After Jim Caine and Joe Maguire got a nice little grubstake saved up after shipping all that lumber to Bodie, they became partners. Imagine a Scotsman and a Mick pairing up like that. Stranger bedfellows have been made. But in Ireland the Catholic & Proddies are oil and water and fire all mixed together. Now that was a long standing taste of hell.
At nearly 9000 feet, it was damned cold at night. Shaving water froze in the cup. Joe said Potato Peak was wearin' a snow jacket again. He missed the sweet taste of new potatoes roasted in their jackets in the embers, all slathered with butter and salt, he missed it more than home itself. All this brown and dust, sometimes if you didn’t look at the long narrow valley head on, and sort of blurred your side vision, it did look a bit like Ireland with all that green growing in the crevices and the wild irises nodding their dainty heads.
A pity about old W.S. Bodey dying in that blizzard in '56 and all, he never even saw his namesake town. Just look at it. They say in '77, the boomtown's population swelled from 20 lost souls, to 7,000 bedless and souless grubbers that kept streaming in from all four corners of the globe all that summer long in search of gold. Better climate than Rhyolite or Furnace Creek too. Funny how some folks believed that hell was hot when he knew firsthand that hell was cold as a frigid hoor on a Bodie night
All the boarding houses were busting at the seams. Men bunking down with their mules and hunkering down with all forms of whatnot for warmth. Every imaginable shed & sty turned into bunks...a whole lot of housing was needed—pronto. Imagine milling all that wood and barging it across Mono Lake, 2000 feet straight up Coyote Creek Canyon? That's just what they did. Sweet smell of Jeffrey pine, like vanilla cakes. And sweat of salt mixed with success.
They made plans to lease out the old Standard Mine, it wasn't paying out much, hardly worth keeping it open. But as luck would have it, danged if they didn’t hit a quartz ledge right before the lease went through: paydirt indeed! Some $90,000 worth of gold in 90 days! That was over $1000 a day between them. They went wild with joy.
Here he was, at 25, filthy rich beyond his wildest dreams. It was imported cigars and quail in aspic every night at the Hotel Maison Doree. No more sandwiches from the Philly Bar Depot, though it was handy, with its pool table and roulette being open 24 hours and all, someone was always willing to lose some goldust over a bad hand of cards. Fortunes were routinely traded every night. That’s where the real money was to be had, in the transaction process. The straw bosses knew that much.
Joe began to dream about his future. A man need a family. A mail order bride, say, age 14, not like the bloozy "Ladies" on Maiden Lane--that was the ticket. No more riding into Carson City or Aurora, no more Madame Mushtache for him! Move his new little bride into his new house sporting the only glassed in porch in Bodie. Glass was damned hard to get up the mountain in one piece. Hardly worth the bother seeing as it would crack in the cold, come winter. But she’d keep him warm.
He'd put some real glass on her finger, he would. Sweet little Martha. So young. So trusting. He'd change his evil ways, he would. No more Rosa May for him either. No siree! But would she come? The little girl who wrote the last entry in her diary, "Goodbye God. I'm going to Bodie," was probably working the pox infected cribs as he pondered the question.
6/2005
Gone to Bodie, v. 2.
After Jim Caine and Joe Maguire got a little grubstake saved up after shipping all that lumber to Bodie, they became partners. Imagine a Scotsman and a Mick pairing up like that. Stranger bedfellows have been made. At nearly 9000 feet, it was damned cold at night. Shaving water froze in the cup. Joe said Potato Peak was wearin' a snow jacket again. A pity about W.S. Bodey dying in that blizzard in '56 and all, he never even saw his namesake town. Just look at it. They say in '77, the boomtown's population swelled from 20 souls, to 7000 bedless and souless grubbers streaming in all that summer. Better climate than Rhyolite or Furnace Creek. All the boarding houses were busting at the seams. Men bunking down with their mules and whatnot for warmth. Every imaginable shed & sty turned into bunks...a whole lot of housing was needed pronto...imagine milling all that wood and barging it across Mono Lake, 2000 feet up Coyote Creek Canyon? That's just what they did. Sweet smell of Jeffrey pine, like vanilla. They made plans to lease the old Standard Mine, it wasn't paying out much, and as luck would have it, they hit a quartz ledge: paydirt indeed! $90,000 worth of gold in 90 days! Here he was, 25, rich beyond his wildest dreams. It was imported cigars and quail in aspic every night at the Hotel Maison Doree. No more sandwiches from the Philly Bar Depot, though it was handy, with its pool table and roulette being open 24 hours and all, someone was always willing to lose some goldust over a bad hand of cards. Fortunes were traded every night. A mail order bride, say age 14, not like the "Ladies" on Maiden Lane--that was the ticket. No more riding into Carson City or Aurora, no more Madame Mushtache for him! Move his new little bride into his new house sporting the only glass porch in Bodie. Glass was hard to get up the mountain in one piece. Hardly worth the bother. He'd put some real glass on her finger. Sweet little Martha. So young. So trusting. He'd change his ways, he would. No more Rosa May for him either. No siree! But would she come? The little girl who wrote, "Goodbye God. I'm going to Bodie" was probably working the cribs as he pondered the question.
Still looking for the first draft, Sweet Martha.
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