From 1916 to 1933, prohibition was the law of the land in Washington State. From fine Canadian whiskey to bathtub gin of questionable origins, bootleggers and rum runners managed to supply tipplers with liquid refreshments. The election of Franklin Delano Roosevelt brought an end to the “Great Experiment” and on Grays Harbor during the first weeks of wetness, the great demand was limited by a lack of supply. Here are some stories on the issue as reported by the Aberdeen Daily World in April, 1933.
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The day after Halloween is a time for the kiddies to assess their loot in a sugar-induced frenzy while their parents take inventory of the damage that may have been caused by the little witches and goblins the evening before. In the early years the majority of silliness involved knocking over wood piles, removing gates, and soaping windows.
When the first men came to this corner of the country and began toppling the big timber, they started by tackling the trees nearest the rivers and transported them to the mills using the infinite strength of the rivers. As the forests receded, loggers resorted first to oxen and skid roads, and then to railroads, with tracks extending miles into the back country. All phases of the timber industry carry a certain amount of risk, and logging trains were no exception. What follows are a number of gruesome and truly horrible fatal accidents that took the lives of men who had no idea that they were facing their last day on earth. These stories are not for the fainthearted.
There is a misguided movement afoot to remove the squat, shoebox-shaped wooden structure at the west end of the Wishkah River Bridge known as the Pourhouse building. The plans call for it to be replaced by a soulless glass-and-metal terrarium for use as a “visitor center”, which, in this age of smart phones, has itself become an antiquated, quaint concept. To raze this nearly 120-year-old building would be no less than a crime against the history of this city, the people who built it, and the generations of past and future residents who would call Aberdeen home.
The relationship between husband and wife can be at times quite contentious. Ideally a happy union exists until death do them part, but often one or the other party opts to call it quits. Here are a few stories from local papers documenting the tale from pitching woo to marriage to dissolution.
When the first bicycles appeared on the streets of Aberdeen about 1890, the only place they could be ridden was the planked city center. A plank road (present day Pacific Avenue) was soon constructed connecting Aberdeen to Hoquiam and providing a passable route for cyclists. Whether for transportation or diversion, bicycling has been popular in Grays Harbor for well over a century, and the issues they dealt with then are still with us, as seen in stories from local papers a long time ago.
I often hear people say that the crime in today’s Aberdeen is worse than ever. I went back and took a look at some old newspapers and found that things weren’t all that much better or worse in the past than they are now. Here are some of the more interesting articles from way back.
A personal note: As I was sauntering home on the eve of Art Walk 2014, I stumbled and hit the pavement, breaking the fall with my face. As the abrasions heal, it seems a good time to look back at other Harborites who have taken tumbles of varying degrees of seriousness. Whether it is an unfortunate accident or a case of simple human stupidity, the Law of Gravity always wins. The first one is a classic.
The first picnickers appeared on the streets of Aberdeen, Hoquiam and Cosmopolis shortly after seven, an odd sight on a Thursday morning in 1914. Clutching picnic baskets, groups headed toward the railroad station in anticipation of the second annual Merchant’s Picnic at Moclips. It was to be a day filled with sports and games, clam digging and dancing, and a free barbecue with the attendees requested only to bring knife, fork, spoon and cup with them.
In commemoration of this weekend’s McCleary Bear Festival, it is a good time to look back on the life of Billy the Bear; a study in fortitude and self-reliance in the face of physical infirmity, and Grays Harbor’s real-life answer to the mythical mountain men of lore. Billy lived the life of a hermit, but his door was always open to visitors at what was known as the Winter’s cabin 20 miles above the Wishkah Falls.
Today is Aberdeen’s first Founders’ Day celebration, featuring the city’s largest parade in decades, and harkening back to 1914 and Aberdeen’s first Fourth of July Splash. Back in the early days of the Harbor, a logger’s two most anticipated holidays were Independence Day and Christmas; the only times they could get a week out of the woods and raise hell in the city. From the time of their founding, Aberdeen and Hoquiam held separate Independence Day celebrations; it took two decades for them to end that rivalry — and begin another.
On June 15, 1914, 112 registered Westport residents voted 96 to 16 for incorporation, and elected a mayor, treasurer and council members. This was the first step on the road from small settlement to full-fledged cityhood.
