Rick Just's Blog, page 13
September 1, 2024
An Idaho Legislative Riot
The Civil War ended almost two years before a dust-up about it blew into the Idaho Territorial Legislature. This battle-come-lately started out over money. Idaho’s finances in 1867 were in poor shape thanks to mismanagement and malfeasance by a string of federal officials appointed to oversee the territory. So, the Legislature decided to cut the salaries of Territorial Governor David Ballard and Territorial Secretary Solomon R. Howlett.
Governor Ballard thought the salary cuts were fair but insisted that the legislators also take a pay cut. They were unhappy with that quid pro quo. Their displeasure grew to the boiling point when the US Secretary of the Treasury Hugh McCulloch insisted that Idaho legislators sign an oath of allegiance to the country to get paid at all. They were to attest that they had never countenanced, nor encouraged, the South during the Civil War.
Most of the legislators were Democrats, many of whom had favored the Confederacy. Secretary Howlett tried to explain things to a joint session of the Legislature on a Friday afternoon. As the Idaho Statesman at the time termed it, “both houses were well described to be a paroxysm of rage.”
The threats of personal violence against the man were so fierce he felt the need for an Army officer to escort him to breakfast on Saturday. That afternoon, about 25 of the Legislators dropped by the Secretary’s office to have a chat. Threats flew once again. The more level-headed of the crowd agreed to give Howlett until half-past two to consult with his attorneys before hearing his final answer on the matter.
In—let’s say “discussions”—carried on between lawmakers before the appointed hour, one lawmaker beat another over the head with a revolver to make a point, the essence of which is lost to history.
“Mr. Abbott” jumped on top of a table and shouted for order, saying, “Are we a riotous mob? Or are we sensible men met here peaceably to consult together?”
One could reasonably examine their behavior for a possible answer. During the Friday and Saturday sessions, much of the furniture in the meeting hall was destroyed or carried away, and lamps were thrown out of windows.
When Secretary Howlett returned to his office after consulting with his attorneys, he did not return alone. A squad of infantry lined up in front of the hall. This set off even more protests inside.
Still refusing to pay the men, Howlett heard shouts of “skin him!” and “shake it out of him!” He was now determined not to pay those who had not signed the oath in the days before, even if they reluctantly agreed to sign it now. The crowd lunged for the Secretary, with murder in the men’s eyes at one point.
That negotiating tactic may have worked. Howlett agreed to let the men sign the oath and get their pay when the temperature cooled a degree or two.
Had the men held out a couple more days, they could have avoided signing the hated oath, which the United States Supreme Court declared unconstitutional two days after they signed it.
Governor Ballard thought the salary cuts were fair but insisted that the legislators also take a pay cut. They were unhappy with that quid pro quo. Their displeasure grew to the boiling point when the US Secretary of the Treasury Hugh McCulloch insisted that Idaho legislators sign an oath of allegiance to the country to get paid at all. They were to attest that they had never countenanced, nor encouraged, the South during the Civil War.
Most of the legislators were Democrats, many of whom had favored the Confederacy. Secretary Howlett tried to explain things to a joint session of the Legislature on a Friday afternoon. As the Idaho Statesman at the time termed it, “both houses were well described to be a paroxysm of rage.”
The threats of personal violence against the man were so fierce he felt the need for an Army officer to escort him to breakfast on Saturday. That afternoon, about 25 of the Legislators dropped by the Secretary’s office to have a chat. Threats flew once again. The more level-headed of the crowd agreed to give Howlett until half-past two to consult with his attorneys before hearing his final answer on the matter.
In—let’s say “discussions”—carried on between lawmakers before the appointed hour, one lawmaker beat another over the head with a revolver to make a point, the essence of which is lost to history.
“Mr. Abbott” jumped on top of a table and shouted for order, saying, “Are we a riotous mob? Or are we sensible men met here peaceably to consult together?”
One could reasonably examine their behavior for a possible answer. During the Friday and Saturday sessions, much of the furniture in the meeting hall was destroyed or carried away, and lamps were thrown out of windows.
When Secretary Howlett returned to his office after consulting with his attorneys, he did not return alone. A squad of infantry lined up in front of the hall. This set off even more protests inside.
Still refusing to pay the men, Howlett heard shouts of “skin him!” and “shake it out of him!” He was now determined not to pay those who had not signed the oath in the days before, even if they reluctantly agreed to sign it now. The crowd lunged for the Secretary, with murder in the men’s eyes at one point.
That negotiating tactic may have worked. Howlett agreed to let the men sign the oath and get their pay when the temperature cooled a degree or two.
Had the men held out a couple more days, they could have avoided signing the hated oath, which the United States Supreme Court declared unconstitutional two days after they signed it.
August 30, 2024
Vigilante Women
There were many incidents of vigilantism in the old West, but as a rule few of the vigilantes were women. Here is an exception that proves the rule.
Sometime before 1898—the date is uncertain—a Montpelier saloon keep named John Lewis married a 15-year-old local girl, Afton Marie Murdock. Her parents were unhappy with her marrying someone twice Marie’s age, but Bishop Henry J. Horne inexplicably performed the ceremony. Inexplicably, because John Lewis—remember that saloon—wasn’t even a Mormon.
The marriage and the saloon-keeping made Montpelier an uncomfortable place to live for the couple. They moved across the border to Fossil, Wyoming, a coal mining town.
