GREETINGS HANGTOWNIANS, Some of you appear to be enjoying my - TopicsExpress



          

GREETINGS HANGTOWNIANS, Some of you appear to be enjoying my photos and recollections of Placerville. Finding some time on my hands, at the risk of seeming presumptuous, I’ll share some more. By way of an introduction, my name is Shannon Thomas Casebeer and I was born in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern California and raised on a little piece of paradise called Reservoir Hill. Idyllic childhoods are mighty few and mighty far between and I didn’t deserve one, but some of us just get lucky. Near the top of Reservoir Hill, on the banks of historic South Fork ditch and overlooking the snowcapped Sierras to the north, the coastal range to the west, the Sacramento valley to the south and Miller’s pear orchard to the east, were the homes of my mom’s parents and her dad’s mother, Meda Eliza Camp Daniels. Meda’s dad, Asa Steven Camp, had arrived in Hangtown with his dad during the early years of the gold rush. My granddad’s dad had passed away when my mom was little, but throughout my youth, my great grandma Daniels still lived in the old family home on Reservoir Hill. Among the many treasures in the old home was a gun cabinet full of ancient artillery, beaded buckskin jackets made for little Asa Wilder by the Indians themselves, and all variety of other Native American artifacts which had been gifts to my granddad’s granddad by our Country’s Native Americans, back in the 1870s, when Surgeon, Jared Waldo Daniels was appointed by the President as Inspector of all the agencies west of the Mississippi. Throughout my youth I was steeped in this rich heritage and my appreciation and imagination deepened accordingly. I have many vivid memories of walking the tree lined lane from my home on Mosquito Road, up the hill past my great grandma’s home and on to the home of my grandma and granddad Daniels. Passing great Grandma’s window I was occasionally waved down and invited inside to warm myself by her wood range and snack on the candied figs, which she’d dried in the sun before steaming and coating with sugar. On a few occasions I recall sitting in her lap in the old rocking chair. The wood range would crackle and pop pleasantly from the corner of the cozy kitchen and great Grandma would carefully unfold and read aloud from the same little muslin book that had mesmerized my granddad as a child. Describing my granddad Daniels is very nearly impossible. Suffice it to say, I’d not have become me, without him. Time with Granddad was always a special treat and rarely did a summer pass without Granddad seeing to it that the entire family enjoyed a series of camping trips high in the Sierras, where Granddad had camped with his family all his life. All variety of kith and kin accompanied us on these woodland adventures, including Granddad’s brother and sister and of course his mom, who camped with us until age 93. As a little girl, great Grandma’s mom, Laura Ellen Oldfield Camp, had crossed the plains by covered wagon, making the trek from Wisconsin to old Hangtown back in 1854, when the rut riddled boulevard west was often impassable and Native Americans still thrived on vast herds of migrating buffalo. Camping was in our blood. We camped much as the family had camped for generations. Granddad had built red wooden sideboards for his 1941 Chevy, so the little pickup was well prepared to house all the essentials of camping and a canvas cover provided sleeping quarters at night. I remember well crawling from my own sleeping bag at first light, in order to join my grandparents in the cozy bed of the old Chevy. I remember Granddad’s beaming smile and mass of disheveled gray hair, as he peeked from under the covers. I recall how snug and warm it felt crawling under that down comforter, after kicking off my moccasins on the tailgate, the feel and smell of the canvas cover rustling in the mountain air, and gazing at the stars through silhouetted pines. Once the fire was lit, Sis and I would dress quickly and join the rest of the family, warming our backsides at a stone lined campfire and anticipating the smell of coffee brewing in the graniteware coffee pot and the debilitating aroma of golden brown pancakes and bacon sizzling on great Grandma’s cast iron griddle. Stellar Blue Jays called from the canopy of old growth pines, the welcome sun cascaded down through the lush boughs of evergreen, off in the distance rainbow trout snatched Mayflies from the cobalt blue surface of pristine mountain lake, and my mind’s eye envisioned my granddad’s granddad, crossing the country by covered wagon, long ago when Indians roamed these hills. Such were the days of my childhood, when life seemed simple, summer was perennial and childlike faith assured tomorrows joys. Treasure your memories, keep them fresh and never take them for granted. Even our memories can fade with the harsh glare of time. Shannon Thomas Casebeer
Posted on: Thu, 04 Dec 2014 18:33:36 +0000

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