Chapter Two
At Home in Idaho City 

Draft 4.0 (is it possible to believe it's finished?)

 

I could tell that no one quite knew what to make of my Greek fisherman's cap.

It was the 1970's and the town was on the cultural cusp: Loggers and miners on one side, and long-haired kids moving into town on the other.  I don't think either group wanted to claim some guy wearing a black wool cap from the Mediterranean Sea.

That actually was fine by me. As any good bartender would do, I tried to position myself somewhere in the middle, serving drinks to the locals, while working with a group of artsy friends who hung out at the town’s other major bar, the Miners’ Exchange Saloon. O'Leary's had '"Big John" and Miners Exchange had some of Boise's best rock bands, like "Famous Potatoes." I never knew if it was a stroke or a heart attack that sent Big John crashing off his stool to the floor. I just knew it was the end of Big John's musical career.

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My girl friend Jenny reminded me that, when we first met, I told her I had come to Idaho City to write the great American novel. In hindsight, not exactly the best pick-up line I could have used. But I do sometimes try to talk myself into things. If I say it enough times, it might actually happen. Besides, I was certain the old mining town had enough material for a trilogy.

 

 

It was as a bartender at O’Leary’s Saloon where I came to appreciate the authenticity of people not exactly equipped to deal with the increasingly urban nature of Idaho. One of my favorite characters was the placer miner, Hank Bertram.


Hank would come into the bar once a week with his small vial of gold, delighted to show it to any woman who seemed interested. I got the impression that his gold was more of a useful tool than it was a monetary investment.


One day Jenny and I went to visit Hank at his one-room cabin alongside Little Muddy Creek, a small stream that flowed into the larger Grimes Creek. It was near there that George Grimes and his men discovered gold in August of 1862. That led to one of the world's great gold rushes, one that jump-started the state of Idaho. Hank's cabin was also near where George Grimes was murdered, some say by a local band of Shoshone Indians. But that's probably a little too pat. Some believe it was the first murder of a gold miner by other gold miners in central Idaho. And it certainly wouldn't be the last. 


I was writing an article for the fledgling “Idaho Heritage” Magazine about some of the quaint characters who inhabited the 300 square mile region commonly referred to as the Boise Basin. Hank had agreed to a short interview. Plus, he promised us some of his homemade raccoon stew if we came to visit. We hopped into the car and headed for the Little Muddy.

 

The stew was a little sweet for my tastes, but I ate it all and at Hank's insistence even agreed to seconds. After the interview, I took a picture of Hank in front of his cabin. The photo appeared in the magazine, but I’m not sure how many people would have seen it, until I gave Trudy Jackson a copy of the photo. She framed it and placed it on one of the walls in her “World Famous Trudy’s Kitchen” in Idaho City. And there it resided for more than 40 years. 


As we were driving back to Idaho City, Jenny commented on Hank's unique view of the world. Her father was a minister, and she particularly enjoyed how Hank described his previous occupation before becoming a miner with a gold pan. “I used to be a religious fanatic,” he said. “but there’s no future in it.” 

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Earl Bream was another miner who would occasionally travel into O'Leary's Saloon from his nearby diggings above Idaho City. Earl looked mean, but was really a gentle soul. Unfortunately, he had a face only a mother could love. His chunky size, bald head and black patch over one eye meant no one messed with Earl Bream.

One Sunday afternoon, my folks walked into O’Leary’s Saloon, no doubt to see how I was wasting my college education. They were babysitting their young grandson, Wes. I thought it was a sweet gesture when the old miner came over to say Hi. As Earl bent down, eye level, with five-year-old Wes, the old miner growled, “I’ve got an eye out for you.” My nephew did what most anyone would do in that situation. He burst into tears. To this day, Wes has stayed out of Idaho City bars.

 

O’Leary’s Saloon could be a rowdy place, especially on weekends when it seemed half of Boise drove the 40 miles up to Idaho City. Back then, you could walk from bar to bar with a drink in your hand. It was definitely a Wild West town.  On one particularly busy evening, someone threw a chair through the large leaded stained-glass window that my friend Kenn Smith and I had built for Pat O'Leary. The window spelled out the word "Saloon" in Irish colors, which made sense when you were inside the tavern. Tourists coming up from Boise no doubt wondered what a "noolaS" was. We didn’t care. They were flat landers, and we were catering to the locals.

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In high school I had read the play “Our Town.” I had even dreamed of acting in it one day. The play won Thornton Wilder a Pulitzer Prize for Drama. The poster for the first production in 1938 described the play as "the record of a tiny New Hampshire village as created by the lives of its most humble inhabitants."

One of the things I had noticed early about Idaho City was that the town had its share of humble inhabitants, and many of them were real “characters."  What if we could wrangle some of them together, for a few winter weeks of memorizing lines and getting to know each other? Could we create our own "Our Town," and would anyone care?

 

After discussing it with friends Ed Lonsdale and Barbara McClain, both of whom had some theater background, I ordered copies of the play from Samuel French, Inc. In January about 15 of us began gathering at my cabin to read scripts. By then I had built stained glass windows to replace the Visqueen. 

