Note: The following personal account was recorded by John Alfred Rambottini in February 1987. Mr. Rambottini was 85 years old when he recorded this. Because this history was transcribed from a recording, there is some uncertainty about the correct spelling of some names and the Italian phrases that Mr. Rambottini used.
My name is John Rambottini, and I will take you folks back to the year of 1922. It was early in the Fall. I was still at the Colfax Garage with Fruge and Tiffarough’s [or Tiffereau’s], but I had moved from the room over at the garage. My father and I had rented a cottage at the east end of Colfax overlooking the S.P. [Southern Pacific] tracks. At the same time, we could look down and see the narrow-gauge railroad track. We could see the train chugging up the mountain.
In those days, when we had slack at the garage, we’d always get time off. We would trade days.
My day off
Now, I’ll transfer you in on one of my days off.
In the morning I would get up, eat my breakfast, and sit out on the porch and wait for the little noise I would expect to hear coming up the track, a little narrow-gauge railroad. You could hear the whistle about a mile away.
When they blew the whistle you could hear the echo bounce back and forth through the canyon as the train made its way up between the pine trees and sharp curves.
I would have my breakfast, sit out on the porch with my cup of coffee, wait for that noise. I’d hear that sound, I’d walk leisurely down the track, and wait for the train.
The morning train
Pretty soon you would see it coming up the grade, steam coming out all of the loose joints. It was chugging laboriously up the grade and its wheezing sounded like a three-legged mule with asthma.
Well, I’d stand there and wait for the little train. See old Bill Mutton, at the throttle, sticking his head out the window. He was almost as big as the engine itself. I would just stand there and wait and see it coming up the grade.
I’d wait for it, and by the time the last of the three-car train reached the point where I was standing, the train would speed up a little bit as the track would level off and straighten out. I would stand and watch the little train go down the track. You’d never see two cars in line. There was always one weaving one way and one the other.
I often wondered how it stayed on the track. I sat and watched. They reached the Southern Pacific station, old Bill Mutton putting the air on the brakes. Poor little engine would come to a shuddering, shivering stop, and it would seem to relax as he would say, “Well, Bill, we made it again.”
Well, I would stand there a moment and then I’d shake my head, gather my thoughts together, and wander on leisurely across the railroad tracks.
Walking around downtown
There was a feed store there at the time, where the marine works are. I’d always see Emmit Marten or old man Hutchinson. He was Jean Paoli’s grandfather. They were very pleasant people, both of them, very soft spoken. They had a pleasant word all of the time. So then I would speak a few words.
I’d walk up to the road, which was then the main highway through town. Boy, you had to watch your step across that highway. Sometimes there was at least ten cars a day go through there. Anyway, I made it across the highway, and I knew what I was going to see when I got across the road.
There was old Charley Geisendorfer. He was our supervisor for our 4th district. He’d be out in the yard, clip a bush here and clip a bush there, with a shear in his hand. I’d say, “Well, good morning, Charley.” He would never answer back. He would walk off grumbling all by himself. I’d walk down the street with a grin on my face, and never say a word anymore.
I’d take my time until I got down to the corner. There I would see Mrs. Williams, Minnie Williams. She was a beautiful, little old lady. She was straight as a string, never had a wrinkle in her face. Her eyes were darker than night, and her hair was white as snow. She always had a smile on her face. Minnie was a pleasant little lady. We’d just have a word or two.
Then, I’d wander down to the corner, turn the corner, into the blacksmith’s shop. There I would see old Shorty Barret. His name was Patty Barret. People called him Shorty. I stepped in the door and say, “Good morning, Shorty.”
He would say, “That it is, that it is!” and go on pounding on the piece of iron, hit the iron a couple of licks and then hit the anvil, bounce the hammer on the anvil. Then hit the iron another lick or two, bounce the hammer over the anvil.
I’d say, “Well, I’ll see you later, Shorty.”
Then he would say, “Aye,” and go on beating the iron.
You’re the man we’re looking for
I’d walk across the street to McCleary’s garage, step into the office.
“Good morning, Mrs. McCleary.”
