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J. A. Graves - Out of Doors - California and Oregon
Fifty years ago in California, conditions of rural life were necessarily hard. Our habitations were but little
more than shelter from the elements. We had none of the conveniences of modern life. At our house we
always made our own tallow candles. We hardened the candles by mixing beeswax with the tallow. We
made the beeswax from comb of the honey taken from bee trees. We corned our own beef and made
sauerkraut by the barrel for winter use. We canned our own fruit, made jelly and jam from wild berries
and wild grapes. We selected perfect ears of corn, shelled it at home, ran it through a fanning machine,
and then had the corn ground into meal for our own consumption. We raised our own poultry and made
our own butter and cheese, with plenty to sell; put up our own lard, shoulders, ham and bacon and made
our own hominy. The larder was always well filled. The mother of a family was its doctor. A huge dose
of blue mass, followed by castor oil and quinine, was supposed to cure everything, and it generally did.
In the cities luxuries were few. To own a piano was the privilege of the very wealthy.
Speaking of pianos, in the flood of 1863, before Marysville was protected by its levee, which is now
twenty-five feet high, the family cow swam into the parlor of one of the best mansions of the town,
through the window. When the flood waters had subsided, she was found drowned on top of the piano.
Life under the conditions here given was necessarily hard. Our amusements were few. We, who lived in
the country, had plenty of good air and sound sleep-two things often denied the city resident. Our sports
were few and simple, but of such a nature that they toughened the fiber and strengthened the muscles of
our bodies, thus fitting us to withstand the heavy drafts on our vitality that the hurly-burly of modern life
entails upon the race.
Last Quail Shoot of the Year 1911
Were I musically inclined, I could very appropriately sing, "Darling, I Am Growing Old." The realization
of this fact, as unwelcome as it is, is from time to time forced upon me.
On Friday, November 10, 1911, I went to the Westminster Gun Club, in an open machine, through wind
and storm. Got up the next morning at 5 o'clock, had a duck shoot, drove back thirty miles to Los
Angeles, arriving there at 11:30 a. m. At 1 o'clock I drove to my home, and at 2 o'clock was off for Ferris
Valley on a quail shoot. Had a good outing, with much hard labor. The next day I got home at half past
five, completely done up.
As I went to retire, I had a good, stiff, nervous chill. So you can well see that I can no longer stand
punishment, and am "growing old." As I lay there and shook, I said to myself, "Old fellow, you will soon
be a 'has-been.' Your gun and fishing rod will soon decorate your shooting case as ornaments, rather than
as things of utility." Ah, well, let it be so! The memory of pleasant days when youth and strength were
mine; days when the creel was full, and game limits came my way, will be with me still. I would not
exchange the experience I have had with rod and gun for all the money any millionaire in the world
possesses.
On my trip to the grounds of the Quail Valley Land Company, some thirty miles below Riverside, two
members of the club and my wife accompanied me. We were in one of my good, old reliable Franklin
cars, and from Ontario to Riverside we bucked a strong head wind that was cold and pitiless. It
necessarily impeded our progress, as we had on a glass front, and the top was up, and yet we made the
run of seventy-six miles in three hours and a quarter without ever touching the machine. In fact, none of
the party got out of the machine, from start to finish.
The big, open fireplace at Newport's home, and the bountiful, well-cooked supper with which we were
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