Marie soon gave John Lewis a son, but the man did not seem happy about it, or anything else. Lewis was a vicious man, as evidenced by the multiple bruises the town folk noticed on his two-year-old son. When some women saw Lewis kicking his wife, that put them over the edge.
Some 40 of them grabbed weapons at hand, buggy whips and razor strops, and marched to Lewis’ saloon. They drug the man into the street. He broke free, grabbed his sawed-off shotgun, and started to menace the women with it. His bartender grabbed the gun from the man. The women proceeded to break out the lights in the saloon and, in the darkness, destroyed it. Lewis wisely left town.
This little snippet of a story comes from Betty Penson Ward’s book Idaho Women in History by way of telling by Bear Lake High School teacher J. Patrick Wilde.
Sometime before 1898—the date is uncertain—a Montpelier saloon keep named John Lewis married a 15-year-old local girl, Afton Marie Murdock. Her parents were unhappy with her marrying someone twice Marie’s age, but Bishop Henry J. Horne inexplicably performed the ceremony. Inexplicably, because John Lewis—remember that saloon—wasn’t even a Mormon.
The marriage and the saloon-keeping made Montpelier an uncomfortable place to live for the couple. They moved across the border to Fossil, Wyoming, a coal mining town.
Marie soon gave John Lewis a son, but the man did not seem happy about it, or anything else. Lewis was a vicious man, as evidenced by the multiple bruises the town folk noticed on his two-year-old son. When some women saw Lewis kicking his wife, that put them over the edge.
Some 40 of them grabbed weapons at hand, buggy whips and razor strops, and marched to Lewis’ saloon. They drug the man into the street. He broke free, grabbed his sawed-off shotgun, and started to menace the women with it. His bartender grabbed the gun from the man. The women proceeded to break out the lights in the saloon and, in the darkness, destroyed it. Lewis wisely left town.
This little snippet of a story comes from Betty Penson Ward’s book Idaho Women in History by way of telling by Bear Lake High School teacher J. Patrick Wilde.
August 29, 2024
Women Writers Born in Idaho
There are many exceptional woman writers who are connected to Idaho. Here are some who are native to the state.
Carol Ryrie Brink, who wrote more than 30 juvenile and adult books, including the 1936 Newbury Prize-winning , was born in Moscow and attended the University of Idaho. In 1965, she was awarded an honorary doctorate of letters from the University of Idaho, and Brink Hall on the campus is named for her.
Marilynn Robinson, who won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction for her book Gilead in 2005, was born in Sandpoint. Her book Housekeeping , set in Sandpoint, was a Pulitzer finalist in 1982.
Laurel Thatcher Ulrich was born in Sugar City, Idaho. Her history of midwife Martha Ballard, titled The Midwife’s Tale , won a Pulitzer Prize and was later made into a documentary film for the PBS series American Experience. Oddly, she may enjoy more fame for a single line in a scholarly publication than for her prize-winning work. She is remembered for the line, "well-behaved women seldom make history," which came from an article about Puritan funeral services. She would later write a book with that title.
Tara Westover was born in Clifton, Idaho. Her 2018 memoir Educated was on many best book lists, including the New York Times top ten list for the year.
Sarah Palin sold more than two million copies of her book Going Rogue . The former governor of Alaska and vice-presidential candidate was born in Sandpoint. She received her bachelor’s degree in communication with a journalism emphasis from the University of Idaho in 1987.
Emily Ruskovich grew up in the panhandle of Idaho on Hoo Doo Mountain. She now teaches at Boise State University. Her 2017 novel, Idaho , was critically acclaimed.
Elaine Ambrose grew up on a potato farm near Wendell. She is best known for her eight books of humor and recently released a memoir called Frozen Dinners, A Memoir of a Fractured Family .
Sister Mary Alfreda Elsensohn (1897-1989) was born in Grangeville, Idaho and she was professed as a Benedictine sister at the Monastery of St. Gertrude in 1916. She was educated at Washington State University, Gonzaga University, and University of Idaho. Her best-known book is Polly Bemis: Idaho County’s Most Romantic Character . Sister Elsensohn created the museum at St. Gertrudes near Cottonwood. The Idaho Humanities Council and the Idaho State Historical Society give an annual award in her name for Idaho museums.
Jacquie Rogers, born on a farm near Homedale, writes Western humor and Western romance, for which she has won several prizes. Go to any of her books on Amazon, such as Sidetracked in Silver City , and click on her name for a complete list.
August 28, 2024
Soda Springs
During the first session of the Idaho Territorial Legislature in 1864, lawmakers created Oneida County, naming Soda Springs as its county seat. Although other counties had been created, Soda Springs was the first county seat to be named.
General Patrick Connor is credited with founding Soda Springs. In a sense, he founded two towns side-by-side. Connor’s troops led about 325 Morrisites to the valley where they platted the village of Morristown in 1863. Several years of cold weather discouraged the residents of Morristown, most of whom left for greener pastures. The Morristown site is mostly covered by Alexander Reservoir today.
Connor established Camp Connor on the hill above Morristown and laid out the town of Soda Springs above the fort. For a time, the two communities were known as Upper Town and Lower Town. The county offices for Oneida County were located at first in General Connor’s adobe store and hotel.
Soda Springs wasn’t the county seat for long. After three years Malad became the county seat of Oneida County. The town became a county seat again in 1919, this time for Caribou County when the Legislature divided up Oneida County. It remains the county seat today.
The area is famous for its soda deposits and numerous surrounding springs. The area was known as Soda Springs long before it was settled. Oregon Trail pioneers often stopped there.
