piss some people off in years to come. Likely not the Indians. But, this is 1946 and I don’t know anything about that yet. (Three years later Harolds Club would put up a mural with Indians all over it, and more on the roof of the building, but I didn’t know that yet either…)

We went into Tiny’s for coffee, and a bunch of Dad’s friends were in there at a big table. I met Mr. Tripp, who worked for Mr. Smith at Harolds Club across the street. His job was making little plastic name tags for the ladies who worked in Harolds Club, with their first name and hometown. Mr. Tripp, I think his name was Walt, was a nice guy, had a couple of sons my age, and wanted to open his own engraving shop – “Tripp Plastics,” he’d call it. Mr. Smith I understand was going to help him get started.

Mr. Cobb was in Tiny’s at the big table. He was a sportswriter from Virginia City who worked at the newspaper, over on Center Street. He was also the announcer at the Silver Sox baseball games in Moana Stadium, a long way out of town to the south, and he told me that he’d let me sit in the booth some night during a game. He was a nice guy. I soon met his two sons and daughter, tell you all about them one of these days.

All dad’s friends were nice men. One was funny, his name was Mr. Maffi, and he and his partner Mr. Lyons owned a service station at the end of California Avenue across the street from the Lake Mansion, which I’ll have to study to learn more about and write about it another day. Mr. Maffi came to our house on Ralston Street later today to help dad adjust the furnace in our new house, which originally burned coal but was converted by Mr. Maffi to burn oil. Dad and Mr. Maffi, (and Mr. Sala, our next door neighbor; I’ll write a lot about him in the future), had to leave to get a furnace part and probably some more beer (surely Sierra!), and Mr. Maffi, who had a glass eye, took his eye out and put it on the kitchen table and told my mother, who had a limited sense of humor, “Here, Floie, (for her name was Flo), I’m keeping an eye on my beer.”

Dad and Mr. Sala laughed, but Floie (Flo) fainted, right on the kitchen floor, cold as a mackerel. Mr. Sala went next door to get Mrs. Sala to help out. Floie soon returned to consciousness, and Dad, seeing this, went out the front door with the other guys to Mr. Maffi’s pickup and took off down Ralston Street to get the furnace part. And some beer.

As I recall, they discussed Mr. Maffi and the occurrence further that evening.

I’m worn out from writing; I’ll start school in a week down the hill at Mary S. Doten, and maybe I’ll learn how to write cursive so it will be easier to read. Come back in a week and we’ll stumble off around Reno some more, maybe visit my new school and my new friends, all neighbors, Tom Cook, Cecelia Molini (Pearce), Jimmie Ceander, and Marilyn Burkham. And another new friend that I’m going to introduce next week, Cedric Parkenfarker from up University Terrace. Cedric has the ability to look into the future, which will enable me to write my 1946 memories, but interject what happened in the future, like Marilyn Burkham becoming known as Ma Bell. And I’ll get my Brownie Hawkeye fixed so I can add some pictures again…it’s busted today.

See ya soon…………

 contact the six-year old at kfbreckenridge@live.com

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March 24 • Dad’s new office in Sparks

Go to the first tale in this adventure

 

_BandstandWell, we’ve been here in Reno for a couple weeks; school will be starting soon down the hill at Mary S. Doten. Dad got a job as a real estate man working for an agent named Charles H. Skipper, whose office is in Sparks, a little town just east of Reno. Dad said he thinks it will grow pretty fast with a guy named George Probasco, building houses that the guys getting out of the service will be buying.

Dad took me out to Sparks this Saturday morning. We went out the Lincoln Highway, past a lot of old pre-war businesses and some “auto courts” that I’ll tell you all about one of these times when I’m writing again. But this morning I start our walk at his office, in a little tiny house on A Street. The main drag through Sparks is the Lincoln Highway, but in Sparks it’s called “B Street.” Skipper’s office is on “A Street,” south of the highway and on the south side of a pretty little park called the “Reserve” by the Union Pacific Railroad when they moved to Sparks in 1903. It was reserved for a park for employees of the railroad, and had sat there for 40 years, grassy with nice walkways, early light fixtures and a small eight-sided “Queen Anne” bandbox on the east end of the Reserve  (pictured above). It started at about 12th Street which in time to come would be a casino called the Nugget, and went from there east a long ways, toward what I’d learn in 1955 would be a bunch of great big tanks to hold oil and gas and stuff, starting about 4th Street. Getting myself adjusted, I figured out that 8th Street would become known as “Pyramid Way” because it went to Pyramid Lake.