It was a potluck setting with refreshments, and everyone agreed that it was a great way to fight cabin fever. No one figured we’d actually perform the play, and certainly not in front of an audience. We were just going to read scripts to get us through cabin fever. 

 

But as the cold set in and the snow piled up, and winter blues began casting a pall over our little town, the group started to warm to the idea of an April 1st performance. We figured the date seemed appropriate.

 

“Bruce was always our bandleader for fun things,” commented co-director Barbara. “When he decided that we should do ‘Our Town,’ we were all 'in.' I think Bruce felt it was a mirror of our small community. He set about lining up the Masonic Hall for the rehearsals and the performance.”

Eventually we moved all the rehearsals to the cold and drafty Masonic Hall. The fire in the potbelly wood stove threw off almost no heat, so we all wore the warmest coats we owned. At least being there gave us a chance to create a stage. 

 

“We built the stage by stacking tables on top of each other,” remembers Barbara. “We also had no backstage, so we crowded into the halls leading to the two bathrooms and jostled our way to the front for our entrances."

We borrowed seed money from the Boise Basin Public Library, promising to pay it back from the $10 tickets we would collect at the door.

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Our little library had become the hub for our little community, as well as the 'bank' for other Basin enterprises, like our annual Arts & Crafts Festival, conceived by Patty Jo Breiding and me one spring day in front of the Boise Basin Merc on Main Street. The Festival lasted more than 20 years before it became too big a burden for anyone to want to handle. 

 

The Basin library also fronted the creation of Idaho City University (ICU), where academics trailed far behind the fine art of having fun and raising money for the library. Friend Jake Hoffman had heard that Ketchum, Idaho, had its own university, and he thought the Ghost Town that Refused to Die could use an academic touch.

Jake and I took on the duties of "Administrative Assistants to the President." It didn't seem to matter that no one knew who the President was. For our inaugural event we chose Diamond Lil's Saloon on Main Street. It was a real gamble. We weren't sure anyone would even show up for the Saturday evening festivities. 

 

I had gotten to know author Dick d'Easum through my association with the library. Dick had written books on Idaho history, including "Sawtooth Tales" and "Fragments of Villainy." We figured he'd be the perfect speaker for the inauguration of ICU.

That evening, as folks started pouring into the tavern, the concern turned to whether the old wooden dance floor would hold.

 

The dress code for the occasion was Idaho City black tie, and it was fascinating to see loggers in borrowed tuxedos and caulk boots and women in sequined dresses with beautiful hats. Dick d'Easum wore a suit and tie with a 1930's gangster hat. He spoke glowingly of ICU to the hundred people crammed into the bar. He declared ICU worthy of being part of Idaho's university system, even superior to some, because ICU made no pretense about itself and took no money from the public coffers.

 

Mr. d’Easum particularly appreciated that Idaho City University had gone to the trouble of creating an official seal, complete with a Latin phrase. Ours was "Semper Ubi Sub Ubi." Roughly translated, Always Wear Underwear. We also had another Latin phrase for good measure: In Hoc Plenti.

 

Dick d'Easum, who had written about tall tales and explored the world of villains, understood his role that evening, and he played his part perfectly. He showered praise on the concept of a university that emphasized the value of good friends and good times. As Administrative Assistants to the ICU President, Jake and I bestowed on Mr. d'Easum the title of Dean of the ICU Department of Arts & Sciences.

 

By the time Spring Prom rolled around, most of the townsfolk were on the faculty of ICU and excited to dance to the music of the High Street Band. Some of us even purchased, for $25, a beautifully mimeographed diploma, with our name written in calligraphy, proving that we were an official graduate from Idaho City University. Some of us still have the diploma hanging on the bathroom wall.

Idaho City University even sold sweatshirts, with the proceeds going to the Boise Basin Public Library.

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One of our gatherings caused a ruckus with the State Board of Education, and I was the guilty party.

In my speech before the eating and dancing got underway, I apparently made some uncharitable remarks about Idaho's academic institutions. Some of the staff of the State Board of Education happened to be in the audience and word got back to the executive director of the State Board.

 

Even worse, as Administrative Assistants, Jake Hoffman and I had presented Peter Morrill with a certificate honoring him as Dean of Censorship. We thought it was funny, except Peter was the general manager of IdahoPTV, and the station had recently gotten into trouble for airing a program called "It's Elementary." The program, which I personally thought was rather boring, was about the challenges facing school children with gay parents.

Even before seeing the program, some in the Legislature were calling for the firing of Peter and the end of funding for public television.

 

I may have called the State Board of Education spineless for not defending the station, since Idaho Public Television was under the jurisdiction of the State Board. Unfortunately, the timing wasn't good for Peter. He was scheduled to appear before the Legislature later that week to ask for funding. 

 

Jake and I knew this was a serious problem for our Dean of Censorship. Early Monday morning we hastened down to the office of the State Board of Education, hat in hand, to beg forgiveness and to accept the blame.