The town has some interesting historical artifacts and one unique claim to fame. It has a mechanically timed geyser in the middle of town.
General Patrick Connor is credited with founding Soda Springs. In a sense, he founded two towns side-by-side. Connor’s troops led about 325 Morrisites to the valley where they platted the village of Morristown in 1863. Several years of cold weather discouraged the residents of Morristown, most of whom left for greener pastures. The Morristown site is mostly covered by Alexander Reservoir today.
Connor established Camp Connor on the hill above Morristown and laid out the town of Soda Springs above the fort. For a time, the two communities were known as Upper Town and Lower Town. The county offices for Oneida County were located at first in General Connor’s adobe store and hotel.
Soda Springs wasn’t the county seat for long. After three years Malad became the county seat of Oneida County. The town became a county seat again in 1919, this time for Caribou County when the Legislature divided up Oneida County. It remains the county seat today.
The area is famous for its soda deposits and numerous surrounding springs. The area was known as Soda Springs long before it was settled. Oregon Trail pioneers often stopped there.
The town has some interesting historical artifacts and one unique claim to fame. It has a mechanically timed geyser in the middle of town.
August 27, 2024
Picture Brides
At the turn of the century immigration from Japan to the United States was severely restricted. An agreement between the two countries allowed only those with family members already in the United States to immigrate. Thousands of Japanese men were living in the U.S., brought over for the cheap labor they provided. Many wanted to stay, but they also wanted to marry Japanese women.
Arranged marriages were common in Japan at the time, so it was a short leap to “picture brides.” The men in the U.S. would send pictures of themselves to families in Japan, often through a go-between called a nakodo. The families of potential brides studied the pictures and the information provided by the men to see if they would make a good match. The women’s families then sent a photo and description back to the men in the U.S. They would come to an agreement, which was enough for the through-the-mail marriage to be considered legal in Japan. It wasn’t good enough for U.S. authorities, so many Japanese women and their future husbands stood for mass wedding ceremonies when they got to the United States, some of them performed on the docks as they got off the ship.
Several thousand “picture bride” marriages took place.
One such was the marriage of Miyoshi Yokota and Kameji Okamura who were married in Tacoma, Washington in 1914. Days later they traveled to Pocatello, Idaho to start their lives together.
Kameji had experienced the culture shock of coming to a new land and not knowing the language and customs. He knew what it was like to change from a diet of fish eaten with chopsticks to an American diet heavy on meat and potatoes. He hired a tutor to help Miyoshi learn English and a housekeeper to help her learn the chores of a housewife.
Working his rented garden property, Kameji was the first in Pocatello to build a drive-through cellar and the one to introduce the cultivation of jumbo celery to the area. At holiday parades he was known for tossing celery to the kids instead of candy.
The Okamuras had seven children, two boys, and five girls, losing an infant daughter to the 1918 Spanish Flu. In 1930 the family experienced another devastating loss. Kameji was killed in a car accident on his way home from helping a friend extinguish a haystack fire in Fort Hall. He was 43.
Now Miyoshi, 36, had six children and no husband. With generous help from the community, she got through the first few months, then went about the business of running Okamura Gardens. Paul, her oldest son, quit school to help.
Miyoshi hired local youth to help weed the vegetables, providing the first job for many of them. She ran Okamura Gardens until her landlord decided he wanted to put a car lot on the site sometime in the early 1950s.
In 1954, Miyoshi became a U.S. citizen, a proud moment in her life. She was a well-known figure in Pocatello, always ready to greet people on the street and showing surprising energy into her 90s.
There is much more to the Miyoshi Okamura story, but it’s not my place to tell it. Julie Okamura, her great-granddaughter-in-law tells it well here.
Arranged marriages were common in Japan at the time, so it was a short leap to “picture brides.” The men in the U.S. would send pictures of themselves to families in Japan, often through a go-between called a nakodo. The families of potential brides studied the pictures and the information provided by the men to see if they would make a good match. The women’s families then sent a photo and description back to the men in the U.S. They would come to an agreement, which was enough for the through-the-mail marriage to be considered legal in Japan. It wasn’t good enough for U.S. authorities, so many Japanese women and their future husbands stood for mass wedding ceremonies when they got to the United States, some of them performed on the docks as they got off the ship.
Several thousand “picture bride” marriages took place.
One such was the marriage of Miyoshi Yokota and Kameji Okamura who were married in Tacoma, Washington in 1914. Days later they traveled to Pocatello, Idaho to start their lives together.
Kameji had experienced the culture shock of coming to a new land and not knowing the language and customs. He knew what it was like to change from a diet of fish eaten with chopsticks to an American diet heavy on meat and potatoes. He hired a tutor to help Miyoshi learn English and a housekeeper to help her learn the chores of a housewife.
Working his rented garden property, Kameji was the first in Pocatello to build a drive-through cellar and the one to introduce the cultivation of jumbo celery to the area. At holiday parades he was known for tossing celery to the kids instead of candy.
The Okamuras had seven children, two boys, and five girls, losing an infant daughter to the 1918 Spanish Flu. In 1930 the family experienced another devastating loss. Kameji was killed in a car accident on his way home from helping a friend extinguish a haystack fire in Fort Hall. He was 43.
Now Miyoshi, 36, had six children and no husband. With generous help from the community, she got through the first few months, then went about the business of running Okamura Gardens. Paul, her oldest son, quit school to help.
