Rick Just's Blog, page 65
March 20, 2023
Les Trees (tap to read)
Boise is known as the city of trees. Captain Benjamin Bonneville’s men were said to have proclaimed, “Les Bois, Les Bois!” (the trees, or the woods) when they first spotted the cottonwoods along the Boise River in 1833. One could understand their excitement after spending some days traipsing through the desert.
There are an estimated 3.5 billion trees in the city. Okay, that’s my estimate. It may be off a little.
Some of those trees have a claim to fame. The Anne Frank Memorial includes a chestnut grown from the seed of a tree she often talked about in her famous diary. One passage reads, "The two of us looked out at the blue sky, the bare chestnut tree glistening with dew, the seagulls and other birds glinting with silver as they swooped through the air, and we were so moved and entranced that we couldn't speak." Only 11 saplings came to the US from the original tree.
Over on the Basque Block, the Cyrus Jacobs-Uberuaga Boarding House has a large tree out front that came from the Gernika'ko Arbola or Tree of Gernika. The original tree was a gathering place for Basques since Spanish King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella stood beneath it and swore an oath to protect the Basques. William Wordsworth memorialized the tree in a sonnet called The Oak of Gernika.
The original oak in the Basque Country has been replanted several times from saved acorns. The resilience of the Tree of Gernika is legendary. In 1937 the city of Gernika was carpet-bombed by Spanish fascist dictator Francisco Franco. About 1,000 citizens were killed and the town was all but leveled. The Tree of Gernika remained intact. The incident was later depicted in Pablo Picasso’s painting, Guernica.
The Boise Gernika tree was planted in 1988 and is today robust with a healthy crop of acorns each year.
Sadly, trees planted on the capitol grounds by Presidents Benjamin Harrison, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Howard Taft had to be cut down when the underground wings were added to the building (dedicated in 2010). Then Representative Max Black, who is a wood carver, salvaged wood from the trees so that local artists could work with it. Several examples of their art can be seen in the capitol’s statuary hall.
Another tree that once graced the capitol grounds was one grown from a seedling that went to the moon with the Apollo 11 astronauts. It came down during the statehouse expansion, too. Take heart, there is another moon tree in Boise. It came from a seed that went to the moon aboard Apollo 14, and it now grows on the grounds of Lowell Scott Elementary. It was planted in 1977.
One of the most beloved trees in Boise is the giant sequoia that stood for many years on St. Lukes property on Jefferson St. It was planted in 1912 by Dr. Fred Pittenger as a seedling sent to Boise by John Muir. The 98-foot-tall tree sported Christmas lights for many years. In the mid-80s arborists discovered that the lights had killed the top of the tree. They did some surgery, redirecting a healthy branch to serve as a new top. That’s what gives it the odd Kaiser-helmet shape, almost as if a small tree is growing out of a large one (photo).
In preparation for new construction at St. Lukes, the massive tree was moved across the street in 2017. The move was carefully done, and the tree seems to be doing well. It could be a fixture in the city for a couple thousand years.
There are an estimated 3.5 billion trees in the city. Okay, that’s my estimate. It may be off a little.
Some of those trees have a claim to fame. The Anne Frank Memorial includes a chestnut grown from the seed of a tree she often talked about in her famous diary. One passage reads, "The two of us looked out at the blue sky, the bare chestnut tree glistening with dew, the seagulls and other birds glinting with silver as they swooped through the air, and we were so moved and entranced that we couldn't speak." Only 11 saplings came to the US from the original tree.
Over on the Basque Block, the Cyrus Jacobs-Uberuaga Boarding House has a large tree out front that came from the Gernika'ko Arbola or Tree of Gernika. The original tree was a gathering place for Basques since Spanish King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella stood beneath it and swore an oath to protect the Basques. William Wordsworth memorialized the tree in a sonnet called The Oak of Gernika.
The original oak in the Basque Country has been replanted several times from saved acorns. The resilience of the Tree of Gernika is legendary. In 1937 the city of Gernika was carpet-bombed by Spanish fascist dictator Francisco Franco. About 1,000 citizens were killed and the town was all but leveled. The Tree of Gernika remained intact. The incident was later depicted in Pablo Picasso’s painting, Guernica.
The Boise Gernika tree was planted in 1988 and is today robust with a healthy crop of acorns each year.
