Multiple law enforcement agencies and special agents from Union Pacific Railroad and an express shipping company were called to Milton-Freewater in 1939 after a puzzling robbery of the Milton-Freewater train depot that left the would-be thieves with nothing to show for their trouble.
A package was stolen on July 13, 1939, from the express agency in Milton-Freewater’s train station. The package contained approximately $38,720 in negotiable bonds issued by the Eugene Bible College, which at the time of the robbery was defunct and in liquidation. The owner of the bonds, Laura Harris, had shipped the bonds to Eugene to be checked and the serially numbered securities, made out to Harris and her daughters, had arrived at the train station the day before the robbery. The coincidence led some of the investigators to believe the heist was an inside job.
Because of the failure of the college, the bonds were worth about 10 cents on the dollar “if anyone would buy them,” said a trustee of the college. Included in the package of securities were checks, also made out to Harris, as partial payments for liquidation of the bonds. But as the college had stopped payment on the checks as soon as the robbery was reported, the package was worthless to anyone but Harris and her daughters.
The bonds were found July 19 in brush along the tracks about a thousand yards west of the train depot. The worthless checks, however, were still missing. Speculation was that the thief took the package thinking it was an express currency shipment and, finding the bonds instead, simply threw them away.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Kinzua teen rules over tiny town
Like Gulliver in the fictional land of Lilliput, Otis Cody towered over a tiny town built in the community of Kinzua. By July of 1971, 19-year-old Cody had been building the miniature logging town for seven years, and his model community covered a good share of the hillside behind his family’s home.
The town of Codyville included tiny logging equipment, homes and even paved roads. Log decks and stacks of tiny finished lumber dotted the hillside. And when Cody was not hammering and sawing to add to the town, he was managing the weeds — though he left a few to serve as trees. “It gives me something to do,” Cody said.
Deer from the forest around Kinzua often wandered through the town at night, leaving only tracks. Human vandals, however, once raided Codyville under the cover of darkness and caused damage that took weeks to repair.
The adults in Kinzua, including Cody’s parents, loved to show off the miniature town to visitors. Ray Cody worked as a truck driver for Kinzua Corp., while his wife worked on a manufacturing line in the mill, along with the wives of several other Kinzua employees.
“We’re proud of the town Cody has built,” said Allen Nistad, Kinzua’s general manager.
The town of Kinzua was owned by Kinzua Corp., which operated a lumber mill south of Fossil in Wheeler County. Kinzua was founded in 1927 to house the mill workers and included its own post office and a Union Pacific rail line to ship lumber to Condon. Once the timber supply started to decline and operating costs increased, the mill was shut down and operations moved to Heppner in 1978. Kinzua Corp. removed all the buildings of the town, including Codyville, and allowed the area to return to a natural state. The only thing remaining of the original site is Kinzua Hills Golf Club, a member-owned six-hole golf course 11 miles east of Fossil.
The town of Codyville included tiny logging equipment, homes and even paved roads. Log decks and stacks of tiny finished lumber dotted the hillside. And when Cody was not hammering and sawing to add to the town, he was managing the weeds — though he left a few to serve as trees. “It gives me something to do,” Cody said.
Deer from the forest around Kinzua often wandered through the town at night, leaving only tracks. Human vandals, however, once raided Codyville under the cover of darkness and caused damage that took weeks to repair.
The adults in Kinzua, including Cody’s parents, loved to show off the miniature town to visitors. Ray Cody worked as a truck driver for Kinzua Corp., while his wife worked on a manufacturing line in the mill, along with the wives of several other Kinzua employees.
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| Otis Cody looms over his miniature logging town in July of 1971 (East Oregonian file photo) |
The town of Kinzua was owned by Kinzua Corp., which operated a lumber mill south of Fossil in Wheeler County. Kinzua was founded in 1927 to house the mill workers and included its own post office and a Union Pacific rail line to ship lumber to Condon. Once the timber supply started to decline and operating costs increased, the mill was shut down and operations moved to Heppner in 1978. Kinzua Corp. removed all the buildings of the town, including Codyville, and allowed the area to return to a natural state. The only thing remaining of the original site is Kinzua Hills Golf Club, a member-owned six-hole golf course 11 miles east of Fossil.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Uncharged, man insists on fine anyway
An altercation over money on a Pendleton street in 1919 resulted in a conviction and fine, but not exactly in the manner the assaulter had hoped.