Miyoshi hired local youth to help weed the vegetables, providing the first job for many of them. She ran Okamura Gardens until her landlord decided he wanted to put a car lot on the site sometime in the early 1950s.
In 1954, Miyoshi became a U.S. citizen, a proud moment in her life. She was a well-known figure in Pocatello, always ready to greet people on the street and showing surprising energy into her 90s.
There is much more to the Miyoshi Okamura story, but it’s not my place to tell it. Julie Okamura, her great-granddaughter-in-law tells it well here.
August 26, 2024
Idaho City Burns, Again
Idaho city had a habit of burning. This wasn’t unusual for mining towns. They were initially mainly built of lumber without a thought given to brick. When a mining settlement sprang up, its builders knew there was a very good chance it would be a temporary town.
The buildings of Idaho City were heated by stoves and fireplaces and lit by candles and lanterns. All those open flames were ready to snatch a dry curtain or a splash of grease from a frying pan. Everyone who lived there did their best to keep the smoke contained. Still, fires from heating and cooking were quietly coating the insides of cabins and commercial buildings with creosote, making them even more explosive.
On the 18th of May, 1865, residents of Boise noticed a glow from the northeast one evening. Speculation was that it was either Idaho City or Placerville burning. Early the following day, word started coming from businessmen arriving in Boise that it was Idaho City in ashes.
A few minutes before ten in the evening, the alarm spread that a fire had started on the second floor of a hurdy-gurdy dance hall and leaped to the rear of the City Hotel.
“The flames spread with the most astonishing rapidity,” according to the Idaho Statesman. “The town was composed of buildings made exclusively of pine inch boards, and in some cases shakes, covered with cotton lining and paper, to which was added the usual coating of lamp smoke so that it burned almost like a train of powder.”
The mining town had experienced a rash of small fires preceding the big blaze. This was viewed with suspicion since “As soon as the alarm became general, thousands of men could be seen running in all directions with one or two sacks of flour, a box of candles, a bundle of clothing, or anything that suited them.”
A witness remarked that “it was stealing on the grandest scale ever he dreamed of.”
The thieves were loosely organized. One or two hundred of them would gather store contents in a pile away from the burning town, appearing to help the merchants. Then, on a signal, they grabbed whatever they could and lit out.
Every hotel in the city was destroyed, along with most of the stores. Some merchants had fireproof cellars so they could quickly get back to business. By the next day, vendors were clearing away rubble so that a new town could spring up from the ashes.
The vibrant little city began to bustle again only to see a reprise of the disaster in May 1867, two years to the day from the first Idaho City fire.
The Hook and Ladder Company rolled out at noon on the report of flames in the roof of Cody’s saloon.
Despite the efforts of the firefighters and heroic citizens, every building on both sides of Main Street burned down, as did those for blocks around. The courthouse, Masonic Hall, the Catholic church, and the newspaper office were all gone. In addition, dozens of buildings burned, including Heineman and Issacs Bros bricks, touted for their fireproof properties.
Three days later, the Idaho Statesman reported that “as we go to press, all over the burnt district lumber for new buildings is to be seen, houses are rapidly going up, and the genuine “nil desperandum” determination of the brave-souled people is on every side and in every way admirably manifested.”
Better buildings went up after the second fire in two years. Several other fires broke out in succeeding decades but were contained to a building or two, leaving the bulk of Idaho City a place where one can see and touch the history of mining even today.
Idaho City about 1865.
The buildings of Idaho City were heated by stoves and fireplaces and lit by candles and lanterns. All those open flames were ready to snatch a dry curtain or a splash of grease from a frying pan. Everyone who lived there did their best to keep the smoke contained. Still, fires from heating and cooking were quietly coating the insides of cabins and commercial buildings with creosote, making them even more explosive.
On the 18th of May, 1865, residents of Boise noticed a glow from the northeast one evening. Speculation was that it was either Idaho City or Placerville burning. Early the following day, word started coming from businessmen arriving in Boise that it was Idaho City in ashes.
A few minutes before ten in the evening, the alarm spread that a fire had started on the second floor of a hurdy-gurdy dance hall and leaped to the rear of the City Hotel.
“The flames spread with the most astonishing rapidity,” according to the Idaho Statesman. “The town was composed of buildings made exclusively of pine inch boards, and in some cases shakes, covered with cotton lining and paper, to which was added the usual coating of lamp smoke so that it burned almost like a train of powder.”
The mining town had experienced a rash of small fires preceding the big blaze. This was viewed with suspicion since “As soon as the alarm became general, thousands of men could be seen running in all directions with one or two sacks of flour, a box of candles, a bundle of clothing, or anything that suited them.”
A witness remarked that “it was stealing on the grandest scale ever he dreamed of.”
The thieves were loosely organized. One or two hundred of them would gather store contents in a pile away from the burning town, appearing to help the merchants. Then, on a signal, they grabbed whatever they could and lit out.
Every hotel in the city was destroyed, along with most of the stores. Some merchants had fireproof cellars so they could quickly get back to business. By the next day, vendors were clearing away rubble so that a new town could spring up from the ashes.
The vibrant little city began to bustle again only to see a reprise of the disaster in May 1867, two years to the day from the first Idaho City fire.
The Hook and Ladder Company rolled out at noon on the report of flames in the roof of Cody’s saloon.
Despite the efforts of the firefighters and heroic citizens, every building on both sides of Main Street burned down, as did those for blocks around. The courthouse, Masonic Hall, the Catholic church, and the newspaper office were all gone. In addition, dozens of buildings burned, including Heineman and Issacs Bros bricks, touted for their fireproof properties.
