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By Elaine Farr
My Grandpa was a bootlegger. Not
the Kentucky-born, generational whiskey maker,
born
to brew in the backwoods. No, in fact, his father was a stern,
honest farmer. Grandpa, Edward F. Balmes, also known as Hap, was
born in Minnesota, but raised in Arizona. His father, John A. Balmes,
homesteaded first in Chandler, then in Phoenix, and Grandpa’s older
brother Roy was an honest, quiet and hardworking farmer. Roy’s
children grew up in Buckeye Arizona on a farm, and worked hard with
their parents. Now Grandpa, he was the black sheep of the family, a
bit of a rounder by all accounts, but friendly, outgoing and
generally loved by most of his acquaintances.
Well, the Revenue agents didn’t like him much, I’m sure… he
thoroughly enjoyed being a bootlegger, by all accounts, and reveled
in outrunning or outmaneuvering the ‘revenuers’. A family folklore
surrounded those years, that Grandpa went to prison for bootlegging.
A little digging brought up the prison record, which listed the
charges as ‘petty larceny’, for stealing a barrel of gas. When his
daughter Shirley was asked about this, she chuckled and said, ‘Oh
yeah! Dad used to laugh about that. He was delivering a barrel of
whiskey in Phoenix when the law started chasing him. Realizing he
would be caught, he raced into a gas station, dumped the whiskey,
grabbed a barrel of gas and raced out. He was stopped shortly after,
and the revenue agents mainly wanted his list of customers. Well,
that list included certain judges, attorneys, even the attorney
general, and he wasn’t about to give them up. Enraged by his lack of
cooperation, the agents saw to it that he was sent to prison for
stealing 25 gallons of gas, worth less than 5 dollars.’ He spent a
year there, in 1924, for a petty offense, not a felony! Needless to
say, there were many well placed politicians and professionals that
deeply appreciated his discretion, and they remained his friends all
of his life.
Hap met his wife when he stopped at a local Phoenix junk yard to
find some truck parts. Her father owned the store, and she worked
the cash register. She was a saucy, redheaded girl that stole his
heart. Shortly after his release from prison, he married Marie Pike,
and my father was born in 1926. They struggled to make a living, and
for a while Grandpa worked on his father’s farm. He told his wife,
‘We can work there, but don’t expect to be paid for it.’ Clearly,
the farming life was not to his liking, and he soon searched for
other work.
Sometime after Shirley was born in 1929, Grandpa and Grandma moved
to a tiny settlement in Yavapai County known as Goodwin. It was a
mining settlement in the rugged Bradshaw mountains. A bad road
linked it to Phoenix, which allowed Hap to mosey down to Phoenix
with a load of ‘demon alcohol’. That same bad road discouraged many
contacts from the outside, like the police or Internal Revenue
agents.
Dad and Shirley had many happy memories of Goodwin; catching wild
burros and training them for riding, roaming the hills with the few
other kids, as free as birds. My dad also has stories of the
families living on mining claims, eking out a living. Not all the
claims had much ore in them, and Dad spoke of ‘salting’ the mines.
When the mining commissioner was thought to be coming, some men,
(certainly not MY Grandpa!), would use a shotgun full of ‘color’,
either gold or silver, shot into the walls of a mine, to indicate
the mines were indeed viable and thus the claims would continue.
These people lived there with no electricity, running water, or even
a nearby store. Aunt Shirley was always careful with water, claiming
that anybody that had to haul water much would never waste it. My
Grandma became the Post Mistress there, which brought a certain
respectability to the family.
Grandpa owned a trucking business, and made some income by
dismantling mining equipment, hauling it to another mining site, and
then rebuilding the whole thing. My Dad remembered driving that
truck to Phoenix with a load of ‘hooch’, because Grandpa figured the
cops wouldn’t suspect a kid of hauling alcohol. Now those are the
ties that bind, huh?! Many years later, in the 60’s, Dad and Grandpa
owned a ranch in the Cordes Junction area, with Hap and Marie living
there. We kids had to sleep in the basement when we visited. I still
remember the bar down there, complete with a Coor’s waterfall ad. It
was a nice big picture of a moving waterfall and the Coors logo.
What was really unusual, I suppose, were the slot machines living
down there too. I remember the penny and nickel slots mostly,
because Grandpa would often give us a few coins to play with. Back
then the family insisted the bar was just a hang out for friends.