She says, “Good morning, John. Wait a minute, you’re just the man we’re looking for.”
I says, “Now, what did I do?”
She says, “Oh, nothing. John wants to see you.”
“O.K.” So, I’d wait.
She says, “I’ll call him.” So, she steps out of the office and calls John McCleary.
John comes out and he says, “Hi, John. How are you?”
I say, “Oh, pretty good.”
He says, “You working tomorrow?”
“As far as I’m concerned, no, I don’t think so.”
He says, “Well, you have a truck load, going up to the mountains or a Model-T overhaul job?”
Whichever it was, I’d say, “Yes, I can do it for you John. I’ll see you in the morning at eight o’clock.”
So, I’d step around the corner there to Auburn Lumber Co., old S. K. Williams.
Sore heads
There was another one of the sore heads of Colfax. We had about four of them in town. I’d say, “Good morning, S. K.”
He’d say, “What the hell’s good about it?
“Well, stop and think, S. K. You can see me, can’t you?”
“Yap.”
“Well, you can hear the train whistle, can’t you?”
“Yup. Well, what’s that got to do with it?”
“You could walk up and down these steps and cuss the people that go by.”
He’d say, “Yes, I’ll give it some thought. I never thought of it that way.”
I say, “Think about it.”
He said, “My gosh, I think I will.” But the next time it was the same thing as always with S. K. Everybody called him S. K. He was S. K. Williams.
The Colfax Bakery and Theresa Stagi
Then, I’d make my way down to the corner, which was then the Colfax Bakery. There was Theresa Stagi. She’d always be out there either sweeping the sidewalk or hosing it off with a hose.
“Well, good morning. Theresa.”
She says, “Good morning.”
“Why are you out so early in the morning?”
She says, “Well, there’s a lot to do around here.”
I’d say, “Yes, that’s for sure,” and I’d go on up the street. Next door was the shoemaker shop. I’d say, “Hey, Shoemaker!”
All he could say was “A-La.” That meant, “Hey, there.” So, I’d walk on by.
I’d cross the street over to mountain view. There was old Ralph, always. You’d always see him out there, old Ralph Bertolucci.
The mystery of the weather
I’d say, “Good morning, Ralph. It’s pretty cold this morning. What’s the good news? Rain or snow?”
He’d look up in the air and say, “Well, who knows. It does what it pleases, anyway.”
I say, “That’s for sure.”
Fruit stand, meat market
I’d keep going. Next door, there was Tony Perry’s number two vegetable and fruit stand. That was always taken care of by a lady, by the name of Favilla, Mrs. Favilla.
I’d say, “Good morning Mrs. Favilla.”
She’d say it in Italian, “Bon giorno, Giovanni! Good morning, Johnny.”
Then I’d continue on.
Next door there would be Dan Russell’s meat market. I’d say, “Oh, hi there, Mr. Russell.”
He’d let out a grunt or two and that’s about it. I could look through the window and see old Dave Bauer. He was the meat cutter. He always had time to wave good morning or goodbye, or whatever it was.
He was busy cutting meat for the display in the window and the showcase. He was so short he couldn’t see over the top of the showcase. Then, I’d continue down.
Do you think you’ll ever catch that dog?
Next door was J.M. Scarborough. I am going to pause here a minute and tell you about J. M. He was my employer at one time. You’d always see him either chasing the dog down the street with the broom or he had a bucket of water and a broom washing off the doors where the dog had stopped a moment before.
I’d say, “Hey, J. M. Do you think you’ll ever catch up with that dog?”
He says, “One of these days, I will.”
I told him, “Yes, and one of these days you might be sorry too.” So, then I’d continue on down.
Big Bill’s Saloon
The next door would be Big Bill’s saloon. They called him Big Bill, Bill Belwameni. That’s the town he came from in Italy. He was a good-natured, big guy, about six foot, two inches, raw-boned, and the saloon keeper. You know what he would say in Italian, “Look who’s coming.” Then, he’d say, “Guarda chi si Trova? Cheappa una branchata di pinatsa. Grab a handful of peanuts.” Well, then I’d thank him. He had a whole big sack full by the door for people, but they mostly helped themselves. Then I’d go on down to the next door.