Three days later, the Idaho Statesman reported that “as we go to press, all over the burnt district lumber for new buildings is to be seen, houses are rapidly going up, and the genuine “nil desperandum” determination of the brave-souled people is on every side and in every way admirably manifested.”
Better buildings went up after the second fire in two years. Several other fires broke out in succeeding decades but were contained to a building or two, leaving the bulk of Idaho City a place where one can see and touch the history of mining even today.
Idaho City about 1865.
August 25, 2024
Idaho's Soda Fountain Girl
On February 8, 1921, Mildred Turner was four days shy of her 17th birthday when she gave birth to a girl, Julia Jean, in Wallace, Idaho. John and Mildred Turner lived up a narrow canyon in the mining town of Burke at the time. In 1925 the small family moved to Wallace. John Turner, who had been a mine inspector, opened a dry-cleaning establishment there and worked part-time in the nearby silver mines.
The Turners called their daughter Judy. She showed an interest in performing when she was three, doing some dance routines at various events.
When Judy was six, the Turners moved to San Francisco, separating shortly after. It was there in 1930 that tragedy struck. John Turner won a little money in a craps game. He stuffed his winnings in his sock and headed home. He never got there. Authorities found him bludgeoned to death, his left shoe and sock missing. The murder was never solved.
Judy Turner is not remembered for the dreadful story of her father’s death. She is remembered as THAT girl. Her story is so well-worn as Hollywood legend that it seems mythical. She was spotted at the Top Hat Malt Shop on Sunset Boulevard sipping a Coke while skipping a typing class at Hollywood High. The publisher of Hollywood Reporter did the spotting. He asked her if she was interested in being in the movies. Her famous answer was, “I’ll have to ask my mother first.”
Mom said yes, and the reporter sent her to see Zeppo Marx, the youngest of the Marx brothers, who was a talent agent, as well as an actor.
Somewhere along the line, Judy became Lana Turner. She had a four-decade career in film, appearing in 56 movies, including Peyton Place in 1958, for which she received an Academy Award nomination for Best Actress in a Leading Role.
There was a stormy chapter in her life that received much press at the time. She was dating reputed mobster Johnny Stompanato. The relationship was tempestuous and filled with violent arguments. Stompanato confronted her with a gun on the set Another Time, Another Place, which was filming in London. Co-star Sean Connery twisted the gun away from him and he ran off.
But that didn’t end the off-again on-again relationship. On March 26, 1958, Turner went to the Oscar ceremony where she was contending for Best Actress. Stompanato was angry that he didn’t get to go with her. He confronted Turner in her home, threatening to kill her mother and daughter. Fearing that her mother was in danger, daughter Cheryl entered the bedroom and stabbed Stompanato with a kitchen knife, killing him. National and local media covered the trial heavily. The jury found that it was justifiable homicide.
Lana Turner, born in Idaho, died of cancer in 1974 in Los Angeles.
Six-year-old "Judy" Turner, pictured here in Wallace in 1926, would go on to be an iconic Hollywood star.
Lana Turner in a publicity still for the 1966 film Madame X in which she starred.
The Turners called their daughter Judy. She showed an interest in performing when she was three, doing some dance routines at various events.
When Judy was six, the Turners moved to San Francisco, separating shortly after. It was there in 1930 that tragedy struck. John Turner won a little money in a craps game. He stuffed his winnings in his sock and headed home. He never got there. Authorities found him bludgeoned to death, his left shoe and sock missing. The murder was never solved.
Judy Turner is not remembered for the dreadful story of her father’s death. She is remembered as THAT girl. Her story is so well-worn as Hollywood legend that it seems mythical. She was spotted at the Top Hat Malt Shop on Sunset Boulevard sipping a Coke while skipping a typing class at Hollywood High. The publisher of Hollywood Reporter did the spotting. He asked her if she was interested in being in the movies. Her famous answer was, “I’ll have to ask my mother first.”
Mom said yes, and the reporter sent her to see Zeppo Marx, the youngest of the Marx brothers, who was a talent agent, as well as an actor.
Somewhere along the line, Judy became Lana Turner. She had a four-decade career in film, appearing in 56 movies, including Peyton Place in 1958, for which she received an Academy Award nomination for Best Actress in a Leading Role.
There was a stormy chapter in her life that received much press at the time. She was dating reputed mobster Johnny Stompanato. The relationship was tempestuous and filled with violent arguments. Stompanato confronted her with a gun on the set Another Time, Another Place, which was filming in London. Co-star Sean Connery twisted the gun away from him and he ran off.
But that didn’t end the off-again on-again relationship. On March 26, 1958, Turner went to the Oscar ceremony where she was contending for Best Actress. Stompanato was angry that he didn’t get to go with her. He confronted Turner in her home, threatening to kill her mother and daughter. Fearing that her mother was in danger, daughter Cheryl entered the bedroom and stabbed Stompanato with a kitchen knife, killing him. National and local media covered the trial heavily. The jury found that it was justifiable homicide.
Lana Turner, born in Idaho, died of cancer in 1974 in Los Angeles.
Six-year-old "Judy" Turner, pictured here in Wallace in 1926, would go on to be an iconic Hollywood star. Lana Turner in a publicity still for the 1966 film Madame X in which she starred.
August 24, 2024
The History of Kuna Cave
It's tempting to write this like a James Michener novel, going back to the beginning of time to give the history of Kuna Cave. You probably don’t have that much coffee, so I'll simply explain how a lava tube is formed.
