West Marin journal

After working all afternoon and into the night on the Nicasio house, we call it quits at midnight and head down to the Papermill Creek Saloon. No other way to stop this working except to physically remove ourselves from the house. There's that much work to be done.

We cleared the living room and nearly all the boxes sorting and discarding the night. The dining room was filled with Sinead, David and Bill's staff. Upstairs is a disaster but the kitchen's coming together and the living room looks tolerant tolerably cluttered. We cleared off the porch. That trash heap growth by leaps and bounds. I unpacked and washed a lot of dishes I even have dishpan hands.

Just as I'm getting the urge to call Sonny this morning as I have to babysit Nathan later, the phone rings, it's his his voice that floods my ears and asks what we've accomplished. Slowly he learns about me and my family. Says, You're never at a loss for things to do from what we've I've noticed about you. And I say. I hate to be bored. There's enough to do here to keep us occupied for years. 

Then there's Forest Knolls, another disaster. We chitchat about cars etc. The place that is so distinct in my mind, is a continuous blur in his. I identify places solely by my relationships with them. And I tell him he needs to come down here sometime and visit.

It's funny how I've always felt like an outsider in Nicasio, like I don't belong, but our families have had ties here to this place for more than 50 years. Make that 100 years, if you count Forest Knolls. I have two uncles by marriage who grew up here. As we clean this old farm house, more memories flood me, insignificant ones. What I am missing is the history, the thread that ties it all together. 

On the bookshelf I find a pamphlet on the church—St. Mary's. But why didn't I remember the name? Surely it was called something else? I find out that the name was changed in 1977 back to its original name from our Lady of Loretro. Ha ha. I haven't lost my marbles.

A photo of Father John Connery has me in tears for I'm missing my grandmother so much. 

Last night as we sat around the bar, we realized we were the third-generation to get toasted at the Papermill Creek Saloon. Or, rather, the Forest Knolls Lodge, as it was called in those days.

We talked of the other family watering hole. Spec McAuliffe's bar, aka the Lagunitas Lodge. Frank McAuliffe was a larger than life character. I explain to my cousins the interior floor plan of a bar that I haven't set foot in in 20+ years—before I was even legally able to drink. Now all that remains is a charred parking lot. A major piece of history, gone forever. 

I keep wondering are there any books on Marin history? As I teach Elderhostel, I'm struck by the fact that I have so little information on West Marin, especially on the Indians. There is a need.