Big game hunting and the Snow Museum

This originally appeared in the Montclarion Dec. 7, 1999. Images courtesy of the Oakland History Room.

Today, Snow Park is a wonderful triangle of green space that provides respite to weary office workers, those hoping to improve their putting skills and anyone who enjoys the smell of cut grass after the industrial mowers do their job. Not too long ago, however, safari animals left the veldt with bullets in their hides and were resurrected here with sawdust innards in the Snow Museum.

The Snow Museum began in 1922, when big game hunter Henry Snow donated his massive collection of animal pelts and 50,000 bird eggs to the city, with the proviso that the city construct a fireproof museum to house them. Instead, the city turned over a 30-room mansion located on 19th Street between Harrison and Alice.

At first, no one came. Mayor Davies had to have a sign painted to let people know that a taxidermist’s dream was inside. Unfortunately, not all of the collection, valued at $2 million, could be displayed: the ceilings were not tall enough, for example, for the mounted giraffes. While two tons of materials were on display, 25 tons were in boxed storage.

Snow considered the three white rhinos the greatest treasure of the collection, since there was only one small band of white rhinos still roaming the planet. Apparently he missed the point that killing three of them made still less! The largest weighed 5,000 pounds with a 22-inch horn and was never exhibited because it was too large for the mansion’s rooms.

Snow’s exploits, one has to reluctantly admit, were very exciting.In 1923, he traveled to the Arctic and was charged by a Kodiak bear, which he dispatched with a bullet to the eye. Scrambling over an ice floe threatening to upend itself, he recovered the body of a felled walrus. He met Amundsen, discoverer of the South Pole, and found mastodon bones with 11-foot tusks. As if this trip wasn’t adventurous enough, his boat was almost crushed by ice.

Snow’s son Sidney carried on the pith helmet tradition. In 1924, he also hit the Arctic and discovered the bodies of four frozen Canadian scientists who had been caught in a blizzard. Sidney Snow attempted to harpoon whales who (you’ll like this) fought back, nearly tipping over his vessel. An 1,800-pound polar bear captured by Sidney lost 300 pounds on the voyage down from the Arctic, which sounds hopefully like this bear was a live exhibit. Sidney also brought back two Eskimos who expressed great amazement at the size of San Francisco.

The fireproof facility promised by the city never came. In a huff, Snow threatened to donate the collection to San Francisco instead, although he preferred to keep the animals in Oakland. “I am for Oakland first, last and all the time,” he said.

(Civic pride was a beautiful thing in those days. Snow and his son had made motion picture films of their sojourns in Africa, and at a screening at the Hotel Oakland in 1922, crowds cheered the sight of the word “Oakland” imprinted on the side of a safari vehicle.)

In 1924, Snow and a corporation of businessmen raised $1 million and offered to lend it to the city to build the museum. The city attorney deemed such action illegal, although today it wouldn’t be—we might have had the Oakland Museum 50 years earlier! Architect Maury Diggs, who built the fabulous Fox Theater on Telegraph Avenue, went so far as to draw up plans for the proposed but never-built museum.

Snow had a lot of grand schemes. He wanted the city to dig a 40-foot-deep cave on the Lakeshore edge of Lake Merritt, which he would supply with lions, rhinos, hippos and “a giraffe or two.” The kicker was that there would be no bars to cage the animals: they would be curbed only by a water-filled moat that would be too wide for them to jump and too deep to negotiate. Needless to say, the idea didn’t get off the ground.

As part of the white rhinos’ revenge, Snow died in 1927 of Blackwater Fever, apparently contracted during his African expedition. The museum carried on under the curatorship of Snow’s daughter, Nydine Latham. Latham once said of the taxidermy collection, “I don’t feel as if (the animals) are dead because they have been so well preserved and can remain that way for ages if properly cared for.”