When lava flows on the earth's surface from an active volcano, the top of the flow begins to cool and solidify as it encounters air. As it hardens, it forms a lava shell. Meanwhile, molten lava flows inside that shell until the eruption stops. Then, like water coming through a hose when you twist the faucet off, the molten lava continues flowing downhill, leaving behind the shell it has formed. Now you have a lava tube.
The Kuna Cave, about six miles southwest of Kuna, is a lava tube. Part of the roof collapsed at some point, leaving a hole in the desert floor into which unsuspecting jackrabbits could plunge. At least a couple of people have also fallen into that hole.
History doesn't record who discovered the cave. The owner of one of those skeletons has my vote. However, we know that Claude W. Gibson and his young friends made one of the earliest explorations of the cave in 1890. The group knew roughly where to look, so their claim isn't one of discovery. They trudged through the desert in a ragged line for about an hour before someone let out a yell.
The group gathered around the yeller and looked down into a three-by-four-foot hole. A shaft of sunlight fell on sand somewhere between 32 and 50 feet below, depending on who was doing the measuring.
Gibson's group came up with one of the better ways to get bodies into the cave. They rolled a wagon to the edge, propped up a wheel, wrapped a rope around the axle, and made it into a windlass. By turning the wheel slowly, they lowered each member of their party down into the cave. The last guy on top was a good rope climber, so he just monkeyed his way down. Sometime later, it occurred to them that someone could come along, steal their wagon, and leave them to ponder the sky through that hole three or four stories above.
They discovered the skeleton of someone who had spent their last days doing just that. Someone decided the man had been an Indian, though they found no artifact to prove that. It looked like he had piled up a tower of rocks trying to get up to that one-way opening.
Around the turn of the century, locals often took carriages to the Kuna cave on a Sunday afternoon for a picnic. Those who dared drop into the hole did so by ropes, a wire ladder, or, eventually, a wooden ladder left in place.
In May 1911, the cave got some extra attention when United States Surveyor General D. A. Utter and a posse of prominent engineers decided to explore the cave. General Utter spent a lot of time in Idaho. He started a vineyard in the King Hill area while still employed as the Surveyor General.
Utter described the cave to the Idaho Statesman: "The most beautiful formation in the cave is an arched hallway, as finely and smoothly constructed as though human hands had been at work there, and which runs forward about 250 feet. It is 20 feet high and about 30 feet wide. The flooring of the archway is covered with a fine coating of sand and is as level as one could wish."
The General got stuck trying to pass through an 18-inch opening and required much pulling and grunting on the part of his fellow explorers to get him out. A skinnier member of the party wormed his way through and crawled about 300 yards before sand blocked his way.
General Utter speculated that the cave ran some six miles, all the way to the Snake River. He thought this because a strong, wet breeze inside the cave kept blowing out candles.
The 1911 party also discovered a skeleton. This one lay on a high ledge as if the person had tried their best to scale the walls of the dome. They decided this skeleton belonged to a white man, again with scant evidence.
Surveyor General Utter, a man who sometimes strayed into hyperbole, called the cave "one of the noted wonders of the country" and thought the government should make it into a resort once improvements were made to the entrance.
That idea died in the cave along with the anonymous men whose skeletons were found there. However, the Bureau of Land Management, which oversees the site today, has plans to put a grating over the entrance and provide a safer ladder into the cave in the near future. They also hope to build a parking lot and reduce the number of roads—six—that lead to the cave, providing a single, improved road.
Back in 1890, one of the first things Gibson's group did was scratch their names on the rock walls. Unfortunately, those wishing for immortality of a sort in recent years have favored spray paint to make their messages, leaving little in the Kuna Cave untarnished.
The desert grass and shrubs had been trampled down around the mouth of the cave by 1898 when this picture of four unidentified men was taken. It’s easy to see how someone could have stumbled into the hole when the vegetation was intact. Courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society. 
Three men and three women pose in Kuna Cave in this photo circa 1920. There is already graffiti on the walls, and someone has modified the photo to hide the worst of it. Photo courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society.
When lava flows on the earth's surface from an active volcano, the top of the flow begins to cool and solidify as it encounters air. As it hardens, it forms a lava shell. Meanwhile, molten lava flows inside that shell until the eruption stops. Then, like water coming through a hose when you twist the faucet off, the molten lava continues flowing downhill, leaving behind the shell it has formed. Now you have a lava tube.
The Kuna Cave, about six miles southwest of Kuna, is a lava tube. Part of the roof collapsed at some point, leaving a hole in the desert floor into which unsuspecting jackrabbits could plunge. At least a couple of people have also fallen into that hole.
History doesn't record who discovered the cave. The owner of one of those skeletons has my vote. However, we know that Claude W. Gibson and his young friends made one of the earliest explorations of the cave in 1890. The group knew roughly where to look, so their claim isn't one of discovery. They trudged through the desert in a ragged line for about an hour before someone let out a yell.
The group gathered around the yeller and looked down into a three-by-four-foot hole. A shaft of sunlight fell on sand somewhere between 32 and 50 feet below, depending on who was doing the measuring.
Gibson's group came up with one of the better ways to get bodies into the cave. They rolled a wagon to the edge, propped up a wheel, wrapped a rope around the axle, and made it into a windlass. By turning the wheel slowly, they lowered each member of their party down into the cave. The last guy on top was a good rope climber, so he just monkeyed his way down. Sometime later, it occurred to them that someone could come along, steal their wagon, and leave them to ponder the sky through that hole three or four stories above.