When are you going back to Italy?
There was a dry goods store there and a shoe stand. Run by old man Rugani. He’s a short, red-faced guy, think he was going to have a heart attack any moment, such a red face. I’d say, “Good morning, Rugani.”
He’d say, “Good morning.”
“When are you going back to Italy?”
Well, he’d say, “Two more months.” And sure enough, in two months he sold out to Petri. Then, he left and went to Italy.
A drugstore, a bank, the Odd Fellows, the Masons, a saloon, and Henry Lobner
Next door would be the drugstore, Jack Butler. Johnny Butler was his name, they called him Jack. He was a druggist. He never had much to say. He’d always look out the window, “Huh.” He’d let out a grunt or two and go on about his work.
Next to the drugstore, you would find the Bank of America which was then the Bank of Italy. Art Weaver was always at the window. You could always see him there, busy. He had time to wave “hi” or “good morning” or “bye.” He was another quiet fellow.
Next door there was a stairway that led upstairs to the Odd Fellows Hall and to the Masonic Hall. I never had any reason to go up there, so I didn’t know what was up there.
The next door to that was old man Spooler. He was a German. I’d always say, “Good morning, Mr. Spooler.”
He’d always say, “That it is. That it is. Good morning.” He had a daughter, a redheaded-daughter, freckle-faced, who turned out to be a schoolteacher.
Then on down would be Joe Worry’s saloon. Sometimes Joe would be in the front, sometimes he wouldn’t. If he was in front, I would speak to him and keep going.
Then we came to Heinie [Henry] Lobner. He’d stand out front. That old Kuensly was running the store.
I said, “Good morning, Heinie.”
“Oh, hi, mechanic,” he’d say. “How are you this morning?”
“Oh, just fine,” I’d say. Just a few words and then continue.
A two-cylinder delivery truck
Next door was George West’s grocery store. You could always see George West in the little cubical out in the middle of the floor, all glass around. He could watch everybody as they were doing their work.
Poor old Walter Viscia. I felt sorry for him. They’d have him out front trying to crank that old two-cylinder high wheel, hard tire rig. Try and get it started to go on his delivery route. I think Eddie Viscia has that same old truck. You can see it in the Fourth of July Parade almost every year.
“Well, Walt, do you think that you’ll ever get it going?”
He says, “Oh, if I crank it long enough, I’ll get it wound up so that it will run anyway.”
Pretty soon he’d get it started and shiver, shake, jump in the seat, get in gear, and take off down the road to the delivery route.
Big Murphy’s Saloon
Then I’d cross the street. That was once Big Foot Murphy’s Saloon on the corner that had been turned into a soda fountain.
I’d stand there and pause a minute, just think of the old times, when old Murphy was there, and collect my thoughts.
The first radio I’d ever seen
Next door, there was Art Cunningham’s hardware store. He had the first radio I’d ever seen, sitting out on the street with a big old, crooked horn, belching out something that you couldn’t understand. I’d say, “Art, when are you getting one of these things that speak English?”
He says, “I don’t know. Whenever they make one, I might get one. This damn thing sounds like a goggle of geese with Whooping Cough.” So, he laughed a bit and then I’d continue down.
I think it was a library
Next door would be either a library or a dry goods store. But I think it was a library. No one in there. So, I pass it.
Next door was the little telephone office. Little Rosy Beroli, she was always in there, a good-looking girl. I’d step in the door and say, “Good morning.”
She’d say, “Well, good morning.” Then we’d have a pleasant word or two. “Well, I’ll see you later.” And I’d continue down.
Have a Coke with me
Next door was the pool hall, old John Pomroy. He was always alone at that time of the morning. He’d always call me in. “Hey, come and have a Coke with me.” So, I’d go in the pool hall, set down at the card table and would have a Coke. Then I’d put the bottle in the case. “Well, I’ll see you later, John.”
“Oh, yeah.”