In 1961, the parcel had a close call. The Sheraton Hotel wanted to demolish the Snow Museum and build a 10-story, $7 million hotel. Back in 1922 when the museum was established, City Council had voted $140,000 to purchase the three adjoining lots so that a park would surround the museum. Luckily, the decision-makers in 1961 remembered the commitment to green space and the proposal died.

In 1967, the Snow Museum finally closed. By that time, stuffed animals had fallen into disfavor, and the collection was viewed as very dusty and dismal. Most of the creatures were auctioned off; perhaps your grandmother has a dik-dik in her garage. A few pieces were retained by the new Oakland Museum, which merged three museums: the first Oakland Museum at the Camron-Stanford House, the art gallery housed in the Oakland Auditorium, and the Snow Museum.

So the next time you sit in the lushness of Snow Park to eat your bag lunch, remember the beasts with bared fangs that soundlessly prowled their artificial habitats.

This first appeared in the Montclarion in November 1999.

There is a delightful book in the Oakland History Room called Social Etiquette, or Manners and Customs of Polite Society.

Written in 1896 by Maud C. Cooke, the book was put out by an Oakland publisher, Occidental Publishing Co. The book provides everything from placement of finger bowls to how to properly court a lover.

In a section entitled, “Errors of Lovemaking,” Cooke discloses that a woman who has captured a man’s heart “can get out of him, and do with him, anything possible she pleases. The charming and fascinating power of serpents over birds is as nothing compared with that a woman can wield over a man.” Not that I’ve ever seen snakes hypnotizing birds, but it’s an effective metaphor.

Cooke even provides sample text for a marriage proposal: “I crave to make you my wife; to live with and for you, and proffer you my whole being, with honest, assiduous toil, fidelity to business, what talents I possess, and all I can do to contribute to your creature comforts. May I enshrine you as the queen of my life?” it reads in part.

How could any woman resist this mammoth, eight-paragraph flowery proposal? She’d have to marry the man in pure admiration of his ability to memorize such lengthy text.

Of course, Cooke provides a template acceptance speech, four paragraphs long, containing the newly affianced woman’s amusing observation, “Thank Heaven that the matter is settled.”

At the turn of the century, grapes were eaten in a very delicate manner. The pulp was squeezed into the mouth and the skin of the grape laid on one side of the plate. Another alimentary oddity was a party called a “Chocolataire,” in which every food and beverage contained chocolate.

As the bicycle was relatively new at the time of the book’s writing, there is an entire chapter devoted to bicycle etiquette. A man was expected to assist a woman in mounting her bike, by holding her wheel. As she began to cycle away on the “machine,” she would do so very slowly, to give him time to mount his and catch up.

He was also to help her dismount, although in the meantime she was to “assist herself as much as possible.” To “furnish” a bike, it was de rigueur to have a clock and a bell, a luggage carrier and cyclometer.

Know anything about calling cards? This very mysterious process still remains veiled in shadows for me after reading about their use.

When a visitor went to see someone and that person was not at home, the visitor would leave a card with his name on it, to show that he had been there.

However, sometimes cards came by mail, apparently simply to announce one’s presence. In fact, if a person had come physically to the house, he would fold a corner of the card to denote that fact. The card was folded down the middle if the entire family had accompanied the person named on the card. Further, separate cards would be left for the man and the woman of the house. Inexplicably, the man of the house received two cards, as if he would need one for each eyeball.

Of course, correspondence in this pre-telephone era was a matter of extreme importance. Woman are granted the privilege of using “very faintly perfumed paper,” and Cooke suggests they always use the same fragrance, so “correspondents could tell her missives with closed eyes.”

Diagrams are given of correct and incorrect ways to hold the pen, as well as how to sit while writing. Interestingly, Cooke advises burning all letters after answering them, but simultaneously warns to date all correspondence, as “events and proof of the greatest importance have hung upon the date of a single letter,” which would suppose that the letter was kept.

One last snippet of information: hangnails used to be called “agnails,” and cuticles were called “scarf-skin.”