Sadly, trees planted on the capitol grounds by Presidents Benjamin Harrison, Theodore Roosevelt, and William Howard Taft had to be cut down when the underground wings were added to the building (dedicated in 2010). Then Representative Max Black, who is a wood carver, salvaged wood from the trees so that local artists could work with it. Several examples of their art can be seen in the capitol’s statuary hall.
Another tree that once graced the capitol grounds was one grown from a seedling that went to the moon with the Apollo 11 astronauts. It came down during the statehouse expansion, too. Take heart, there is another moon tree in Boise. It came from a seed that went to the moon aboard Apollo 14, and it now grows on the grounds of Lowell Scott Elementary. It was planted in 1977.
One of the most beloved trees in Boise is the giant sequoia that stood for many years on St. Lukes property on Jefferson St. It was planted in 1912 by Dr. Fred Pittenger as a seedling sent to Boise by John Muir. The 98-foot-tall tree sported Christmas lights for many years. In the mid-80s arborists discovered that the lights had killed the top of the tree. They did some surgery, redirecting a healthy branch to serve as a new top. That’s what gives it the odd Kaiser-helmet shape, almost as if a small tree is growing out of a large one (photo).
In preparation for new construction at St. Lukes, the massive tree was moved across the street in 2017. The move was carefully done, and the tree seems to be doing well. It could be a fixture in the city for a couple thousand years.
March 19, 2023
A Circus Act Out of Control (tap to read)
The first circus to appear in Idaho Territory put on a show August 6, 1864 in Boise. It was Don Rice’s circus, which the Idaho Statesman at the time noted “everyone has seen…in one part of the world or another.”
World renown was apparently the norm for circuses. The ad below is from the Idaho Statesman, June 8, 1865. Note that it is billed as the “most attractive performance ever presented to the world.” And only a buck!
Hyperbole aside, those circuses couldn’t match the spectacle that took place in Hailey as reported in the Daily Wood River Times on August 4, 1884. If you tend to get queasy about animal injury, skip this. It is not pretty.
The headline about Cole’s Circus said, “Samson, the Huge Elephant, on the Rampage—Two Horses Killed, Four Wagons, and Three Railway Cars Derailed—Forty or Fifty Shots Fired at Him Without Effect.” The story took up the entire front page.
Samson the elephant escaped its handlers perhaps when a dog barked and another bit him on the trunk. This angered Samson so much that he attacked the lion cage, rolling it over three times and breaking two of the bars, but not freeing the lions. Circus men came with sledge hammers and crowbars trying to guide the elephant. Local men ran to Hailey Iron Works with the idea that bars heated white hot might serve to control the him. Meanwhile, two men on horseback—perhaps descended from Paul Revere—loped down Main Street yelling, “Samson is loose—smashing things. Get some guns to shoot him!”
Samson was crushing wagons and horses on his way toward town where he met up with a circus hand brandishing a white-hot poker, which he applied to Samson’s leg. The elephant howled and proceeded into town.
“At this time,” the Times reported, “there were fully 3,000 persons on the ground, looking on and following the movements of the mammoth with the…most intense excitement.”
And what about all that shouting for guns? “The cavaliers who ran to Main street to look for gun-men did not search in vain. Instantly 15 or 20 guns of all description, from the small bird shotgun to the heaviest two-ounce Winchester, were produced, and started for the scene of the rampage. An elephant hunt was just what the sports of Hailey had longed for for a long time.”
The men with rifles blasted away at the elephant with seemingly little effect, other than to turn him toward the railroad tracks. There he encountered a rail car loaded with ties, butting it with his head, then turning it over, knocking two more tie cars off the tracks. The ties, scattered around like matchsticks, made it difficult for Sampson to stand. This gave the circus men a chance to get ropes around him. After all that he was reportedly lead back to his tent “gentle as a lamb.”
At least six or seven shots the animal suffered seemed serious, but his trainer, Mr. Conklin, assured that he would “heal in a week or two.” The man said that, “about once a year… Samson gets vicious and is apt to give lots of trouble. But after the spell is over he is all right for another year.”
The paper speculated that the incident may have started when Samson saw “one of the smaller elephants caressing one of the females and possibly making an appointment with her.”