SP Sparks roundhouseThe railroad’s property was fenced, on a line which started south of dad’s new office on A Street. There were a couple of gates, the big one that most of the employees used was at the foot of 8th Street, Pyramid Way. Just beyond that gate was the railroad’s “roundhouse,” a big building to turn locomotives with. I didn’t know it that morning but in a few years it would be torn down and its bricks used all over Reno and Sparks. There was another big building to the east of the roundhouse, where the railroad worked on its locomotives. During the war, which was just ended, a wing was added to the east of that brick building. There were big locomotives everywhere, with silver fronts and their smokestacks in the back, which was different than what I saw in El Cerrito when we lived there. And you could hear (and smell!) them from blocks away from the railyard.

 I met Mr. Shelly that morning with dad. He was a neat guy who owned a hardware store a little ways up Pyramid Way by the airport. He knew all about the railroads, and told me that there was over 30 miles of side tracks in the Sparks railroad yard. The ground had been built up in 1903  before the railroad laid all that track, with dirt that had been brought in from a little place west of Reno by a street that would later be called Stoker. But this was 1946, so I didn’t know that street’s name then. He told me that when the railroad opened their railyard they brought in over 1,000 tons of coal and made a big pile of it to use in their engines

The engines were built for the snow sheds west of town, with the engineers’ seats in the front and air pumped into the cab, to keep the smoke out when they were in the tunnels on the big mountain west of Reno. Boy, I can’t wait to go up and see those snow sheds and tunnels! I’ll write about it here when I do! The railroad bought a lot of those locomotives. Mr. Shelly told me that at one time over a hundred of them were built by Baldwin Locomotive in Philadelphia and towed to Sparks. He gave dad and I a ride in his pickup to the far end of the railyard, where we went over 14 sets of tracks, I counted ‘em, on Stanford Way to cross the yard. The street was named for Mr. Stanford, one of the railroad’s owners. And it was later closed to cars. One day in the mid-1950s they would start building those tanks, but we didn’t know that then.

FiremanSparks was a fun town to walk around in while dad worked selling houses. I’d go often with him on Saturdays. The Reserve got a lot of use with kids like me during the day and in the evening they’d have band concerts and dances in the little bandbox. There was a library across B Street that took good care of kids. On a sad note I remember a procession one morning with firemen marching slowly alongside Sparks Fire Department’s pumper truck. All its hoses were removed and a casket with a flag over it was in the hose bay. Dad said it was for the Sparks fire chief, who died fighting a fire in Reno at the Greyhound bus station on Lake Street. That was August 1948, and I think everybody in Sparks and many from Reno were on the lawn at the Reserve. That really stuck in my mind for a long time. There’s a memorial statue now for fallen firemen on Pyramid Way.

There were some nice stores on the north side of B Street. One all us kids liked was theAdams Sparks Bootery, where you could stand on a gadget and see your feet and all the bones and stuff inside your shoes, in a weird green color that looked right through your shoes! Another neat store was a friend of dad’s, Mr. Adams, who was the official watch repair guy for the railroad. He took care of all the railroaders, who had to own a certain kind of watch, and have it inspected each year. He had a big board full of pocket watches that he’d loan to the engineers and conductors while their own watch was being tested. I got lucky and got to have one  of those old “loaners” in later life.  

 Well, dad’s calling me now across the park so I’m going to go. We’ll meet again soon – there’s a lot more places to walk in Reno and school will be starting soon and I’ll be off to kindergarten! Maybe I’ll be a better writer then, come back and we’ll see……

 Contact the six-year old at kfbreckenridge@live.com

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March 18 • Lumberyards and Ironworks!

Go the post that started this all…

kf_headshotI’ve grown braver in the past few weeks and discovered that my parents aren’t watching me like a hawk so this fine August 1946 morning I’m going to take a real walk, all the way down the Ralston hill to Fifth Street, buy another Bazooka bubble gum stick at Beetchen’s Cottage Market just east of Ralston and keep going. There’s a neat little brick house across the street from the market, surely a Delongchamps design with his hexagonal turret trademark. I’d learn later that it was owned by Mr. Brown, who with his partner Mr. Milbery fixed electric motors.

I crossed Nevada Street and turned to my right on Chestnut Street. Dad said that if oneBelmontApartments walked to the Truckee River on Chestnut Street, that he’d then be on Belmont Street, until he walked all the way up the hill to California Avenue, then he’d be on Arlington Avenue – same street, three names. And dad knew Belmont Street – he soon took an account for his new office as the manager of the Belmont Apartments on the corner of California Avenue and Belmont [above]. A nice building; the lobby reminded me of the lobby of the Majestic Theater. We’ll walk down there someday.

