Laurel Glen Fruit Farm (Theres is not date on this picture only "Santa Cruz News")
In "Grandfather Dakin's Farm" Ruthalee Dakin Mauldin tells the story of her 1991 visit to the house at Laurel Glen where she grew up during the 1920's.
"You will probably find it very different from the way it was when you lived here," said Bill Weston, the current owner.
Bill's wife Danny and my sister Alice had met by chance at an optical office in San Jose. After Danny had given her address as Laurel Glen Soquel, Alice asked her if she knew the Dakin place. It was quickly established that Westons now owned the Dakin place and were living in the house that Grandfather built in the 1870's while they built a new home above the old apple orchard. Then she issued an invitation to a tour, so here we were.
Bill opened the back door and as we entered the kitchen I saw the was right about the changes. The kitchen had once been a dim, cozy place. It had had a wood-burning cook stove, the business end of which held water pipes that wiggled around in its innards, absorbing heat to provide hot water for baths, laundry and dish washing. There was plenty of wood from the orchards and forest around the farm to keep a fire burning and even when it went out in the night a slight aura of warmth remained in the morning.
In one of the early renovations the walls of the room had been pushed out to include not only the old screened porch, but also part of a tiny bedroom that had been mine. It is a light, bright room. Gone is the old stove, the old sink and, of course, the old table at which Papa, Alice and I had sat on the evening of my eighth birthday. Mama had died a couple of weeks before and Papa was trying to be cheerful for our sakes. He read stories by the dim light of a kerosene lamp. We had had electricity, not for long, but we had it. That night the lights had gone out. It seemed symbolic.
We went on past the bathroom with "modern" plumbing into the dining room. Its shape was as it had been. It had had to be relatively large, because Grandmother and Grandfather Dakin had run a small resort in the summertime for a few years. there had been five tiny bedrooms upstairs and three or four rooms in a "bunkhouse" across from the back door. If all were filled there would be a minimum of nine people to feed. Grandmother and Aunt Alice must have had help for cooking. These guests came from San Francisco on the train and the two young men of the family, Papa and Uncle Wilbur, hitched horses to the surreys and met them at the depot in Capitola.
As we moved across the dining room toward the veranda that still stretches out from the long west wall of the house, we came to the door of the only remaining downstairs bedroom. It had not changed. For me the little room held two of the most vivid memories of life in this house: one was the morning I had climbed up onto her bed and Mama had lifted the covers to give me my first glimpse of Alice, the tiny, tiny little sister who'd been born a few hours before. The other was the night, almost exactly 4 years later, that a nurse brought my sister and me to stand in the same doorway for our last glimpse of our mother. The nurse must have known Mama was dying, but just pointed out how good Mama was about taking the medicine she was being given at the time. Useless medicine. She had pneumonia and there was not yet any penicillin.
The little group had moved on and I turned from the doorway to join them. The living room was almost unchanged, although the openings into the adjoining rooms had been greatly enlarged. The old fireplace, no longer usable, was still there. It had been the focal point of all evening gatherings. Even in summer, nights in the Santa Cruz mountains are cool. Papa worked at entertaining. I remember his striding back and forth under the oak trees down near the carriage house memorizing stories. Someone told us that once when a number of neighbors were gathered around the fireplace he slipped out unnoticed and in time, knocked at the door dressed as a tramp. Even though everyone there knew him, he was not recognized as he caught them up in his well rehearsed stories.
Last, we came into the sun room, made by a couple who had lived there with their invalid son. It had been created from the front bedroom, the south veranda, the front hall and the once gracious staircase landing. The Newell post was gone and some crummy stairs had been stuffed into a closet area.
Looking out from the windows that were where the veranda had been we could see, down the drive and up to the left, the remaining one of the three cottages that had been there during the resort days. Each had had its own cooking and toilet facilities. This must have meant its own outhouse. (The main house had quite a large privy--two little rooms with three seats in each! There was a vine-covered board enclosure across in front of the doors and down the side toward the house. How did the folks from San Francisco feel about these primitive arrangements? We will never know, but some must not have been too unhappy as there were repeat guests over the years.)
At some time two of the cottages burned down. When Alice and I lived on the farm, the remaining cottages were occupied by renters who took over the orchards and the grain field. In his youth Papa had worked for Phoebe Hearst, William Randolph's mother, and had learned to speak Spanish in order to go to Mexico for her. With his Spanish he was able to communicate very well with the renters even though they were Portuguese. Even with the crops taken care of, Papa's focus still was on horticulture. He had been 60 years old when Alice was born, 64 when Mama died, a little late to learn to take care of two children and himself. Our mother's mother over in the little town of Sunol fell heir to my sister and me. Papa moved into the cottage and sold the farm. People named Brown used it for their summer place for several years and now it is the Weston's.
What a treat to be able to wander about the old house again! There was more to come: our host and hostess invited us to see their new home. As we walked toward it, on the right was the big laurel tree that had been the shelter for my solitary play with imaginary friends. On the left there had been an old barn, the barn that had had corrals on two sides, one for our Jersey cow, Jewel, and one for the riding horse, Bess, and assorted workhorses. Below the barn, through the pear orchard and a few redwood trees is Moore Creek. Grandfather dammed it to make a tiny lake for guests to use for boating and swimming on days when the young men didn't take them to the beach and the boardwalk.
Looking up through the apple orchard we saw the Weston's new home. It is an impressive structure, set in a place that gets maximum sunshine. Inside it is unusually beautiful, filled with fascinating, beloved things from both their families.
The old house is unoccupied again, but when the Weston grandchildren visit they can stay there, unknowingly surrounded by the spirits of past generations of occupants and guests.