I'm not sure what would have happened if the Executive Director had been in his office. He was probably putting out fires at the Legislature. We figured we had dodged a bullet. We offered our apologies to his secretary, and scurried back up to Idaho City. And Peter -- whom the governor fondly referred to as Rope-a-Dope Morrill -- managed to keep his job.

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Meanwhile, by the weekend of April 1st, with our lines memorized and directors feeling good about our chances, we opened the play to a full house.  Our town was coming to life in “Our Town.”  

The oldest standing Masonic Temple in the northwest provided the right touch. The 1865 wooden structure came with all the amenities, like a wood stove, old fashioned gas lights, wooden benches, and frogs croaking in the nearby pond, authentic as the play itself.

 

Everyone who wanted a role had gotten one. Mine was Doc Gibbs, one of the main characters in the 3-act play. Boise attorney Byron Johnson also played a role. This soon-to-be Idaho Supreme Court Justice didn’t have any lines, but his job was an important one. During intermission between the second and third acts, Byron headed down to the town’s bars to retrieve Randy. Randy was the town drunk in the third Act. He didn’t have a speaking part, but no one ever questioned his credentials.

 

 My girlfriend Jenny played Emily. She had no difficulty handling the lead role. The play’s high point arrives in that third act, when young Emily dies and goes to the afterlife.  Not used to being dead, Emily is anxious to return to her old life. The other dead spirits warn her, but she insists.

Soon, however, she realizes that the living are too caught up in self-centeredness and trivial matters, and her excitement turns to disillusionment. She hurries back to her body’s resting place, with the realization that our time on earth is an irreplaceable gift, one to be relished every moment. 

 

And through her tears Emily utters some poignant lines: “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? Every, every minute?” To which the stage manager replies, “No. The saints and poets, maybe, they do some.”

The play really is a tear-jerker. As I looked out over the audience through the peep hole in the curtain, I could see loggers and miners and young folks seated next to each other, some of them sobbing. 

“It was a spectacular endeavor,” said co-director Barbara. “Everyone in town attended and raved. Of course, some may have been unduly influenced by the heavily spiked punch provided for free by Mayor John Brogan and his good friend Bud McDonald. And the cast party afterwards, what I do remember is that it lasted for several days."

 

The next week’s major headline in the Idaho World proclaimed the play a success. Perhaps it was a bit self-serving, but as editor of the newspaper, I thought it entirely appropriate. We had experienced something that few rural towns ever will.

The state's largest newspaper, the Idaho Statesman, also gave the play a positive review. Even a reporter from another town could feel the strong bonds at the core of this small but big-hearted community.

 

Afterwards, the mayor bestowed upon me and the others the key to Idaho City, a twenty-inch wooden key that opened nothing. It’s still on my mantle, further proof that “Our Town,” my town, was a rousing success on so many levels.

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Idaho City's Pioneer Cemetery has a wealth of information for those willing to do a little digging. Located a mile from town among imposing pine trees and sagebrush, the cemetery's early residents lie there, along with their stories.  Tour guides like to point out that most did not die from natural causes. Bar fights, fueled by alcohol and Civil War disagreements, cholera and tuberculosis, mining accidents and murders -- they all took their toll on the rough and tumble gold camp.

Dum Tacet Clamat” are the words on one of the tombstones. “Though silent, he speaks.”

                                                                                         

After "Our Town," we decided that a melodrama was in order. Enter stage right, "The Death and Life of Sneaky Fitch." There was absolutely no anticipation of a Pulitzer Prize with this play. One could say it was the flipside of "Our Town."

 

The description explains why. "To the little town of Gopher Gulch, Sneaky Fitch is a no-good, drunken, brawling nuisance. When he falls ill, there is a sigh of relief. When he apparently dies -- thanks to some suspicious medicine -- there are no tears. But when Sneaky rises from his coffin, he now becomes invincible, taking over as sheriff, mayor, and town banker. Before, he was unbearable. Now, he is insufferable. But when Doc Burch comes back to town, and explains what happened, it's curtains for Sneaky... and all ends as boisterously and happily as you might wish."

 

I had invited the famous columnist for the Idaho Statesman, Tim Woodward, to the performance.  My friend drove up from Boise to experience "culture" in one of his favorite towns. I was a bit surprised seeing him in the audience, and I was even more surprised when he devoted his next column to an evening spent with Sneaky Fitch. 


"The thing that made it special, to my way of thinking, was the town spirit that went into it," wrote Tim. "Roughly a fourth of Idaho City was involved, in the cast or behind the scenes, and the other three-fourths was in the audience... It wasn't Broadway, but it was contagious. Whatever might have been lacking in professional expertise was made up in enthusiasm and community pride."

 

Tim attended the Saturday night's festivities, when afterwards everyone is introduced on stage, especially those behind the scenes. The director and the set designer and others received flowers. No one was getting paid, so flowers seemed appropriate.

"I'll be hanged with Sneaky's rope if there weren't tears in the crowd as well as on the stage," Tim wrote in his column. "It was something to see -- a whole town pulling together like that. You can always travel to see 'sophisticated' productions, but the other part is hard to come by. I've never enjoyed a play more."

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