Judge Thomas Fitz Gerald, enjoying a quiet afternoon in his office at the Umatilla County Courthouse, was disturbed at 3 p.m. on July 28, 1919, when a young couple entered and asked where they could find a policeman. “A fellow swatted me,” the young man said, “and I want him pinched.” The judge told them they could find an officer somewhere on the city street, and they left.
An hour later, Fitz Gerald was again required to remove his boots from his desk when another young man entered his office and asked if he was the police judge. When Fitz Gerald replied that he was, the man confessed to hitting another man in the street earlier in the afternoon and wanted to turn himself in. “If he has me pinched it’ll cost me $10 or so. Can’t you let me pay up now?”
Fitz Gerald told the man, who said his name was J.O. Hales, that no charges had been brought against him, and that until the victim acted he could do nothing. But Hales insisted that he be allowed to pay a fine and have the matter settled, saying that money matters between himself and his victim were the cause of the strife.
The judge was stumped. Finally, he asked Hales if he wanted to have a charge of assault and battery lodged against himself. Hales agreed, and pleaded guilty immediately.
“Ten dollars,” said the judge.
“Ten dollars?” gasped Hales, who had obviously hoped his preemptive actions would result in a lower fine.
“That is our fine,” Fitz Gerald told him. “Assault and battery, guilty, $10.”
The self-convicted man fumbled through his pockets and ponied up the cash, then left the courtroom. Fitz Gerald never saw either the original accusers or Hales in his office again.
Judge Thomas Fitz Gerald, enjoying a quiet afternoon in his office at the Umatilla County Courthouse, was disturbed at 3 p.m. on July 28, 1919, when a young couple entered and asked where they could find a policeman. “A fellow swatted me,” the young man said, “and I want him pinched.” The judge told them they could find an officer somewhere on the city street, and they left.
An hour later, Fitz Gerald was again required to remove his boots from his desk when another young man entered his office and asked if he was the police judge. When Fitz Gerald replied that he was, the man confessed to hitting another man in the street earlier in the afternoon and wanted to turn himself in. “If he has me pinched it’ll cost me $10 or so. Can’t you let me pay up now?”
Fitz Gerald told the man, who said his name was J.O. Hales, that no charges had been brought against him, and that until the victim acted he could do nothing. But Hales insisted that he be allowed to pay a fine and have the matter settled, saying that money matters between himself and his victim were the cause of the strife.
The judge was stumped. Finally, he asked Hales if he wanted to have a charge of assault and battery lodged against himself. Hales agreed, and pleaded guilty immediately.
“Ten dollars,” said the judge.
“Ten dollars?” gasped Hales, who had obviously hoped his preemptive actions would result in a lower fine.
“That is our fine,” Fitz Gerald told him. “Assault and battery, guilty, $10.”
The self-convicted man fumbled through his pockets and ponied up the cash, then left the courtroom. Fitz Gerald never saw either the original accusers or Hales in his office again.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Firemen provide 4th of July entertainment
Among the more colorful entertainments during Pendleton’s celebration of the nation’s birth in the late 1800s and early 1900s were the contests between companies of volunteer firemen, who stripped to shorts and T-shirts and pulled the fire hose carts through a series of tests that showcased the teams’ firefighting abilities.
The first hose team races were held during 4th of July festivities in 1888 between the Protection and Alert companies. Protection Company, as the winner, was chosen to represent Pendleton at the hose races in Walla Walla the following day. The races continued each year, rotating to different Eastern Oregon towns, and by 1894 there was so much interest that the Eastern Oregon and Washington Firemen’s Association was organized in Walla Walla, consisting of representatives of fire crews from Baker, La Grande, Union, Pendleton and Athena, Ore., and Walla Walla, Waitsburg, Dayton and Colfax, Wash. Race rules were codified and the association was touted as “clean and honest sport and of benefit to the public for better fire protection,” according to a story written by Joe Ell in the June 3, 1924 edition of the East Oregonian.
