The Pacific Squab and Poultry Farm

The first break in our family circle was Geoffrey. I never knew my little brother. He was spoken of often. Mother always said he was the most beautiful of all her children — golden curls and blue eyes and an adorable way of saying “Mothurr.” He used to look over the stairs from the nursery and call down to her, “Is dinner ready, Mothurr,” in a quaint drawl. But his young life was taken from their midst in 1884, at the age of two, leaving behind four siblings. His death was the result of a faulty drain. No one knew the repairman left a germ ridden tile out after he completed his work until Bessie went to the hospital with scarlet fever. Soon after little Geoffrey came down with diphtheritic croup, an infection of the upper airway, which obstructs breathing and causes a characteristic barking cough. Bessie recovered to come home to a home empty of her beloved baby brother. In 1907 poor Bessie had far reaching complications from the mumps that affected the family that year. She was advised to take a year’s leave of absence from her post as head of the History Department at Long Beach High School. After months of recuperation at home, she set sail for England, sufficiently recovered. She came home to a house empty of a sister. It happened on May 23, 1907. Caroline and I were planning an early game of tennis, and since Father was away, Caroline had taken over his usual chore of starting the morning wood and coal fire in the stove. Father always laid the fire and then poured a little coal oil over it to insure it started well. I can see him now — pouring it from a little sardine can of kerosene, which is what Caroline did that fateful morning. There wasn’t much oil in the can and the can filled with gas. It exploded, bursting into flames, which quickly leapt to Caroline’s light gown. I can still hear Caroline’s screams of “Mother, Mother,” as she ran to Mother’s bed, a living torch, and seeing Mother throw a quilt around her. Edward put out the flames spreading on the kitchen wall so quickly the wood scarcely burned. Mother was not injured but both of Josie’s hands were badly burned. When the doctor arrived he said Mother, who poured olive oil all over Caroline, would be responsible for saving her life if Caroline lived. For twelve agonizing hours we stayed by her bed. But as the day drew to a close, she slipped away. We loved her and she was gone. We comforted each other but no one ever took her place. No one could. And we had to tell Father and Bessie. Father was on a mining trip to the mountains near Escondido, but rushed home when word finally reached him. Bessie was away in England and didn’t hear the news for some time. She was beside herself that she missed her 17-year-old sister’s funeral. Eight young women dressed in white, classmates of Caroline’s were pallbearers at her funeral. My father, Ernest Harnett, was 51 when I was born. I can’t remember his hair being anything but white, but I do remember his English accent was hard for some of our younger southern California neighbors to understand. He was a strict father, but a loving one and he had the love and respect of his family. Sadly, he died February 20th, 1918, after being hit by a car on Atlantic near Burnett Street in Long Beach. A few weeks before his accidental death at age 77 he demonstrated to Dr. Harvey that he could still jump straight up and tap his boots together before he hit the floor again. The young doctor said he himself could not even do that! It was a hit and run accident that killed Father when he was walking to his mid-week prayer meeting at a nearby church. He was struck by an automobile driven by a 15-year-old boy, who had taken the family car for what some later said was an errand, others a joy ride. It was believed, though never proven, that death was instantaneous. A sharpened piece of one of the headlights jabbed into Father’s head. His right leg was fractured below the knee and his nose was crushed. The boy, Elmer Joselyn, fled the scene. Arriving home upset, his mother finally got him to tell what happened. She and a lawyer later took him to the police station to report the accident. Elmer was unable to give an intelligible account, not even remembering where the accident occurred or what direction he was going when it happened. It was pitch-dark, it was raining, there were no sidewalks in the area and all he could remember was that as he moved along in the storm, at ordinary speed, he saw a dark figure in the street ahead, tried to dodge, felt the impact and then lost all sense of his surroundings, but somehow proceeded home to tell the story to his mother. We did not press charges, since no amount of legal action could bring back Father.