World renown was apparently the norm for circuses. The ad below is from the Idaho Statesman, June 8, 1865. Note that it is billed as the “most attractive performance ever presented to the world.” And only a buck!
Hyperbole aside, those circuses couldn’t match the spectacle that took place in Hailey as reported in the Daily Wood River Times on August 4, 1884. If you tend to get queasy about animal injury, skip this. It is not pretty.
The headline about Cole’s Circus said, “Samson, the Huge Elephant, on the Rampage—Two Horses Killed, Four Wagons, and Three Railway Cars Derailed—Forty or Fifty Shots Fired at Him Without Effect.” The story took up the entire front page.
Samson the elephant escaped its handlers perhaps when a dog barked and another bit him on the trunk. This angered Samson so much that he attacked the lion cage, rolling it over three times and breaking two of the bars, but not freeing the lions. Circus men came with sledge hammers and crowbars trying to guide the elephant. Local men ran to Hailey Iron Works with the idea that bars heated white hot might serve to control the him. Meanwhile, two men on horseback—perhaps descended from Paul Revere—loped down Main Street yelling, “Samson is loose—smashing things. Get some guns to shoot him!”
Samson was crushing wagons and horses on his way toward town where he met up with a circus hand brandishing a white-hot poker, which he applied to Samson’s leg. The elephant howled and proceeded into town.
“At this time,” the Times reported, “there were fully 3,000 persons on the ground, looking on and following the movements of the mammoth with the…most intense excitement.”
And what about all that shouting for guns? “The cavaliers who ran to Main street to look for gun-men did not search in vain. Instantly 15 or 20 guns of all description, from the small bird shotgun to the heaviest two-ounce Winchester, were produced, and started for the scene of the rampage. An elephant hunt was just what the sports of Hailey had longed for for a long time.”
The men with rifles blasted away at the elephant with seemingly little effect, other than to turn him toward the railroad tracks. There he encountered a rail car loaded with ties, butting it with his head, then turning it over, knocking two more tie cars off the tracks. The ties, scattered around like matchsticks, made it difficult for Sampson to stand. This gave the circus men a chance to get ropes around him. After all that he was reportedly lead back to his tent “gentle as a lamb.”
At least six or seven shots the animal suffered seemed serious, but his trainer, Mr. Conklin, assured that he would “heal in a week or two.” The man said that, “about once a year… Samson gets vicious and is apt to give lots of trouble. But after the spell is over he is all right for another year.”
The paper speculated that the incident may have started when Samson saw “one of the smaller elephants caressing one of the females and possibly making an appointment with her.”
March 18, 2023
Does Anybody Really Know What TIme it is? (tap to read)
Time is of some importance when you’re running the government, especially at the statehouse, where committee meetings follow a published agenda. It was important enough in the early days of Idaho’s capitol that they installed a system of clocks, each controlled by a single master clock. The master clock stood about six feet high with a pendulum the size of a dinner plate.
Problems with the system developed almost immediately.
The September 20th, 1914, Idaho Statesman reported that “All the clocks in the capitol building proper are regulated and set every few minutes by the master clock in the office of the state board of health on the top floor, and as this has been out of order for some time the whole system has been stopped, and for some reason, each separate instrument stopped at a different hour.”
This resulted in some confusion as visitors moved about inside the statehouse only to find that time seemed to be rushing ahead or falling back at random according to the 27 clocks on the system.
The clocks throughout the building were notorious for not working. They went for years at a time without moving at all, offering a “wide variety of time.” They underwent repair several times, costing taxpayers about $500 per fix, each of which would last a week or two. It wasn’t long before maintenance staff just gave up.
At least a couple of times a Statesman reporter would take it upon himself to report the time in various offices to goad the government a bit. In several state offices, they covered the clocks to avoid confusion. And embarrassment.
One clock was so thoroughly covered that it disappeared even from memory. An ornate clock behind the justices of the Idaho Supreme Court was covered by a false wall. That room became the setting for the Joint Finance and Appropriation Committee meetings when the court got its own building. The clock was rediscovered during the repair and remodel following the statehouse fire in 1992 and was restored to its original grandeur (see photo). It is the last of the capitol clocks that once—occasionally—ran on signals from the master clock. The mechanism has been replaced so that it ACTUALLY TELLS TIME. I depend on it every day while serving on JFAC, and I always think of the story when I check the time.