Races consisted of the Wet Test, running a distance of 300 feet while laying 300 feet of hose, and attaching to a hydrant (time was taken when water came through the nozzle); the Dry Test, running 600 feet carrying 250 feet of hose as a team; the Hub and Hub Race, where two teams pulling carts ran side by side for 600 feet; and the Association Championship Race, where teams ran 200 feet, laying hose as they went, attached it to a hydrant and ran water through it, removed the hose and attached a second line from the hose cart, attached it to the hydrant and ran water through a second time. By the 1890s the Hook and Ladder Race was added: Teams ran 150 yards, put up a 30-foot ladder within 10 degrees of perpendicular to the street, and one member of the team climbed the ladder to the top. The winner was the man who touched the top rung first, and held on until the judges called time.
The hose team races grew out of the (sometimes not-so-) friendly rivalry between local hose companies, which were located in different districts throughout Pendleton. According to “History of Round-Up City Fire Department, Pendleton, Oregon” by William R. “Blacky” Batchelor, written in 1967, companies raced to be the first to respond to a fire in the business district of town, and fist fights would often break out if fires occurred on the border between two fire districts. In some cases, fires caused considerable damage while hose companies fought each other instead of the fire, and sometimes more than one fight occurred before an agreement on territory could be reached.
In the late 1890s and early 1900s, according to Batchelor, the emphasis of firefighting was placed on which company could use the most water, rather than keeping fire loss to a minimum. Victory always went to the crew that had the first water on the fire. And the volunteers manning the carts had one advantage over their present-day counterparts: There was always an ice-cold keg of beer waiting for them, either at the brewery or at one of the many downtown saloons, after their fire chores were completed. And if the fire lasted a while, the beer would be brought to them at the scene.
The first hose team races were held during 4th of July festivities in 1888 between the Protection and Alert companies. Protection Company, as the winner, was chosen to represent Pendleton at the hose races in Walla Walla the following day. The races continued each year, rotating to different Eastern Oregon towns, and by 1894 there was so much interest that the Eastern Oregon and Washington Firemen’s Association was organized in Walla Walla, consisting of representatives of fire crews from Baker, La Grande, Union, Pendleton and Athena, Ore., and Walla Walla, Waitsburg, Dayton and Colfax, Wash. Race rules were codified and the association was touted as “clean and honest sport and of benefit to the public for better fire protection,” according to a story written by Joe Ell in the June 3, 1924 edition of the East Oregonian.
Races consisted of the Wet Test, running a distance of 300 feet while laying 300 feet of hose, and attaching to a hydrant (time was taken when water came through the nozzle); the Dry Test, running 600 feet carrying 250 feet of hose as a team; the Hub and Hub Race, where two teams pulling carts ran side by side for 600 feet; and the Association Championship Race, where teams ran 200 feet, laying hose as they went, attached it to a hydrant and ran water through it, removed the hose and attached a second line from the hose cart, attached it to the hydrant and ran water through a second time. By the 1890s the Hook and Ladder Race was added: Teams ran 150 yards, put up a 30-foot ladder within 10 degrees of perpendicular to the street, and one member of the team climbed the ladder to the top. The winner was the man who touched the top rung first, and held on until the judges called time.
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| Photo provided by Kenneth Garrett. A team of volunteer firefighters, including a young Til Taylor, readies for a hose cart race during a fireman's tournament in June 1896 at the corner of Southeast Court and Third Street, Pendleton. |
The hose team races grew out of the (sometimes not-so-) friendly rivalry between local hose companies, which were located in different districts throughout Pendleton. According to “History of Round-Up City Fire Department, Pendleton, Oregon” by William R. “Blacky” Batchelor, written in 1967, companies raced to be the first to respond to a fire in the business district of town, and fist fights would often break out if fires occurred on the border between two fire districts. In some cases, fires caused considerable damage while hose companies fought each other instead of the fire, and sometimes more than one fight occurred before an agreement on territory could be reached.
