Tragedy

Growing up, I remember my dad telling the tale of how his aunt lost her arm in a nighttime train wreck. It was such a wild story, but without a lot of details, so my imagination filled them in. We still had her prosthetic arm in the attic or the garage--which was always kind of creepy. I inherited that arm and still have it stored in my garage... it seems like it could be useful as either a valuable historical artifact or a creepy Halloween prop. So far I've resisted putting it out on Halloween. My daughter says I should make it look like it is coming out of the ground.

Well, the scales just tipped toward the historical, when I found an old newspaper clipping:

When I saw this, I knew that despite the misspelled name, it was about "Mrs. Meek," my dad's aunt. I was so excited to learn the July 13, 1913 date of the "Vineyard train wreck" and the rest of the story. My entire life, I had always wondered about it--where, when, why, how--and I could finally learn what happened. And interestingly, to those involved, I'm sure it reinforced the concept of the number 13 being unlucky.

It was eight years before my dad was born. It was on a moonlit Sunday night when packed trains were returning to downtown L.A. from Venice Beach. A trolley wire was out and two cars stopped on the tracks in the darkness in a remote spot. A third car slammed into them. There were 15 deaths and 100 injuries. Many safety improvements resulted from this incident and the resulting investigation. This article tells the story.

I was able to find two more clippings associated with this one. The next was much like the first, with the same misspelling of Mrs. Meek's name, and was just as gory and sensational, with the dollar value of the gems doubled:

The third, thankfully less-gory, was the one that got her name right and confirmed that indeed it was Mrs. Meek:

Mrs. Meek was born Evalena Starr on August 5, 1880. This means she was almost 33 years old when she lost her arm in the train wreck. In the 1910 census she and her husband Frank (married in 1907) lived on Jefferson St., but by the 1920 census they had moved into the two-story three-unit family home at 2952, 2954, and 2956 Hobart Street. Her sister Lillian's family (Lillian, husband Owen, and son Jimmy) who had lived in 2952 Hobart St. in 1910 with Domitila and Ida had moved out by 1920. From then on, the Meeks rented the downstairs unit of 2954 Hobart Street from Mrs. Meek's mother, Domitila. 

Domitila, a Spanish Californio, knew tragedy--three of her eight kids died as children. Two, including my grandmother's twin, died as babies.

Mrs. Meek's sister Ida (one of the five siblings surviving to adulthood and my grandmother) and Charles G. Reis (my grandfather) were married in 1915, and during the 1920 census my grandparents lived upstairs at 2952 Hobart with Domitila. Charles G., a carpenter, raised the house and built the downstairs units before the 1920 census. The Meeks were in the 2954 unit, and Domitila rented out the downstairs 2956 unit to non-family. 

My dad was born in 1921 when his parents moved to Torrance, where Charles G. was a carpenter and cabinetmaker at the Pacific Electric Railway shops. My dad was an only child, and had no first cousins on his mom's side. 

The next tragedy struck when my dad was 3 years old. His dad, Charles G., born in Minnesota, was beaten up for being of German ancestry, had brain damage, and spent the rest of his life from 1924 to 1955 in Norwalk State Hospital. Ida sold the Torrance house and moved with my dad back in with her mom, Domitila, to the upstairs unit at 2952 Hobart St. in L.A., where my dad's Uncle Henry, a barber, also lived. Ida worked in the Pacific Electric office while my dad's grandma took care of him. On Sundays my dad and his mom would travel to Redondo Beach on the red cars. 

As of the 1930 census, they had the same living arrangements, with my dad's family and his grandma and Uncle Henry upstairs, and Mrs. Meek and Uncle Frank downstairs. By 1940 another aunt, Myra, had moved in and took over the cooking, but her husband Fred didn't live there according to the census.

My dad grew up living with his mother, grandmother, and aunts and uncles, all under the same roof. He went to college for six months, but then his mom got sick and he got various jobs to support her. His grandma Domitila died at age 97 in June 1942. Two months later he lost his Uncle Henry at age 70. In 1950, four days before my dad's birthday, his mom died. After a nervous breakdown, my dad was in a mental hospital from 1952-1958, under the guardianship of his Aunt Myra. She petitioned for him to be restored to capacity, which occurred on May 20, 1958, then she died on July 15th. His only remaining aunts were Lillian, who lived in the East Bay and died a year later, and Mrs. Meek.

Mrs. Meek's husband--my dad's Uncle Frank, a mechanic, then a tire shop owner, later a gardener--had died in 1954. In 1961, when Mrs. Meek was 80, she had outlived all of her relatives except my dad, and was living at the Santa Anita Sanitarium in exchange for her county pension. A January 1961 letter from my dad to a doctor said she wanted him to use her remaining savings to try to rehabilitate her leg that had been rendered useless by a 1957 stroke and a 1959 fall that resulted in a pin being placed in her hip, but during rehabilitation it was too painful to move.