Problems with the system developed almost immediately.
The September 20th, 1914, Idaho Statesman reported that “All the clocks in the capitol building proper are regulated and set every few minutes by the master clock in the office of the state board of health on the top floor, and as this has been out of order for some time the whole system has been stopped, and for some reason, each separate instrument stopped at a different hour.”
This resulted in some confusion as visitors moved about inside the statehouse only to find that time seemed to be rushing ahead or falling back at random according to the 27 clocks on the system.
The clocks throughout the building were notorious for not working. They went for years at a time without moving at all, offering a “wide variety of time.” They underwent repair several times, costing taxpayers about $500 per fix, each of which would last a week or two. It wasn’t long before maintenance staff just gave up.
At least a couple of times a Statesman reporter would take it upon himself to report the time in various offices to goad the government a bit. In several state offices, they covered the clocks to avoid confusion. And embarrassment.
One clock was so thoroughly covered that it disappeared even from memory. An ornate clock behind the justices of the Idaho Supreme Court was covered by a false wall. That room became the setting for the Joint Finance and Appropriation Committee meetings when the court got its own building. The clock was rediscovered during the repair and remodel following the statehouse fire in 1992 and was restored to its original grandeur (see photo). It is the last of the capitol clocks that once—occasionally—ran on signals from the master clock. The mechanism has been replaced so that it ACTUALLY TELLS TIME. I depend on it every day while serving on JFAC, and I always think of the story when I check the time.
March 17, 2023
Beautiful Butter (tap to read)
A personal indulgence, today. One of my favorite stories from my family history. The following was taken from the book Letters of Long Ago by Agnes Just Reid, first published in 1923, and available today in its fourth edition on Amazon. Nels and Emma Just were my great grandparents. Emma is writing to her father in England.
“The winter was uneventful, but the spring, the spring has been wonderful! We have had guests, distinguished guests from the big world itself. You see there is a land to the northeast of us, perhaps a hundred miles, that is considered marvelous for its scenic possibilities and the government is sending a party of surveyors, chemists, etc., to pass judgment with a view to setting it aside for a national park. Well, this party happened to stop at our little cabin. There were representatives from all of the big eastern colleges, and then besides, there were the Moran brothers. I think you must have heard of Thomas Moran even as far away as England, for he is a wonderful nature artist. And his brother John is what I have heard you speak of as a "book maker." He writes magazine articles.
“And these two remarkable men were interested in us and in our way of living. Think of it, Father! I took them into the cellar where I had been churning to give them a drink of fresh buttermilk and while they drank and enjoyed it, I was smoothing the rolls of butter with my cedar paddle that Nels had whittled out for me with his pocket knife. I noticed the artist man paying special attention to the process and finally he ventured rather apologetically: "Mrs. Just, would you mind telling me what you varnish your rolls of butter with that gives them such a glossy appearance?" I thought the man was making fun of me, or sport of me as you would express it, but I looked into his face and saw that it was all candor. That is one of the happiest experiences of my life for that man who knows everything to be ignorant in the lines that I know so well. I tried to make him understand that the smooth paddle and the fresh butter were all sufficient but I think he is still rather bewildered. And do you know, since that day, the art of butter making has taken on anew dignity. I always did like to do it, but now my cedar paddle keeps singing to me with every stroke, "Even Thomas Moran cannot do this, Thomas Moran cannot do this," and before I know it the butter is all finished and I am ready to sing a different song to the washboard.”
Thomas Moran, of course, was a member of the Hayden Expedition to Yellowstone in 1871. The expedition was camped nearby along the Blackfoot River on their way to Yellowstone, and several members visited the Just cabin. Emma and Nels sold them some of their handiwork. Some leather gloves and britches.
Family tradition has it that the britches in this photo, taken by another famous man that went along on that expedition, William Henry Jackson, were made by Emma.
“The winter was uneventful, but the spring, the spring has been wonderful! We have had guests, distinguished guests from the big world itself. You see there is a land to the northeast of us, perhaps a hundred miles, that is considered marvelous for its scenic possibilities and the government is sending a party of surveyors, chemists, etc., to pass judgment with a view to setting it aside for a national park. Well, this party happened to stop at our little cabin. There were representatives from all of the big eastern colleges, and then besides, there were the Moran brothers. I think you must have heard of Thomas Moran even as far away as England, for he is a wonderful nature artist. And his brother John is what I have heard you speak of as a "book maker." He writes magazine articles.