In the late 1890s and early 1900s, according to Batchelor, the emphasis of firefighting was placed on which company could use the most water, rather than keeping fire loss to a minimum. Victory always went to the crew that had the first water on the fire. And the volunteers manning the carts had one advantage over their present-day counterparts: There was always an ice-cold keg of beer waiting for them, either at the brewery or at one of the many downtown saloons, after their fire chores were completed. And if the fire lasted a while, the beer would be brought to them at the scene.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
School cornerstone reveals disappointing treasure
In June of 1966, the old Condon High School building was torn down. Verne Shimanek, the man who bought the property on which the school and its gymnasium stood, began the demolition process by tearing out shrubs from the front of the school. And there, hidden under the undergrowth, was a cornerstone.
Dave Peterson was the owner of Condon’s only museum, and when he heard that Shimanek had unearthed the cornerstone, he asked if he could have it for his collection. As Shimanek and Peterson were prying at the cornerstone they wondered whether the builders of the school had buried something under the stone for posterity when the school was erected in 1909.
The men worked feverishly through their lunch hours trying to pry the stone away. And when it finally came loose, they found a tin box in a crevice behind it.
Shimanek hurriedly called city and county officials for the big reveal. Did the box contain old papers? Was there some kind of historical information hidden in the box? The news quickly spread, and by the time Judge James O. Burns, Mayor Bruce Mercer and ex-sheriff Frank Bennett (who had been present when the box was buried) arrived, quite a crowd had gathered. Excitement was high.
Bennett was given the honor of opening the box. But the “oohs” turned to “awws” when a total of $1.32 in coins dating back to 1890 fell out — and little else.
Bennett explained that the box was placed behind the cornerstone by members of the Masonic Lodge, who had formed a parade and marched to the site where the stone was laid. They had been told that only metal objects should be put in the box, and for that reason they chose coins, mostly nickels and dimes. One apparently wealthy man had donated a 50-cent piece, a scarcity in those times. Also included in the box was a gold pin or brooch — but nothing in the manner of a traditional time capsule.
The man most excited by the finds was Peterson, who quickly gathered up the cornerstone to put on display in his barbershop until he could find a permanent home for it in his museum. Judge Burns took custody of the tin box and its contents until it could be decided what should be done with it.
The old Condon High School, at the time it was demolished, was the last large public building built of bricks made and baked in Gilliam County.
Dave Peterson was the owner of Condon’s only museum, and when he heard that Shimanek had unearthed the cornerstone, he asked if he could have it for his collection. As Shimanek and Peterson were prying at the cornerstone they wondered whether the builders of the school had buried something under the stone for posterity when the school was erected in 1909.
The men worked feverishly through their lunch hours trying to pry the stone away. And when it finally came loose, they found a tin box in a crevice behind it.
Shimanek hurriedly called city and county officials for the big reveal. Did the box contain old papers? Was there some kind of historical information hidden in the box? The news quickly spread, and by the time Judge James O. Burns, Mayor Bruce Mercer and ex-sheriff Frank Bennett (who had been present when the box was buried) arrived, quite a crowd had gathered. Excitement was high.
Bennett was given the honor of opening the box. But the “oohs” turned to “awws” when a total of $1.32 in coins dating back to 1890 fell out — and little else.
Bennett explained that the box was placed behind the cornerstone by members of the Masonic Lodge, who had formed a parade and marched to the site where the stone was laid. They had been told that only metal objects should be put in the box, and for that reason they chose coins, mostly nickels and dimes. One apparently wealthy man had donated a 50-cent piece, a scarcity in those times. Also included in the box was a gold pin or brooch — but nothing in the manner of a traditional time capsule.
The man most excited by the finds was Peterson, who quickly gathered up the cornerstone to put on display in his barbershop until he could find a permanent home for it in his museum. Judge Burns took custody of the tin box and its contents until it could be decided what should be done with it.