Note: When I went back to the Oakland History Room to look for this book I wrote about back in 1999, it had subsequently disappeared from the shelves. These images were found on canadiana.org, a website that has scanned every page of the book. It’s a good thing the book exists electronically since its paper and glue counterpart has gone missing.

Your first and last chance to be scared
This first appeared in the Montclarion Sept. 9, 2001. Images courtesy of the Oakland History Room.

Not only was Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon Jack London’s favorite haunt in life, it possibly still is now that he’s occupying a barstool on the Other Side.

This 1880 structure, so tiny that it once served as a bunkhouse for oyster men (and even then one imagines a snorer could be hit awake by simply stretching an arm from one bunk to the other), was reportedly built from the timbers of a whaling ship.

History is visceral here: When walking in, one immediately notes the sharp slant of the floor, caused by the 1906 earthquake. A clock which stopped at the time of the quake still displays the time as 5:18. Gas lamps (for which proprietor Carol Brookman is having more and more difficulty procuring chimneys and wicks) imbue the saloon with the soft glow of another century.

But that’s not all that remains.

“There is a spirit here,” says Brookman. “Who or what I don’t know. But it’s exciting and we like it.”

Brookman says she and a former employee once saw a “fleeting shadow” shaped like a man in a back area of the bar, although there is no window in that area to cast a shadow.

And twice she has heard footsteps in the bar, while she was alone and had locked herself in — footsteps so definitive and loud that she got out of her chair in the office to go look. “I’m not kidding you,” she says. “The footsteps didn’t sound like an old man’s footsteps, more like a younger person with a little more spring in their step.”  She adds that the steps sounded like those from a man’s old-fashioned leather boots.

Manager Joe Ferrazzano has been plagued by a ghost who tends to drop things. He has heard what sounds like an entire case of beer being dropped when he was alone in the saloon, and a bottle cap mysteriously plummeting to the middle of a just-sweeped floor (Not very eerie to report, it was a Bud Lite cap.)

More significantly, the hat of Johnny Heinold (who first opened shop in 1883) came off the wall and was laying on the floor. “There’s no way it would fall off,” says Ferrazzano. “There was no breeze; the front doors were closed.”

And Ferrazzano and his son Vinnie were astonished one night, after closing and cleaning, to see that the two refrigerators, embedded in the original iceboxes, had their doors splayed wide open. “That was the freakiest, because there’s no way in hell those doors would have opened,” said Ferrazzano.

“We’re very strict about keeping those closed,” adds Brookman.

Ferrazzano believes he can identify the culprit: “It was Heinold. I’m pretty sure.” His reasoning: the fact that the ghost seems to be a beer lover.

Brookman seems to think the spirit might be one of the many patrons who passed through the bar throughout the years. She mentions that the back door once opened directly onto the water, and men were “shanghai’d” out that door. Shanghai’ing was the practice of kidnapping someone to serve as a sailor. Often, drunk men would wake up to find themselves on a vessel already underway on a two or three year voyage.

“If you misbehaved in here, there were always sea captains and people looking for men,” says Brookman. She added that the waterfront was once a very dangerous place where women never ventured, until about the 1920s or so.

Illustrious patrons who may have left some ectoplasm on site include Jack London, of course, President William Taft, Robert Louis Stevenson, Joaquin Miller, Ambrose Bierce and a name one may not recognize: Alexander McLean, who was the model for Wolf Larsen in Jack London’s “The Sea Wolf.”

Besides ghosts, the bar can boast that everything in it is original except the chairs. The tables came from a whaling ship. The copper beer traps, still extant, which once caught the runoff from the taps were regularly emptied and the contents given to delivery horses in troughs outside.

“It’s wonderful to have this in an urban area,” says Brookman. “You can’t even find something like this in Gold Country.”

The intriguing name comes from the fact that the bar is situated on the waterfront— naturally, the first and last chance to lift a jar on terra firma.

The saloon has some exciting news: As of Sept. 1, 2000 it was listed with the National Register of Historic Places.