“And these two remarkable men were interested in us and in our way of living. Think of it, Father! I took them into the cellar where I had been churning to give them a drink of fresh buttermilk and while they drank and enjoyed it, I was smoothing the rolls of butter with my cedar paddle that Nels had whittled out for me with his pocket knife. I noticed the artist man paying special attention to the process and finally he ventured rather apologetically: "Mrs. Just, would you mind telling me what you varnish your rolls of butter with that gives them such a glossy appearance?" I thought the man was making fun of me, or sport of me as you would express it, but I looked into his face and saw that it was all candor. That is one of the happiest experiences of my life for that man who knows everything to be ignorant in the lines that I know so well. I tried to make him understand that the smooth paddle and the fresh butter were all sufficient but I think he is still rather bewildered. And do you know, since that day, the art of butter making has taken on anew dignity. I always did like to do it, but now my cedar paddle keeps singing to me with every stroke, "Even Thomas Moran cannot do this, Thomas Moran cannot do this," and before I know it the butter is all finished and I am ready to sing a different song to the washboard.”
Thomas Moran, of course, was a member of the Hayden Expedition to Yellowstone in 1871. The expedition was camped nearby along the Blackfoot River on their way to Yellowstone, and several members visited the Just cabin. Emma and Nels sold them some of their handiwork. Some leather gloves and britches.
Family tradition has it that the britches in this photo, taken by another famous man that went along on that expedition, William Henry Jackson, were made by Emma.
March 16, 2023
Wrecks on the Interurban (tap to read)
One often hears a lament from Boiseans regarding the long vanished Interurban. The conversation often goes that “we” made a mistake letting that system that looped around the Treasure Valley taking passengers between and within Boise, Star, Caldwell, and other locations slip from our grasp.
I’ve often said as much myself. But what is often forgotten is that it wasn’t a municipal system. It was a commercial system or, more properly, several commercial systems. The Interurban went away because it began to cost more to run than the revenue it brought in.
Also lost in the nostalgic dreams of cheap transportation for Sunday picnics and commuting workers is the fact that the Interurban was far from perfect. If you search through newspapers of the early teens and twenties, you’ll find dozens of references to fatal “electric car” crashes all over the country on interurban lines.
The Boise & Interurban had at least one fatal collision.
On the evening of July 20, 1910, two Boise & Interurban cars collided on Hill’s curve, a half mile west of Star. The motorman on the westbound car, William Earwood of Boise, was killed in the collision, while 16 passengers were injured, none seriously. A photo of one of the cars, below, is courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society digital collection.
The two cars were each going about 20 miles per hour at the time of the collision, which resulted when one or both conductors failed to contact dispatch for a check on traffic before entering the curve.
It is worth noting W.E. Pierce, the owner of the company, held that the Boise & Interurban was under no obligation to pay for Earwood’s death, since it was determined that he was at fault. Nevertheless, they did pay his widow $4,000.
I’ve often said as much myself. But what is often forgotten is that it wasn’t a municipal system. It was a commercial system or, more properly, several commercial systems. The Interurban went away because it began to cost more to run than the revenue it brought in.
Also lost in the nostalgic dreams of cheap transportation for Sunday picnics and commuting workers is the fact that the Interurban was far from perfect. If you search through newspapers of the early teens and twenties, you’ll find dozens of references to fatal “electric car” crashes all over the country on interurban lines.
The Boise & Interurban had at least one fatal collision.
On the evening of July 20, 1910, two Boise & Interurban cars collided on Hill’s curve, a half mile west of Star. The motorman on the westbound car, William Earwood of Boise, was killed in the collision, while 16 passengers were injured, none seriously. A photo of one of the cars, below, is courtesy of the Idaho State Historical Society digital collection.
The two cars were each going about 20 miles per hour at the time of the collision, which resulted when one or both conductors failed to contact dispatch for a check on traffic before entering the curve.
It is worth noting W.E. Pierce, the owner of the company, held that the Boise & Interurban was under no obligation to pay for Earwood’s death, since it was determined that he was at fault. Nevertheless, they did pay his widow $4,000.