But- they lived far off the main road, a perfect place for a little
‘friendly gambling’. We came to realize he never really gave up his
‘wicked ways’! I know that while the bar remained, suddenly the slot
machines were missing, and questions about them by a curious little
girl were blithely ignored. I imagine somehow they were warned the
law was getting wise to their basement enterprise, and got rid of
the evidence before they got busted…. At least that’s my version of
it, who knows what the reality was, because no-one ever bothered to
tell us kids.
My dear Grandpa! While to some he may have been a ‘hardened
criminal’, to us he was delightful. He always had candy for us, and
would set all of the grandkids in his old jeep and drive slowly over
the bumpy dirt road for the ½ hour drive to the nearest gas station.
There he would allow us to pick out an ice cream cone or soda pop
while he chatted with the owner, filled the jeep with a little gas
and tell us stories all the way home. “Once upon a time and not two
times, when I was a little girl” was the way he started every story,
and believe me, he had lots of them!
I was 11 when he died, and I still remember the funeral. A Mormon
Bishop, a Catholic Priest and a Minister all presided at the
funeral, and many of his old political friends were there as well.
Easily 500 people attended, from all walks of life. I saw rough
looking ranchers and miners, more refined ‘church going’ people as
well as the professionals from many walks of life. Grandpa had many
friends, as well as many that respected and feared him. Now I’m sure
there were many that would have loved to get his old bootlegging
recipes, but if he shared them, it was only with his wife and son,
who of course would never use them…..
A Tragic Memory By Trish Lewis (Trish's story takes place in St Vincent, Minnesota. To read more about St. Vincent visit her blog at http://56755.blogspot.com) It was the late 1940's. Life was good. It would be nearly 10 years
|
before it would all end in a series of tragedies, one of them that
affected not only this family, but the entire town of St. Vincent and
beyond...
This is a photograph of my uncle John Fitzpatrick, my aunt Lena, and
their three daughters...my cousins Marlene, Alice, and Elaine (the
twins) - it was taken around 1946 when tragedy was the farthest thing
from anyone's mind.
It is now several years later, in 1954. It is early spring, and Elaine
is walking home from Catechism class at St. Anne's Catholic Church
with one of two small groups of kids. Unbeknownst to the groups,
bearing down on them was a very drunk man named John Slater. Witnesses
that day later say that the driver was weaving all over the road as he
came off the bridge and down into town. When he approached where the
two groups were walking, one on each side of the road, he hit one
group, then swerved wildly and hit the other. Among several victims,
my cousin Elaine died at the scene within minutes. My grandfather ran
down the street, knowing something was horribly wrong. The scene was
chaos, shock, and death where moments ago was peace and laughter...
It is now June of the same year. It's the midst of a hot spell. The
ladies aid is meeting at the North Star Church. Down the road a ways,
at the Fitzpatrick farm, Marlene and Alice are about to cool off in
the dugout, their father working nearby.
There were no witnesses to what happened next, only conjecture.
At some point, uncle John must have noticed something was wrong. Maybe
there was a cry for help. Maybe he heard loud splashing. Whatever it
was, he knew his daughters were in trouble and jumped in to help.
John was my mother's older (and only) brother. He had been an athlete
in high school. The girls knew how to swim. John, now in middle age,
was a strong man and known to be a good swimmer. For whatever reason,
none of those factors were enough.
Later that day, when --- stopped by, no one could be found at first.
Finally a hat was noticed floating on the dugout's surface. The
Webster brothers, from the next farm over, were called upon to search
the pond. They found all three of them at the bottom.
Although no one to this day has confirmed it to me, I have often
wondered if they found at least one of the daughter's arms in a
frantic embrace around their father's neck. Sometimes a drowning
victim will panic so badly, they will pull down their rescuer and take
them with them into a watery grave. On the other hand, there were
(mostly) unsaid rumors that grief may have played a role. Maybe at
some point my uncle gave up. Maybe it was even a darker scenario. He
was known to have never been the same after Elaine died in the drunk
driving accident. We will never know.
And what happened to my aunt Lena? She had a nervous breakdown. Little
wonder, considering that she lost her entire family within three
months. She later remarried, and had a happy second half to her life,
thankfully. That is when I met her.
I never knew my uncle, or my cousins - I was born five years after
they passed away. I often heard the stories of that summer, and many
times saw their graves at the cemetery. It would have been nice to
have known my uncle, and my cousins, and grew up near such close
relatives. But it wasn't mean to be.A true story of two women in an
Arizona mining town who although shared the community during the same time
period and shared the same aspirations, had lives that were miles apart.
Townswomen
Prostitution
isn’t a pretty thing, but it happens. A part of community, it was, especially in
remote mining towns full of scared and estranged men.
In Jerome, it was business as usual. Madam Jennie had the biggest establishment
in town. Despite burning down three times in a row, it was always the first
building to go back up – the combination of Jennie’s cash and volunteer labor
always made it so.
Jennie’s place faced Main Street, that was until the 20s when everybody started
to get religion or religion got them. Then places like Jennies was something
that everyone pretended didn’t exist – like poverty, depression and falling
copper prices.
Jennie was not attractive. It was said she had the face of a mule and the laugh
of a horse. But she was well respected and for that she knew her choices were
right. Unlike the others, she did look at reality and knew it good and square.
Women had little power or choice unless they came from money and men would sell
their power in a minute for what a woman could give him in fifteen. There was
something to be said for power and although a proper lady never spoke of it,
Jennie knew it for certain.
Anne Hopkins loved power and for that she spent five years in Florence Prison
and lost everything she had. Anne and Jennie may not have known one another even
though they shared the same town. Jennie lived in the Tenderloin District while
Anne lived on Company Hill. Anne married and married well. Her husband was a
mining Engineer. Although he was abusive and disrespectful, he provided her with
a good home and a life off the streets. But Anne wanted more. She knew she had
more to offer than just a face at those fancy dinner parties they attended. With
extra money tucked away, Anne purchased a small home and put the deed in her
name. She rented the home to men who worked in the mines. Once the house was
paid off, she would buy another and another. She then began to invest in mining
stocks and even had a bank account with her own name on it. The shame she
brought upon her husband was nearly unspeakable – except the townspeople found
plenty of time to speak about it.
Paybacks weren’t simple when you were a man of importance. Outbursts covered
some of the shame but nothing, no nothing made Anne’s husband more angry than
knowing his wife was doing what she did much to his embarrassment.
Anne didn’t see it this way. She knew she was important, intelligent, and
generous in that she gave more than her share in every way to everyone around
her. These were the things her husband knew he couldn’t take from her. But there
was one thing he could take and that was himself and give it to another.
Anne discovered the affair shortly after it happened. She knew exactly who it
was – that teacher down at the school that was always making appearances at the
same social events as the Hopkins.
It was a long summer and Anne decided to go away and find rest in San Francisco.
Jerome was too dirty and hot to stand any more. But rest she did not find. He
had won. How was she going to fight this? Give in? Maybe he did love her. Maybe
it was that whore of a teacher who seduced him. Yes, certainly it was this. Anne
returned to Jerome but did not go directly to her home after departing from the
train. No, instead she stopped in town. Inside the Connor Hotel was the other
woman, sitting there so happy with a friend, eating. So happy while Anne was so
miserable. She was beautiful, Anne felt old and ugly. This Arizona sun, three
children and her age of thirty-two marked her as undesirable.
Anne left the Connor Hotel and entered the hardware store. There she purchased a
jar of carbolic acid. Returning, she dumped half of the acid into the sink and
filled the rest with water. She thought of her actions, but something inside
compelled her. That same something that motivated her to make her investments
even though a voice warned her not to because of the trouble it would cause.
Stepping into the restaurant, she approached the table where the two women sat.
Without pause, Anne grabbed the woman by the hair cursing her in God knows what
words. The woman pushed Anne’s arm away and the acid splattered onto both of
them – Anne’s hand and the other woman’s face. There were screams and then
everything went numb.
They say a man at an adjoining table intervened. The stories Anne later heard
were as scattered as her thoughts. Despite it all, she had no remorse. Women
liked this deserved what they got. Surely the townsfolk would agree.
The trial wasn’t as indisputable as Anne’s recollection of events. Success and
prosperity meant nothing toward a woman’s credibility – civilized behavior or
the lack thereof was the death nail that sent Anne to Florence Prison for five
to fifteen.
“You should have killed the bastard,” her cellmate later claimed. You wouldn’t
be in here if you had killed the cheating son-of-a-bitch.”
It was too late now. Anne hadn’t been smart about this. The local newspapers
repeated the account, just to make sure nobody forgot.
Jennie couldn’t have been smart about what was coming her way either. It had
been ten years and she was out of the business now. She moved on to start a new
life. With a large savings and a new home, she decided one man to love was
enough. But she wouldn’t tolerate that man treating her as if she weren’t. That
night she told him to leave. He did but then returned at 4 a.m., shot Jennie
once before having the opportunity to chase her down and shoot her three more
times, this time in the head. The locals saw what had happened and left no time
to reason before putting him out of everyone’s misery.
All the locals were filled with grief in the passing of Jennie Bauters – she was
a smart and generous woman they said. We will miss her.
The local newspapers repeated the account, just to make sure nobody forgot.