In "Grandfather Dakin's Farm" Ruthalee Dakin Mauldin tells the story of her 1991 visit to the house at Laurel Glen where she grew up during the 1920's.
"You will probably find it very different from the way it was when you lived here," said Bill Weston, the current owner.
Bill's wife Danny and my sister Alice had met by chance at an optical office in San Jose. After Danny had given her address as Laurel Glen Soquel, Alice asked her if she knew the Dakin place. It was quickly established that Westons now owned the Dakin place and were living in the house that Grandfather built in the 1870's while they built a new home above the old apple orchard. Then she issued an invitation to a tour, so here we were.
Bill opened the back door and as we entered the kitchen I saw the was right about the changes. The kitchen had once been a dim, cozy place. It had had a wood-burning cook stove, the business end of which held water pipes that wiggled around in its innards, absorbing heat to provide hot water for baths, laundry and dish washing. There was plenty of wood from the orchards and forest around the farm to keep a fire burning and even when it went out in the night a slight aura of warmth remained in the morning.
In one of the early renovations the walls of the room had been pushed out to include not only the old screened porch, but also part of a tiny bedroom that had been mine. It is a light, bright room. Gone is the old stove, the old sink and, of course, the old table at which Papa, Alice and I had sat on the evening of my eighth birthday. Mama had died a couple of weeks before and Papa was trying to be cheerful for our sakes. He read stories by the dim light of a kerosene lamp. We had had electricity, not for long, but we had it. That night the lights had gone out. It seemed symbolic.
We went on past the bathroom with "modern" plumbing into the dining room. Its shape was as it had been. It had had to be relatively large, because Grandmother and Grandfather Dakin had run a small resort in the summertime for a few years. there had been five tiny bedrooms upstairs and three or four rooms in a "bunkhouse" across from the back door. If all were filled there would be a minimum of nine people to feed. Grandmother and Aunt Alice must have had help for cooking. These guests came from San Francisco on the train and the two young men of the family, Papa and Uncle Wilbur, hitched horses to the surreys and met them at the depot in Capitola.
As we moved across the dining room toward the veranda that still stretches out from the long west wall of the house, we came to the door of the only remaining downstairs bedroom. It had not changed. For me the little room held two of the most vivid memories of life in this house: one was the morning I had climbed up onto her bed and Mama had lifted the covers to give me my first glimpse of Alice, the tiny, tiny little sister who'd been born a few hours before. The other was the night, almost exactly 4 years later, that a nurse brought my sister and me to stand in the same doorway for our last glimpse of our mother. The nurse must have known Mama was dying, but just pointed out how good Mama was about taking the medicine she was being given at the time. Useless medicine. She had pneumonia and there was not yet any penicillin.
The little group had moved on and I turned from the doorway to join them. The living room was almost unchanged, although the openings into the adjoining rooms had been greatly enlarged. The old fireplace, no longer usable, was still there. It had been the focal point of all evening gatherings. Even in summer, nights in the Santa Cruz mountains are cool. Papa worked at entertaining. I remember his striding back and forth under the oak trees down near the carriage house memorizing stories. Someone told us that once when a number of neighbors were gathered around the fireplace he slipped out unnoticed and in time, knocked at the door dressed as a tramp. Even though everyone there knew him, he was not recognized as he caught them up in his well rehearsed stories.
Last, we came into the sun room, made by a couple who had lived there with their invalid son. It had been created from the front bedroom, the south veranda, the front hall and the once gracious staircase landing. The Newell post was gone and some crummy stairs had been stuffed into a closet area.
Looking out from the windows that were where the veranda had been we could see, down the drive and up to the left, the remaining one of the three cottages that had been there during the resort days. Each had had its own cooking and toilet facilities. This must have meant its own outhouse. (The main house had quite a large privy--two little rooms with three seats in each! There was a vine-covered board enclosure across in front of the doors and down the side toward the house. How did the folks from San Francisco feel about these primitive arrangements? We will never know, but some must not have been too unhappy as there were repeat guests over the years.)
At some time two of the cottages burned down. When Alice and I lived on the farm, the remaining cottages were occupied by renters who took over the orchards and the grain field. In his youth Papa had worked for Phoebe Hearst, William Randolph's mother, and had learned to speak Spanish in order to go to Mexico for her. With his Spanish he was able to communicate very well with the renters even though they were Portuguese. Even with the crops taken care of, Papa's focus still was on horticulture. He had been 60 years old when Alice was born, 64 when Mama died, a little late to learn to take care of two children and himself. Our mother's mother over in the little town of Sunol fell heir to my sister and me. Papa moved into the cottage and sold the farm. People named Brown used it for their summer place for several years and now it is the Weston's.
What a treat to be able to wander about the old house again! There was more to come: our host and hostess invited us to see their new home. As we walked toward it, on the right was the big laurel tree that had been the shelter for my solitary play with imaginary friends. On the left there had been an old barn, the barn that had had corrals on two sides, one for our Jersey cow, Jewel, and one for the riding horse, Bess, and assorted workhorses. Below the barn, through the pear orchard and a few redwood trees is Moore Creek. Grandfather dammed it to make a tiny lake for guests to use for boating and swimming on days when the young men didn't take them to the beach and the boardwalk.
Looking up through the apple orchard we saw the Weston's new home. It is an impressive structure, set in a place that gets maximum sunshine. Inside it is unusually beautiful, filled with fascinating, beloved things from both their families.
The old house is unoccupied again, but when the Weston grandchildren visit they can stay there, unknowingly surrounded by the spirits of past generations of occupants and guests.
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