March 15, 2023
The Beaver Slide (tap to read)
Do you know what a beaver slide is? If you’re a beaver fan, you’ll probably assume I’m talking about a muddy little path that serves as a quick way to get into the water for your favorite rodent.
The beaver slide I have in mind was once used to stack hay all over the West. It was patented as the Beaver County Slide Stacker in the early 1900s. Invented in the Big Hole Valley in Montana, it’s a somewhat portable device, made of wood, that lets someone with a team of horses pull a big wad of hay up the slide and topple it off onto a stack. Before bailing became the thing to do, loose hay in stacks was a way to store and preserve it. Hay stacked that way can last a couple of years—maybe as many as six years, if conditions are right.
The name was popularly shortened to beaver slide by those who used it. Nowadays you’re more likely to see a roll of hay the size of a Volkswagen than a beaver slide and a loose stack. However, the University of Montana notes that a few ranchers are going back to this method because it saves money and fuel.
The beaver slide in the picture was being run by Nona Virgin on the Railroad Ranch in the Island Park country, probably in the 1920s.
The beaver slide I have in mind was once used to stack hay all over the West. It was patented as the Beaver County Slide Stacker in the early 1900s. Invented in the Big Hole Valley in Montana, it’s a somewhat portable device, made of wood, that lets someone with a team of horses pull a big wad of hay up the slide and topple it off onto a stack. Before bailing became the thing to do, loose hay in stacks was a way to store and preserve it. Hay stacked that way can last a couple of years—maybe as many as six years, if conditions are right.
The name was popularly shortened to beaver slide by those who used it. Nowadays you’re more likely to see a roll of hay the size of a Volkswagen than a beaver slide and a loose stack. However, the University of Montana notes that a few ranchers are going back to this method because it saves money and fuel.
The beaver slide in the picture was being run by Nona Virgin on the Railroad Ranch in the Island Park country, probably in the 1920s.
March 14, 2023
The Nez Perce Breed (tap to read)
Idaho is horse country and has been for more than 250 years. Idaho even stakes a claim to a breed of horse, the appaloosa.
The appaloosa horse can be traced back at least to the Mongols in ancient China. It is the oldest identifiable breed of horse. It wasn’t called the appaloosa until it became associated with a place that would become Idaho. There horses were well known on the Palouse prairie of northern Idaho, and over the years those Palouse horses, became appaloosas.
The spotted horses came to the Northwest by way of Mexico. Spanish conquistadors lost or traded away enough of them to assure thriving herds in the new world. The Shoshone Tribe had them first, but it was the Nez Perce who perfected the breed.
Horses gave the Nez Perce a greatly expanded range, and produced a whole new way of living for them. They became buffalo hunters, and developed trade relationships with other tribes far removed from their traditional range.
The appaloosa breed was nearly lost when the great Nez Perce herds were split up and scattered following the Nez Perce War. An ambitious plan to save the horses brought the breed back from near extinction in the 1930s.
Today, thousands of the tough little horses with spotted blankets on their rear quarters can be seen in Idaho and around the world. If you visit Moscow, Idaho, don’t miss the Appaloosa Museum, where you can learn the complete story of the breed that became Idaho’s State Horse in 1975.
The appaloosa horse can be traced back at least to the Mongols in ancient China. It is the oldest identifiable breed of horse. It wasn’t called the appaloosa until it became associated with a place that would become Idaho. There horses were well known on the Palouse prairie of northern Idaho, and over the years those Palouse horses, became appaloosas.
The spotted horses came to the Northwest by way of Mexico. Spanish conquistadors lost or traded away enough of them to assure thriving herds in the new world. The Shoshone Tribe had them first, but it was the Nez Perce who perfected the breed.
Horses gave the Nez Perce a greatly expanded range, and produced a whole new way of living for them. They became buffalo hunters, and developed trade relationships with other tribes far removed from their traditional range.
The appaloosa breed was nearly lost when the great Nez Perce herds were split up and scattered following the Nez Perce War. An ambitious plan to save the horses brought the breed back from near extinction in the 1930s.
Today, thousands of the tough little horses with spotted blankets on their rear quarters can be seen in Idaho and around the world. If you visit Moscow, Idaho, don’t miss the Appaloosa Museum, where you can learn the complete story of the breed that became Idaho’s State Horse in 1975.
