A really wonderful memory just came to mind of my childhood. It was the summer of 1947. I lived at 440 South 7^th Street, Apartment 1F, Richmond, California. I was about 11 years old at the time.

On this particular occasion, Richard, better known as "Dick" or "Tuffy," and I planned a trip to a place called Putah (Pewtah) Creek. I had been there once before with the Boy Scouts and I loved it. After several days of planning, we packed up our camping gear, fishing poles and what food we could carry that would see us through the next couple of days. We had saved up $5.00 between us and figured that would be enough for the next couple of weeks.

With our parents’ blessings, we took off, with my stepdad driving us to the edge of Richmond, saying our good-byes and then headed north. Tuffy and I started off on our big summer adventure. This was the beginning of a 90 mile trek, through a couple of cities and then the wilds of small country towns and small two lane country roads.

Tuffy and I walked and hitch-hiked the whole distance, with stops along the way to explore (we didn’t sightsee in the those days) the surrounding area and eat lunch. Yes, a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and strawberry flavored kool-aid from our glass insulated thermos bottles. As we were in the edge of the great wine growing country, we had to try some of those grapes to see if they were as good as people had claimed. The encapsulated juices were so sweet and warm, we savored each grape as though it was going to our last. Well, that’s a lie, we gorged ourselves up to our eyeballs and could have cared less about the finer side of wine tasting.

Among our other explorations, we came across a very old, very large house. It set quite a distance off the road, possibly 100 to 150 yards, but the important thing was that we could see no one lived in it, it was vacant even from that distance. It was yellow clapboard house, trimmed in milk chocolate brown. We walked up the drive, which went around to the back and led to what could only be called a ‘house sized’ garage and workshop underneath. There was no basement or cellar. Parked in the garage were four carriages in perfect condition. Two were similar to ‘hansom’ cabs, one a surrey with the fringe on top, the forerunner to todays people carrier, and one enclosed coach. They were all black, trimmed in red and gold. After looking over the workshop, we decided to go around to the front and see what we could see. Up the front steps we went, it must have been a ten-foot climb, to the front door. It was locked, we looked through the dirty windows and saw nothing but empty, bare rooms. It was two stories high plus the attic, but we never got higher than the front porch. It was very wide and went around two sides of the house.

After looking around the grounds a bit, we decided to move on to new horizons. Back to the road and out went our thumbs. After several short rides, with the usual chit-chat such as: "Where you boys from?" "Where you headed?" "Oh, yah, I been there fishin’ a coupla times." Eventually we arrive at our destination, Peutah Creek.

Peutah Creek is named after the Indian tribe who lived in that area of California. They were hunters and fishermen and quite a peaceful people. We found our spot that I had remembered, a nice sandy place at the waters edge, set up camp and went swimming. We did some scouting of the area and just ‘messed’ around for the rest of the day. Had more peanut butter sandwiches and kool-aid for dinner.

We had the whole world before us. For the next two weeks or so, we hiked up and down the river and throughout the valley. The morning after our arrival, we walked a couple of miles to the old town of Peutah Creek, where we found the filling station and got the 15 inch inner tube filled with air so that we could float down the river on it. We rode that inner tube every single day. I nearly forgot, while rafting down the river on my inner tube, I was shot in the back of my right shoulder by a small boy who was shooting at a floating milk carton. He must have missed it, BB shot glanced off the water and hit me. My back was to him so no damage was done. But it sure did sting. I said a few things to him I shouldn’t have, but we later made up and became buddies. Back to the town of Peutah Creek. The filling station was a single hand operated pump, with air compressor and a faucet and watering can. It had a small general store where we purchased our Pepsi-Colas, bread, milky-ways, milk and of course beans. The sidewalks were made of wood, the main street, in fact the only street, was a dirt road with three large oak trees down the center. Because of the oak trees, which overshadowed the street, it had a dark appearance to it. There had been other shops there at one time or other, but no more. It had boasted of a hotel too, but no more. There was a large livery stable and stage depot. Massive double doors, and above them was the old stage schedule. The schedule for 1850 read as follows:

To San Francisco, Oakland and Sacramento
Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Return Trip
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday
No Coaches on Sunday

This was a typical Zane Grey western town. I half expected to Johnny McBrown, Hopalong Cassidy, Tom Mix or Lash Larou come walking down the street. The only problem with that lovely old town was, it was dying a slow death. I don’t recall seeing any women, just a few old timers.

Little did we know, that only three years down the road, that this very same creek would become part of a major reservoir, the Feather River Dam, and that that lovely old western town would be sitting some 200 feet below the surface. Little did we know that my stepdad would be working on that project.

We hitch-hiked back home and had loads of stories to tell the gang about our adventures.

I reminisce periodically about that time. And I thank God that He gave me such a wonderful opportunity to see and do things that children today will never, ever get a chance to do. Can you imagine two 11-12 year old boys today hitch-hiking without a care in the world? Living on $5.00 for two weeks, or its equivalent? There are all kinds of thoughts that can be brought to mind, which would never have been thought of in yesteryear. I often wonder what ever happened to that old yellow house. The owners never knew we had ever been there. It didn’t enter our minds to cause or do damage to someone else’s property.

Jim Brooks

September 25, 2003