They discovered the skeleton of someone who had spent their last days doing just that. Someone decided the man had been an Indian, though they found no artifact to prove that. It looked like he had piled up a tower of rocks trying to get up to that one-way opening.
Around the turn of the century, locals often took carriages to the Kuna cave on a Sunday afternoon for a picnic. Those who dared drop into the hole did so by ropes, a wire ladder, or, eventually, a wooden ladder left in place.
In May 1911, the cave got some extra attention when United States Surveyor General D. A. Utter and a posse of prominent engineers decided to explore the cave. General Utter spent a lot of time in Idaho. He started a vineyard in the King Hill area while still employed as the Surveyor General.
Utter described the cave to the Idaho Statesman: "The most beautiful formation in the cave is an arched hallway, as finely and smoothly constructed as though human hands had been at work there, and which runs forward about 250 feet. It is 20 feet high and about 30 feet wide. The flooring of the archway is covered with a fine coating of sand and is as level as one could wish."
The General got stuck trying to pass through an 18-inch opening and required much pulling and grunting on the part of his fellow explorers to get him out. A skinnier member of the party wormed his way through and crawled about 300 yards before sand blocked his way.
General Utter speculated that the cave ran some six miles, all the way to the Snake River. He thought this because a strong, wet breeze inside the cave kept blowing out candles.
The 1911 party also discovered a skeleton. This one lay on a high ledge as if the person had tried their best to scale the walls of the dome. They decided this skeleton belonged to a white man, again with scant evidence.
Surveyor General Utter, a man who sometimes strayed into hyperbole, called the cave "one of the noted wonders of the country" and thought the government should make it into a resort once improvements were made to the entrance.
That idea died in the cave along with the anonymous men whose skeletons were found there. However, the Bureau of Land Management, which oversees the site today, has plans to put a grating over the entrance and provide a safer ladder into the cave in the near future. They also hope to build a parking lot and reduce the number of roads—six—that lead to the cave, providing a single, improved road.
Back in 1890, one of the first things Gibson's group did was scratch their names on the rock walls. Unfortunately, those wishing for immortality of a sort in recent years have favored spray paint to make their messages, leaving little in the Kuna Cave untarnished.
The desert grass and shrubs had been trampled down around the mouth of the cave by 1898 when this picture of four unidentified men was taken. It’s easy to see how someone could have stumbled into the hole when the vegetation was intact. Courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society. Three men and three women pose in Kuna Cave in this photo circa 1920. There is already graffiti on the walls, and someone has modified the photo to hide the worst of it. Photo courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society.
August 23, 2024
The Hello Girls
From the early days of telephone exchanges, the female operators who help people place their calls were known as “Hello Girls.” There were frequent stories about them in the newspapers, most often about how they struggled to keep up with some change in the system, or how they were on strike for better wages in some city.
In 1917, a young woman from Emmett learned about a special group of “Hello Girls” she was about to join.
It was a hot August night when Anne Marie Campbell was working a call between two men on a crackly connection. The parties could not clearly hear each other, so she repeated the conversations back to each man so they could take care of business.
Minutes after that call ended, according to a 1984 Idaho Statesman interview with the woman who was now Anne Campbell Atkinson, she got a personal call on the switchboard. It was one of the men she’d just been helping. He said, “Madam, if you are the lady who just assisted with the call to New York, I’d like to hire you for the U.S. Army. I’m a recruiter for General Pershing and your vice is so crisp and clear—would you be willing to go to France as an operator for the Army? Your country needs you.”
And that’s how Atkinson became one of two Army “Hello Girls” from Idaho.
The Army had tried using men in the Signal Corps to operate telephone exchanges, but they did not excel at it. Every switchboard operator in the United States was a woman. Rather than struggle through teaching all the men how to work the system, they recruited women for the job. More than 7,500 volunteered for the first 100 slots. Two hundred twenty-three women—and two men—became Signal Corps Operators.
They were the first group of women to be placed in a combat situation for the United States. Two of them were killed in action.
The operators needed to speak French and English. They were good at their jobs, taking just 10 seconds to connect one party to the next, six times faster than the men they replaced. They connected more than 26 million phone calls.
The women proudly wore Signal Corps uniforms, served under commissioned officers, wore rank insignia and dog tags, took the Army oath, and were subject to court-martial. But when the war was over, they found out they were really “civilian contractors.”
The Army “Hello Girls” were largely forgotten for decades. Then, in 1979 the surviving “Hello Girls,” 19 in all, including Atkinson, who was nearly 88 at the time, received formal U.S. Army Honorable Discharges presented by the senior Army officer of the state where they resided. Accompanying Atkinson’s discharge was a letter that read “…whose service in World War I encompassed the period November 28, 1917, through June 30, 1919, be considered active military service the U.S. Armed Forces for the purpose of all laws administered by the Veterans; Administration.”
In 2021, the “Hello Girls,” all of whom were deceased, legislation passed Congress to award a single Congressional Gold Medal to the Signal Corps Female Telephone Operators Unit.
In anticipation of the question, I know little about the second Idaho “Hello Girl.” Her name was Hazel May Hammond and I believe she was from Sandpoint.
“Hello Girls” from World War I. Harris & Ewing, photographer, Library of Commerce.
In 1917, a young woman from Emmett learned about a special group of “Hello Girls” she was about to join.
It was a hot August night when Anne Marie Campbell was working a call between two men on a crackly connection. The parties could not clearly hear each other, so she repeated the conversations back to each man so they could take care of business.
Minutes after that call ended, according to a 1984 Idaho Statesman interview with the woman who was now Anne Campbell Atkinson, she got a personal call on the switchboard. It was one of the men she’d just been helping. He said, “Madam, if you are the lady who just assisted with the call to New York, I’d like to hire you for the U.S. Army. I’m a recruiter for General Pershing and your vice is so crisp and clear—would you be willing to go to France as an operator for the Army? Your country needs you.”
And that’s how Atkinson became one of two Army “Hello Girls” from Idaho.
The Army had tried using men in the Signal Corps to operate telephone exchanges, but they did not excel at it. Every switchboard operator in the United States was a woman. Rather than struggle through teaching all the men how to work the system, they recruited women for the job. More than 7,500 volunteered for the first 100 slots. Two hundred twenty-three women—and two men—became Signal Corps Operators.
They were the first group of women to be placed in a combat situation for the United States. Two of them were killed in action.
The operators needed to speak French and English. They were good at their jobs, taking just 10 seconds to connect one party to the next, six times faster than the men they replaced. They connected more than 26 million phone calls.
The women proudly wore Signal Corps uniforms, served under commissioned officers, wore rank insignia and dog tags, took the Army oath, and were subject to court-martial. But when the war was over, they found out they were really “civilian contractors.”
The Army “Hello Girls” were largely forgotten for decades. Then, in 1979 the surviving “Hello Girls,” 19 in all, including Atkinson, who was nearly 88 at the time, received formal U.S. Army Honorable Discharges presented by the senior Army officer of the state where they resided. Accompanying Atkinson’s discharge was a letter that read “…whose service in World War I encompassed the period November 28, 1917, through June 30, 1919, be considered active military service the U.S. Armed Forces for the purpose of all laws administered by the Veterans; Administration.”
In 2021, the “Hello Girls,” all of whom were deceased, legislation passed Congress to award a single Congressional Gold Medal to the Signal Corps Female Telephone Operators Unit.
In anticipation of the question, I know little about the second Idaho “Hello Girl.” Her name was Hazel May Hammond and I believe she was from Sandpoint.
“Hello Girls” from World War I. Harris & Ewing, photographer, Library of Commerce.August 22, 2024
Freight Wagons in Idaho
My great grandfather, Nels Just, was a wagon freighter in his younger days, hauling cargo between Corrine, Utah, and the Montana mines, with occasional runs from Corrine to Boise. Without giving it much thought, my mind picture of that operation was of Nels hauling a wagonload of supplies covered by tarps. The wagon I pictured was just a standard wagon, the kind you’d use for farming or for trekking across the Oregon Trail, pulled by a team of oxen.
I still don’t know what Nels’ outfit looked like, but most freighters who ran those routes did so with gigantic wagons constructed with 14-foot-tall sides to haul as much cargo as possible. Often, three or more of these creaking monstrosities might be hooked together and pulled by ten horses or five to seven yoke of oxen. The wheels could be seven feet tall and four inches wide. They only made about 15 miles a day in rugged country or maybe 25 miles on flatlands.
For a time in the history of Idaho Territory just about everyone who could put together some teams was a freighter. It was a lucrative business, far more certain than prospecting for gold or silver. With no railroads to carry goods, freight wagons brought everything to communities and mining camps. Even after they laid rails across southern Idaho, freight wagons still lumbered over the dirt roads to outlying communities. During the winter, pack trains were often the only way into mining districts.
Another thing I likely had wrong about Nels’ operation was where he sat while driving his teams. He probably rarely sat at all. Many of the big wagons had no seat. It wasn’t necessary because the teamster walked alongside the teams the whole way. That explains another minor mystery for me. Nels often walked into Shelley from his homestead on the Blackfoot River. He never had a shortage of horses, but he often chose to walk. It was nothing compared to walking between Corrine and the mines.
If you want to see what freight wagons looked like, watch for news about Wagon Days, held each year on Labor Day Weekend in Ketchum. They typically parade six enormous ore wagons through town.
I still don’t know what Nels’ outfit looked like, but most freighters who ran those routes did so with gigantic wagons constructed with 14-foot-tall sides to haul as much cargo as possible. Often, three or more of these creaking monstrosities might be hooked together and pulled by ten horses or five to seven yoke of oxen. The wheels could be seven feet tall and four inches wide. They only made about 15 miles a day in rugged country or maybe 25 miles on flatlands.
For a time in the history of Idaho Territory just about everyone who could put together some teams was a freighter. It was a lucrative business, far more certain than prospecting for gold or silver. With no railroads to carry goods, freight wagons brought everything to communities and mining camps. Even after they laid rails across southern Idaho, freight wagons still lumbered over the dirt roads to outlying communities. During the winter, pack trains were often the only way into mining districts.
Another thing I likely had wrong about Nels’ operation was where he sat while driving his teams. He probably rarely sat at all. Many of the big wagons had no seat. It wasn’t necessary because the teamster walked alongside the teams the whole way. That explains another minor mystery for me. Nels often walked into Shelley from his homestead on the Blackfoot River. He never had a shortage of horses, but he often chose to walk. It was nothing compared to walking between Corrine and the mines.
If you want to see what freight wagons looked like, watch for news about Wagon Days, held each year on Labor Day Weekend in Ketchum. They typically parade six enormous ore wagons through town.