March 13, 2023
Idaho Arboglyphs (tap to read)
My father was an unrepentant creator of arboglyphs. He probably didn’t give it a second thought. It was simply his practice to carve his initials in the bark of quaking aspens from time to time when he was in the hills in the Blackfoot River country of Southeastern Idaho.
He probably knew that Basque sheepherders did the same thing across the southern part of the state. It’s a way to say “I was here.”
The Basques left initials and dates in the tree bark, but often added their hometown, images of churches, and other figures.
The three arboglyph photos shown are in the Basque Museum in Boise, which is well worth the hour you’ll spend there next time you’re in town.
He probably knew that Basque sheepherders did the same thing across the southern part of the state. It’s a way to say “I was here.”
The Basques left initials and dates in the tree bark, but often added their hometown, images of churches, and other figures.
The three arboglyph photos shown are in the Basque Museum in Boise, which is well worth the hour you’ll spend there next time you’re in town.
March 12, 2023
Potato Postcards (tap to read)
Idaho has always been creative about its potatoes. The license plate slogan has been a big part of that, and there’s currently a huge potato on a big truck touring the country and attracting attention.
Did you know about the postcards? There have been big-potato-on-a-truck postcards for years, mostly produced by postcard companies. It was the Idaho Department of Agriculture that came up with a creative series of postcards to offer to those military folks who trained here during World War II. The top four below were aimed at those stationed at Gowen Field in Boise, and the bottom two were for the “boots” training at Farragut Naval Training Station.
The cards are all signed by the artist, “Hager.” And that’s all I know about him or her. Does anyone else out there know anything about this cartoonist?
Did you know about the postcards? There have been big-potato-on-a-truck postcards for years, mostly produced by postcard companies. It was the Idaho Department of Agriculture that came up with a creative series of postcards to offer to those military folks who trained here during World War II. The top four below were aimed at those stationed at Gowen Field in Boise, and the bottom two were for the “boots” training at Farragut Naval Training Station.
The cards are all signed by the artist, “Hager.” And that’s all I know about him or her. Does anyone else out there know anything about this cartoonist?
Pierce Was a Jerk (tap to read)
Randy Stapilus’ book
Speaking Ill of the Dead, Jerks in Idaho History
is an interesting read. He has a chapter on Elias Davidson Pierce. Pierce’s jerkiness, in Randy’s telling, comes from his complete disregard for both advice from authorities and reservation boundaries. I recommend you read the book to find out more.
Today, I’m going to pull out just a few tidbits that I found interesting.
Pierce was the first man to name a town in Idaho—or what would be Idaho—after himself. Others with little modesty would follow. His town came along in 1860 when he set it up on the Nez Perce Reservation to service miners. The town was called… Wait, have you been paying attention at all?
So, Pierce, Idaho grew up fast. Thousands came to mine gold and by 1862 it was the county seat of Shoshone County. Not the Shoshone County we know and love today, but Shoshone County, Washington Territory. Idaho Territory was still a year away. Even so, when they built the courthouse it would, upon Idaho gaining territorial status, become the territory’s first government building. It remains the oldest government building in Idaho (photo).
Pierce glittered like gold in a pan and for about that long. By 1863 the population dropped from several thousand to about 500, because gold glittered somewhere else, drawing miners away. That’s about the population of Pierce today.
Today, I’m going to pull out just a few tidbits that I found interesting.
Pierce was the first man to name a town in Idaho—or what would be Idaho—after himself. Others with little modesty would follow. His town came along in 1860 when he set it up on the Nez Perce Reservation to service miners. The town was called… Wait, have you been paying attention at all?
So, Pierce, Idaho grew up fast. Thousands came to mine gold and by 1862 it was the county seat of Shoshone County. Not the Shoshone County we know and love today, but Shoshone County, Washington Territory. Idaho Territory was still a year away. Even so, when they built the courthouse it would, upon Idaho gaining territorial status, become the territory’s first government building. It remains the oldest government building in Idaho (photo).
Pierce glittered like gold in a pan and for about that long. By 1863 the population dropped from several thousand to about 500, because gold glittered somewhere else, drawing miners away. That’s about the population of Pierce today.