So if one’s in search of a place to have a Halloween drink in an historic setting, head down to the waterfront. But keep an eye on your beverage: As Ferrazzano set down a drink in front of me a few weeks ago, he quipped “You better drink it fast — Heinold might drink it for you!”

This first appeared in the Montclarion May 7, 2004. Images courtesy of Bud Veirs.

The hills neighborhood of Glenview may seem like a fairly pleasant little area, but once violence here was so severe it made Gangs of New York look like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. That’s right, gang warfare once rocked these placid streets.

Our story starts on Galvin Street, a one-block street situated west of Park Boulevard. Here, in the seemingly peaceful bungalows, trouble brewed. The youths of Galvin Street were hardboiled toughs, and in the mid-1920s the tension overflowed. The Galvin Street Gang launched all-out warfare against the other crew in the neighborhood, the kids on Elbert Street.

My informant is Bud Veirs, a former Galvin Street gangster now living in Placerville. He is 87, and recently spent a day with me giving me all the dope about Glenview. He grew up in the house at 1025 Galvin St., the second house to be built on the block. He and his siblings would play in the vacant lot next door. They "borrowed" lumber from the piles for new construction and constructed treehouses in the high eucalyptus trees behind their house. They also dug out caves in the lot to enrich their imagination-filled play, and roasted potatoes with a stovepipe stove they manufactured. But behind such innocence, trouble was stirring, just as surely as new houses were being built.

Soon, Galvin Street was a real neighborhood, with houses tucked closely together. And in each house was a kid or two: a perfect recipe for calamity.

On just this short street, a dozen kids of roughly the same age now lived. And they stretched their necks to look across the canyon that divided their street from Elbert Street, and saw that there were other youngsters over there. Those kids looked back at them, malevolently.

"They’d come over and raid us," Veirs told me. "I was the littlest one of the group and I’d climb into the crow’s nest (one of the treehouses he’d built) and they’d throw rocks at it."

The Galvin Street Gang fought back. "We’d heave clay over to the Elbert Street gang on sticks," he said.

We should all be grateful there is anything at all left of Glenview today!

Veirs was able to case the joint, by delivering broadsides around the neighborhood. He complained to me that he had to bring the paper all the way up to each person’s porch, and that the steep nature of San Sebastian Avenue made it the "toughest."

Veirs attended Oakland High School, and walked there via a footpath that began in his neighborhood. He and his friends played football up on Everett Street, but "old man Hirsch," who lived just around the corner would always call the police on the loud players. Veirs got him back once by having a friend ring the doorbell. When Hirsch opened the door, Veirs was standing across the street with an egg, which he hurled directly into the man’s house. Then, as was requisite, he ran like crazy.

As we drove around the area, Veirs told me that where Radio Shack is used to be a meat market. This market had live chickens and would pay kids to sit outside and "pick" them. The Blackberry Bistro used to be a drugstore. The Savemore Market was owned by a Santa Clara football star. The Cutting Place has always been a hair salon, but back then the haircuts were 50 cents. He pointed out the neighborhood residence of the junkman, who used to go door to door to pick up people’s used goods, a trade that no longer exists today.

We drove down Trestle Glen, and he showed me the approximate location of the horsebarns that once nestled there. "Nobody knows about the horsebarns?" Veirs was amazed I hadn’t heard of them. About a hundred feet from Trestle Glen, near where it begins to rise up to Park Boulevard, there was a barn of 40 horses, all employed to grade the road so Trestle Glen could be built. Veirs remembers when it was a narrow dirt street with no houses. He also remembers that the train to catch the ferry to San Francisco could be caught there. From Elbert Street, commuters would climb down the street hill for their ride.

There’s so much more Veirs told me, and so much more he has yet to tell, but I’ll have to end here. I had a great day hearing the neighborhood’s history from someone who knew it so well. Veirs wonders if there are any folks around who lived in the area in the 1920s – he’d love to be in contact with them. Write or email me and I’ll forward your information to him.

And if you find your way to Galvin Street, carry a big stick.