Mrs. Meek died, oddly enough, on July 13, 1961, the same month and day as the train wreck that amputated her arm 48 years previously on July 13, 1913, 113 years ago.

Succession

Primary succession is the process of lichen, algae, fungi, and eventually plants establishing themselves on new ground without soil. This could be a lava flow, or an area uncovered by a retreating glacier. Secondary succession is the process of plants re-establishing in areas already covered by soil, for example after a fire.

Riverine succession sometimes is primary (on large deep barren sandbar deposits) or secondary (where sediment deposition is shallow or doesn't bury pre-existing vegetation.

Primary succession usually takes longer than secondary succession.

Pushing back on Yosemite's new $100 fee for non-residents

I went to Yosemite Valley on Sunday. At the entrance station, I was asked if I and everyone in my car was a citizen or legal resident. I answered in the affirmative, but was struck by how awful it felt to be asked that question and have to answer in order to enter Yosemite National Park. It felt like the MAGA police state intruding on our beloved National Parks with its ugly, cruel, unwelcoming policies. People seeking refuge in nature should have as few barriers as possible preventing them from accessing that solace.

So I told the ranger it was a terrible question to ask. She said she had to ask it. I responded that as a citizen, I had to tell her that it was a terrible question to have to ask. She recommended that I speak to her higher ups including the Park Superintendent. So I sent a message through Yosemite's Contact Us form.

My message:

Dear Superintendent: When I entered Yosemite on Sunday, I was asked if I and everyone in my car was a citizen or legal resident. To be asked this question in the United States of America when entering a National Park felt offensive and disrespectful to our country's long-held values and traditions. In addition, the new $100 fee is regressive, targeting those who might least be able to afford it. I encourage you to remove this unwelcoming fee targeting visitors to our country and replace it with a $1 million fee for billionaires to enter the park. If I was asked if I was a billionaire, it would not have been offensive, since if I were one I would be happy to contribute less than a tenth of a percent of my wealth (which is comparable to the current policy since $100 represents a tenth of a percent of a $100,000 annual income). Changing this policy as I suggest would make our National Parks more inclusive and welcoming to all visitors and would raise far more funds in support of the Parks. Thank you for considering my comments and being welcoming to all visitors to our National Parks, no matter where they come from.

I encourage others to express similar sentiments. And I encourage National Park Service employees to resist authoritarian impulsive unwelcoming policies of the current lawless presidential administration any way they feel they can, until the day we have a Constitution and law-respecting president return to the White House.

Catching up on the February Storms

 It doesn't feel right to let this rainy season fade away without writing about the February storms--especially when they included a rare thunderstorm, and some were bigger than the December storm, which I did write about. So here it is May, the fourth average or wetter-than-average year in a row, and while the soil is already cracking due to the dry spring (although March was average with 6.3" of rain), things look good: the grasses are tall and there is still much green, and the now-disappearing flowers have been wonderful. And a pleasant surprise--the invasive deeply evil (in California, I'm sure it is nice where it is native) star thistle seems to be crowded out by other plants in many areas.

2025 water year total to-date is 47.87" as of the end of May.

Let's turn the clock back to February.

West of Huntoon Spring

"Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on the map?" --Aldo Leopold

There is a USGS topographic map in the 7.5-minute series called “West of Huntoon Spring.” Maps in this series are typically named for prominent features that occur on the map. “West of Huntoon Spring” has no notable features that are worthy of a map name, so it is named for a feature on the map that is to the east: Huntoon Spring. This empty spot is simply “West of Huntoon Spring.”

Disasters occur when humans get in the way of a natural process

Building in hazard zones creates a lot of emotional trauma through evacuations, rescues, property damage, injury, and death. Not just once, but repeatedly each time the hazard occurs. This type of short-sighted building ignores natural processes and creates disasters where there don't need to be any.

The Costs of Restoration

The Point Reyes Light published my essay in its March 12, 2025 issue. It was edited for space, and the editor suggested I add what I think of the Seashore ranching situation--that version lost some of the nuances of the first draft, which I present below. I like both versions--the published one I'm happy with, but there are a few elements in the first draft I wish could have been included.

3/28/25 update: In the March 27th issue, a letter to the editor says that my "argument wanders between philosophy, policy, and personal anecdotes without ever arriving at a conclusion." He wouldn't like my blog--wandering between philosophy, policy, and personal anecdotes is a good description of it. It is why I am here and hopefully why you are here on this blog--to gain thoughtful insights. And sometimes conclusions. The letter writer also said my "commentary lacks a clear position or actionable recommendations."  I think the editor's suggestion to add my thoughts on the Seashore situation muddled the point a bit, because my main point wasn't about the Seashore--it was about the commentary that had elements that I disagreed with. I do have a clear position and recommendations for the process--my points are all about the process. Process matters. The outcome will be right if the process is done right. The letter writer said he ended up "confused and lost," to use my words about the other commentary and point them right back at me. Perhaps I could have been clearer, and this page hopefully does that.