So, I walk on down to Tony Perry’s No. 1 fruit and vegetable stand. There was old Tony Perry. He was always walking either to the truck or from the truck with his shirt tail hanging out, hair was never combed. “Good morning, Tony.”
“Hey, good morning, Johnny.” He didn’t have much to say. So, I go on down.
Next door was an old shop, state highway used it for a repair shop. They didn’t have a repair shop then. So, there was old Walter Barnes and Charlie Webber. They were either working around an old truck or fixing a tire or getting ready to go out. I’d stop and have a few words with them and on down the street.
Next door would be Mrs. Dely. Ruth and Owen Dely. They had a cleaning establishment, clothes and what have you. He was sort of a tailor. They were very pleasant people.
Down below that, O. E. Williams had his little shop where he kept his little delivery truck. Poor little old Swede Johnson. He was trying to get his little Model T truck started to get it out on the little delivery route.
Colfax Soda Works, Marson’s
Down below him there was a Soda Works, old Carl Bell’s Colfax Soda Works. It was operated by a fellow by the name of Frank Rose. That was always good for a bottle of Coke of some kind, orange juice or something. I’d have a bottle there.
Next door was Marson’s barber shop. He was another jolly old fellah. He was always happy, Ozzie Marson, that’s Bob’s father. He was always in the door, looking for customers. He never talked much.
Then, next to Marson’s there was O. E. Williams’ grocery store. There was a character worked in there, Lloyd Newman. He was the clerk. Here I’ll stop, pause a moment, and have a few words about some old character he used to hang around with.
A character named Coop
This old fella’s name was Cooper. Some people called him Coop, some people used to call him Old Pig Pen, and some called him Fly-blow. His real name would be Cooper. He’d tie his old horse to a power-pole beside the store, and he’d go in and gather stuff for his pigs in a box. He had the horse out there with two barrels on the wagon and he’d seem to pause around there, you know, linger around the store. The store had a little island in the center, where you could walk around it, with a little display of items on the shelves.
They had sacks of potatoes, maybe a sack of beans, or probably a sack of onions here and there. They had these canned goods, and cases of eggs. Old Cooper, he’d walk around this little island.
Lloyd was kind of watching him one day. He saw old Cooper there. He paused over by the case of eggs. Old Cooper would pick up a couple eggs every time around and put them in his pocket. About the second time around, he had three or four eggs in his coat pocket.
There was old Lloyd Newman, he was a character. Anyway, he’d come around the counter, pat old Cooper on the back, and say, “Hi! How are you this morning, Coop?” Cooper wouldn’t say much.
Lloyd Newman would make believe like he was picking something off the floor. He bumped against old Cooper, and he bumped against the pocket that had the eggs in it. So you know what happened. Old Lloyd Newman said, “Oh, gee, I am so sorry I bumped into you.” Cooper would never say a word. He walked out the store and out in back. Then there was no sidewalk. It was dirt. In the wintertime it would all turn to mud, in summertime to dust.
So, he walks out in back of the store and takes his coat off, turns the pocket inside out, and hangs it out on the back of the wagon. He gets in the wagon and starts up the street. That broke old Cooper from swiping eggs. That was comical, all right. He’d go up to the next store and do the same thing. That would have been George West’s store. I would never see him after that. That was something that happened a long, long time ago.
I’d go and have a word with Lloyd Newman, talk about old Coop, old Fly-blow. I’d walk across the street to the Post Office, which is now the library. There was some pleasant ladies that worked in there: Mrs. Bert Cross, Alice McGinn. I have a few words with them at the window. “Well, Bert, I guess I’ll see you at the dance next Saturday.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll be there.” Then I would leave, cross the road, up the railroad bank, and start across the railroad track.
They did get a jackass
There would be old Rube Cross, Bert Cross’ husband.
I’d say, “Good morning, Rube. Hey, you got quite a pack of mail sacks across from the baggage room.” He’d have three or four mail bags that would weight down a wagon. I’d say, “Hey, Rube, why don’t you have Uncle Sam get you a jackass to carry those bags?”