This is pretty neat! Since I started writing down what I’ve seen on these walks this is the furthest east I’ve been. I’d left the “two-one” section of Reno, and was now in the 1947 Fire ladder“two-two.” Reno’s fire department separated the town into 12 districts, with the “one” being south of the train tracks and the “two” being north. The second number divided the town into six zones, “one” being the furthest west, where I lived, and becoming larger as one went east. I had now passed into the “two” zone – the “two-two.” The fire bell in the belfry of the fire station on Commercial Row would ring two bells, then two more to tell the volunteers where the fire was if it was here. Before they had more sophisticated systems. But no fire today (that’s Reno’s new 1947 aerial truck in the picture…)

Walking down Chestnut, I passed Reno’s only high school. It actually faced West Street, away from me. I passed a row of nice, small wooden houses that would one day be removed to make a playground for the school. And I passed one house that had been turned into Reno High’s music department after it was given to the Reno School District. (I learned in later life that in 1955 the Reno School District would join 16 other Washoe County districts, and nothing would go right since  until complete paralysis set in. Too bad.)

30070 cab forwardApproaching the railroad tracks I passed my new friend Ty Cobb’s house on the east side of the street. His dad worked for the newspaper. I could hear the whistle on a locomotive so I waited for it to cross Chestnut Street. It was a “cab-forward,” sometimes called a “Mallet” which it wasn’t but that name hung on. The last Mallet went through Reno in 1929 but the cab-forwards were still “Malleys” – and boy did it lay a plume of smoke. No one ever talked about that but it really stunk up the town when it went through.

I kept walking after the train passed (did I tell you that I pretended to pull the whistle cord when the engineer passed, and he responded with a little yank on the loco’s whistle, and a big grin…? I meant to…) Beyond the tracks, passing Commercial Row, was a neat building on the east side of the street, between Commercial Row and Second Street. I poked my head in one of the big doors to see what it was, and saw sparks flying everywhere and heard a large din. It was Reno Iron Works, where men would cut and weld and fabricate steel into all sorts of things, like fire escapes and porch rails and stairwells and stuff. I learned later that Mr. Ginocchio started it in 1922 with a friend of mine’s dad, Mr. Avansino. Mr. Ginocchio’s daughter, Andrea, was to become my babysitter! She later married a doctor named Pelter and took over the iron works when her father passed away, but this was only 1946 as I write this so I don’t know any of it this morning. They gave me a tour, and I learned that most of the ironworkers lived in Little Italy, where I walked a week ago. There was another steel plant in Reno, owned by Mr. Schwamb, and all the workers there were either German or Italian. We’ll walk out East Fourth Street some day and see if they’ll let me in so I can tell you about it.

lumberyardburnerAnd so it goes – I walked to Second Street and turned back west again to go home. I hit Ralston Street, and turned right to start up the hill. There was a motel being built on the corner, the B-Gay Motel, the sign said. But the neatest thing on Ralston Street in 1946 was the White Pine Lumber yard on the east side of the street, just south of the tracks with a three-story-high wood burner [left]. This is where Mr. Jaksick made “Presto-Logs,” compressed sawdust held together by the pitch from the pine trees, that were clean to handle and burned quite nicely. Three years later when my dad was chairman of the Berlin airlift train campaign that took stuff to Berlin, in Germany I think, when it was blockaded. A PrestoLogphenomenal number of these Presto-Logs were brought by Reno residents to the new Sewell’s Store on Sierra Street and were loaded onto the S.P. train bound for New York City harbor on a Saturday morning, to keep those German people warm. That’s a good story; someday I’ll write about that, but it wouldn’t happen for three more years so I can’t this morning.

But – on a frigid night in January, January 11th, it was in 1952, the Presto-Log storage area picked up a spark, and the stored logs plus the building plus a couple of other buildings at White Pine Lumber went up like a torch in a fire they could see from Truckee (well, not really…) and our town, relying heavily on those logs for heat, had none. Mr. Jaksick had another plant in Alturas, so he started bringing logs from there, but they were a little bit more expensive – five dollars for sixty logs. Two things beg to be told here: My dad at one point picked up a trunkful of Presto-Logs in our 1941 Chevrolet coupe. It was a straight shot up Ralston Street to our home across from Whitaker Park, but the logs were too much for the Chevy’s little “Blue Flame” six-cylinder engine. He damn near fried the clutch, then stopped the car at the bottom of the hill by my friend Marilyn Burkham’s house (“Ma Bell!”) and left me to guard them as he drove off with what the Chevy could handle, then came back and got me and the rest of the logs.

The second thing as I re-read this that I’ll include, is that Mr. Jaksick had a son a little older than I whom many of us know, and it was this younger (late) Sam Jaksick’s dad, Sam Sr., who built the sawmill by the railroad tracks.

Frandsen ApartmentsAnyway, I cross the Lincoln Highway now – West Fourth Street – and start to trudge up the Ralston Street hill for home. I passed the elegant Frandsen Apartments to my right toward downtown Reno. If you want, we could all walk together a half-block east on Fifth Street, to the Cottage Grocery and get some more treats.

See ya back here in a few days – I’m getting into this walking-and-writing groove, don’t know where we’ll go next…

write the six-year-old author at kfbreckenridge@live.com

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