The old Condon High School, at the time it was demolished, was the last large public building built of bricks made and baked in Gilliam County.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Firemen take work home with them
Firemen wasted no time extinguishing a car fire in July of 1929, but because they weren’t properly dressed to fight an evening fire, they took it back to the station with them instead of risking embarrassment in front of Pendleton crowds.
A fire alarm came in from the call box at the corner of Alta and Garden streets about 9 p.m. on July 15, 1929, and the volunteer crew made haste to the scene. There they found a parked car with the seat cushion blazing merrily away. But because the fire crew was wearing afternoon attire, instead of more appropriate evening clothing, and the firemen did not wish to be embarrassed in front of the crowds that usually turned up to watch them work, a plucky fireman grabbed the flaming cushion and carried it to the firehouse, where the flames were quickly doused.
When the firemen took the cushion back to the scene of the fire, however, the car was gone.
Fire Chief W.E. Ringold immediately set about looking for “a slightly scorched cushionless Ford,” while the soggy seat was retired to a pile of rubbish at the city dump.
A fire alarm came in from the call box at the corner of Alta and Garden streets about 9 p.m. on July 15, 1929, and the volunteer crew made haste to the scene. There they found a parked car with the seat cushion blazing merrily away. But because the fire crew was wearing afternoon attire, instead of more appropriate evening clothing, and the firemen did not wish to be embarrassed in front of the crowds that usually turned up to watch them work, a plucky fireman grabbed the flaming cushion and carried it to the firehouse, where the flames were quickly doused.
When the firemen took the cushion back to the scene of the fire, however, the car was gone.
Fire Chief W.E. Ringold immediately set about looking for “a slightly scorched cushionless Ford,” while the soggy seat was retired to a pile of rubbish at the city dump.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Water weapon wielders wage war
Sunny weather in Pendleton brought out weapons of wet destruction in May of 1953, but police were forced to enact a ban on water guns when unsuspecting adults were caught in the crossfire.
Police Chief Ralph Bond laid down the law to local teens (and soon-to-be teens) on May 5, 1953, after several grown-ups complained they were the victims of surprise attacks. The first reported victim was a man who was accidentally soaked on Main Street by a 13-year-old boy. The boy was chased into a nearby business by the man and allegedly assaulted when he was caught. The man was charged with disorderly conduct, and the boy was turned over to his father with a severe warning from the police.
Next, a woman driving her car on Main Street was shot in the face by teenage boys in a passing car as she made the turn onto Emigrant Avenue. Phyllis Fields in her complaint said she nearly lost control of her car and could have caused a disastrous wreck. And Pat Faro of Echo claimed he was the victim of “heavy artillery” when high school-age boys in a passing car doused him from what he suggested was a high-pressure tank of some sort.
Chief Bond instructed his officers to be on the lookout for anyone wielding a water weapon. “If a couple of youngsters want to engage in a water gun fight in their own yards, that’s OK, but if any more youngsters are caught shooting water guns in public places, either from cars or afoot, they’ll wind up in the city jail charged with disorderly conduct,” Chief Bond said in his ultimatum.
Police Chief Ralph Bond laid down the law to local teens (and soon-to-be teens) on May 5, 1953, after several grown-ups complained they were the victims of surprise attacks. The first reported victim was a man who was accidentally soaked on Main Street by a 13-year-old boy. The boy was chased into a nearby business by the man and allegedly assaulted when he was caught. The man was charged with disorderly conduct, and the boy was turned over to his father with a severe warning from the police.
Next, a woman driving her car on Main Street was shot in the face by teenage boys in a passing car as she made the turn onto Emigrant Avenue. Phyllis Fields in her complaint said she nearly lost control of her car and could have caused a disastrous wreck. And Pat Faro of Echo claimed he was the victim of “heavy artillery” when high school-age boys in a passing car doused him from what he suggested was a high-pressure tank of some sort.
Chief Bond instructed his officers to be on the lookout for anyone wielding a water weapon. “If a couple of youngsters want to engage in a water gun fight in their own yards, that’s OK, but if any more youngsters are caught shooting water guns in public places, either from cars or afoot, they’ll wind up in the city jail charged with disorderly conduct,” Chief Bond said in his ultimatum.
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