He says, “Well, John, they did get a jackass. They got me.” So then I’d continue across the track laughing to myself. There was old Frank Turcot. He was a nice guy. He used to have the baggage room. We’d have a few words, talk, pass the time of the morning. Then I’d say my farewell and go on around to the waiting room, depot, or the place where the passengers would buy their tickets. If he wasn’t busy, I’d walk up to the window to see old Bill Himer. I’d say, “Morning, Bill.”
Bill would say, “Hulloo.” And he’d go on tapping at the keys. He was the telegraph operator. I’d watch him a minute or two and say, “Well, see you later, Bill.”
“Yup, I’ll see you.” I’d go out the back door, continue on down. I’d make my way down to the narrow gauge transfer platform. There were a couple of old guys there. They were pleasant fellows.
There was one guy by the name of Spender. I never did know his last name. His first name we’d always call him Spender. And then old Paul Cornwall. He was from Kentucky. He’d start talking and I could never understand him. I’d go on down to the other end of the track, platform. There was one of those old hand-trucks. I’d set there a few minutes and watch across.
I looked for a signal from her
I could see that little old boarding house. Mrs. Angle used to run it. She had a granddaughter staying with her. Her name was Bernice Gill. I’d wait for the signal. If I could see a colored rag hanging out on the back porch I would stay away. But if it was a white rag, then I would hurry up, jump down off the platform, and walk pretty fast to the Fowler Hotel. That’s where that feed store is now. I’d run up to where Bernice was standing.
I’d know if it was clear because there was a white rag hanging. So, Bernice was standing by the gate. I’d step in the gate and step behind the hedge. I’d hug and go into a clinch the first thing. I’d grab her and hold onto her tight. Oh, she was a beautiful girl. We’d stand and talk a few minutes and make a date for the next time. I’d give a long lingering kiss and tell her I’d see her later. I’d go on down.
A big home, a convalescent home, and some cottages
At the next door was a big home owned by a man by the name of Drennen. I didn’t know the old guy. On the corner was a little convalescent home. Two or three cottages were over there, where TB recovering people would stay.
There was Lillian Brown. She was tall, slim, beautiful brunette, freckle-face. I kind-of liked her but I didn’t like her like I liked Bernice. Anyway, I’d stop and have a word or two with her, have a peck on the cheek. “Well, see you later, Lillian.”
Incidentally, she’s still living. She has a place in the little town of Washington, Nevada County. Then on the corner there was another sour head. Old Claude Wills. There was an old wood yard, run by Wills and Filbrick. That old Claude would get after you. I’d never talk to the old boy. So, I’d pass up old Claude Wills. I’d go on by, never say a word.
He looked like he ran into a train and the train got the worst of it
Right next door, a lot of times, I could see Bat Reardon. He’d come out of his gate. He had one of those bulldogs with the bowlegs. He looked vicious, looked like he ran into the freight train and the freight train got the worst of it. His nose was poked clear back under his eyes.
Old Bat Rearden was a good-natured guy. His old bulldog looked as though he would chew you up, but he was just a pussycat. I’d continue on and say, “Good morning, Bat.” He’d say, “Hi, there John.” And I would continue on. I’d get up to the corner where the old dance pavilion was. I’d pause a minute. Sometimes I’d turn around and go up the steps, pause up on the steps for a little while. I’d look the town over, thinking about when the next dance was going to be.
I’d walk down the stairs, cross the street, which was then the highway. In back of the old Marvin Annex, across and up the road, I would see Mrs. Booth. That would be Elmer Booth’s mother. She was always out in the yard, trying to work on her flowers. I know the weeds were getting ahead of her. I said, “Mrs. Booth, your weeds are getting ahead of you. Do you think you will ever catch up to them?”
She said, “No, I don’t think I will.” And she’d go on hoeing them and I’d go on continuing on up the hill. There I would meet old C. G. Sebring. He was the division superintendent for the SP [Southern Pacific Railroad]. “Hey, morning, Mr. Sebring.”
I think Mama is waiting at the gate for you
“Good morning, John. I think Mama’s waiting up at the gate for you.” That would be Mrs. Sebring. Sure enough, there she was. She’d be waiting to talk a little bit. She was a beautiful lady. She was like out of a picture book, and I always looked forward to talking with her. She was very pleasant and beautiful. She had black eyes, as black as the night. Her hair was as black as coal, beautiful, wavy, natural hair.
Just to pass the time of day I’d grab her hand and say, “Well, Mrs. Sebring, we’ll see you next time around.”
She’d say, “Oh, O.K., John, we’ll see you then.”
Where I lived was practically diagonally across the street from where she lived. And that would be about the end of my morning or day.
So, then I would stay around the house until about 4:30. Then I’d start downtown. I would walk pretty fast. Sometimes, I’d take my old Studebaker and ride. I’d get down there in front of the pool hall. There some of the boys would gather.
We’d set out on the sidewalk, dig our heels in the dirt. There were no curbs or gutters then. We would sit and talk about what had happened, that day’s events, what we did, what we were going to do, and so on.
It is good for the rheumatism
It wasn’t the end of the day until we saw old Jim Deyser coming across the track. I don’t know how many of you people remember old Jim. Well, Jim was an old railroad crossing watchman when the highway went through Colfax. He’d have to flag the cars down if the train were switching back and forth, and old Jim would get off of work about 4:30, five o’clock. We would see him. We would set there and watch him bobbing up and down, crossing the track, coming up closer to the sidewalk. When he’d reach the Bigfoot Murphy’s saloon he would stop, look up the street and down the street and then head in our direction.
When we see him coming, we’d get up one at a time and lean up against the building behind us and stand there and wait. Here comes old Jim and he would laboriously, with a great effort, occupy the spot where he had just vacated. Anyway, he’d get himself set down and his heels dug into the bank, pull his old pipe out of his pocket, knock out the ashes out on the sidewalk, fill it with new tobacco. Then he’d put it into his mouth and light it. He’d take two or three matches before he got it lit.
Then, he’d be pretty well contented, puffing away, smoking his old pipe, deep in thought I guess, and pretty soon we knew what was going to happen.
We saw it happen before. A big old hound dog would come walking down the street, so happy. He’d have his tail in the air, trotting along. As he got closer to Jim, he slowed down.
When he got up to Jim Deyser, he’d stop. He’d walk up to Jim kind of slow, sniff him up and down, lick the back of his ears, lick his neck, sniff up and down his back, and he’d step up and hoist his leg, and wet all over him. That was nothing. We didn’t think nothing of it. We saw it happen before. So, the old dog would turn around and sniff, and he’d seem to be pretty well satisfied with what he did. Then, he’d trot on down the streets, tail up in the air.
Pretty soon, here come another little dog half his size. Well, he couldn’t reach Jim to lick him in back of the ears, so, he’d put his front feet on his back and reach up that way and lick Jim in back of the ears, back of his neck. Then he’d do the same thing. He’d jump down, walk up behind Jim, sniff up and down, and hoist his leg, and squirt all over Jim.
Pretty soon one of the boys would say, “Hey, Jim, you know that dog is wetting all over you?”
Old Jim was kind of crabby. So, he says, “You suppose I don’t know it? It’s good for the rheumatism.” So, he’d go on puffing at his pipe.
About the time that his pipe would go out, he’d do the same thing in reverse, get up off of the sidewalk with a great effort. It was a job for him to get up and stand straight up, and he’d get out in the middle of the street and look up the street and look down the street, head himself in the right direction. Then, he would head down the street with his bobbing walk, and then he’d fade off into the night towards his nest. That was about the end of Jim Deyser’s evening.
I thank you folks for being patient and listening to this little piece of history that’s been long since gone by. I don’t think that there are many left now that remember old Jim, but he was quite a town character.
A little more about Cooper
Oh, I had a little more to add about old Fly-blow Cooper. Every time he’d go up the street with his old wagon, his garbage barrels, there would be a cloud of blow flies would follow him up the street. You know, all of the merchants in Colfax would seem to be happy when he’d leave town because it’d seem that all of the flies would follow him. That was the last of old Coop.
Colfax Area Historical Society (CAHS) and Colfax Heritage Museum (CHM) 