Harper Whisky is liquid music, bottled poetry, ripe mellow, refreshing and delicious. Sold by L.W. Walker and O.C. Vammen.
Right around 1900, Aberdeen experienced her first big growth spurt. Lumber had become an established industry and more ships were arriving at the docks daily. With the population nearly doubled, the city quickly outgrew the available space in the former tide flats and organically spread toward the hills. The primary need in the new residential areas was passable roads. Dirt was hauled from the hillsides to fill and level the gulches, creeks and sloughs that cut through the area and by 1914 the topography of the city appeared pretty much as it does today. One exception was east Fourth Street just off Broadway, where a bridge was constructed to carry street traffic, and where one of Aberdeen’s leading ladies met her end 100 years ago next Wednesday.
The tender, golden-shelled razor clam that grows in abundance on our coast has long been a source of local pride and a renewable resource that draws thousands of hunters to our sandy beaches every year. It was the pioneering newcomers in the late-1800s that saw the economic value in the humble bivalve — long a succulent staple among the native population — who developed methods for distributing the tasty treat worldwide. In celebration of the last digs of the season, here is a chowder of clam tales and methods used to acquire and distribute the sweetest shellfish in the world.
Through the years, newspapers in Grays Harbor have covered innumerable odd, strange and just plain silly stories involving members of the animal kingdom. Here is a handful of tales that were covered by the local press and told in the inimitable writing style of the early correspondents.
Before there were lumber mills, canneries, or even commercial fishing, the primary industry in what is now Aberdeen was farming. When Sam Benn settled here in 1867, he cleared a pasture, brought in some beef and dairy stock, and supplied butter to Olympia and the sparsely populated Puget Sound region. It would be another 17 years before the arrival of the A.J. West family from Michigan and lumbering began to take hold. The town was platted, streets were laid out and a business section grew along with the population, and cows, descendants of Aberdeen‘s first industry, continued to wander whenever and wherever the mood struck them. By 1905, the free-roaming cow was Aberdeen’s most divisive political issue.
In the early 1900s through the 1920s, Grays Harbor was one of the world’s busiest seaports. Longshoremen werer kept busy loading lumber for shipment around the world — shipments that would go nowhere without the pilot tugs that guided the schooners and steamers across the bar at the mouth of Grays Harbor. Of the dozens of tugs that worked the Harbor, one of the most storied was the John Cudahy .
In the summer of 1901, the enterprising Hoquiam duo of Vernon Smith and Charles Kuhn put together a transportation scheme that was intended to bring Aberdeen and Hoquiam together with a means of transportation the likes of which had never been seen in these parts.
At the end of the nineteenth century, before there was a Department of Labor &Industries and unionization was still a few years away, the lumber mills on the Harbor were a largely-unregulated maze of screaming saws, and canvas and leather belts running on open wooden pulleys with none of the guards or shields that are taken for granted today. Gruesome injuries were a nearly daily occurrence, and all it took was one moment of inattention, one small distraction. The following stories are rather graphic and not for the squeamish, but it is essential that the largely-anonymous workers who built the timber industry, often giving life and limb, are remembered and given their due.
The children at Franklin School clutched their buffalo nickels with hungry anticipation — they were about to take advantage of a relatively new social program presented for the first time in Grays Harbor. Whether you loved ‘em or loathed ‘em, tomorrow marks 100 years of hot lunches being served in the Aberdeen School District.
The pleasant weather on April 6, 1906, drew a larger than usual crowd to the sprawling Lindstrom Ship Building Company shipyards where Washington Street meets the Chehalis River. They had come to witness the launch of the S.S. Quinault , a 147-foot steam ship with a 38-foot beam, built for Aberdeen’s Hart-Wood Lumber Company. The ship was to carry lumber and passengers on the Grays Harbor — San Francisco route and was fitted with the most modern accouterments including steam heat in the passenger and crew areas. The festive air belied the tragedy that would soon befall a family.
P reviously, the Flood of 1913 was highlighted — let’s continue celebrating the rainy season with a postman’s account from 80 years ago. From 1927 to 1962, Jim McLean worked at the Aberdeen Post Office and the following is a first-hand account of his experiences during the Aberdeen Flood of 1933 which crested 10 feet above flood stage. Here is McLean’s account: