When Henry Bottger was a youth, he grew so tall that his friends named him High-Pockets, then shortened it to “Hi”. After that, no one ever called him Henry.
Hi was always at our house. He was there as a kind of caretaker, but more than that, he was our friend. During the week he did anything that needed doing, but on Sundays he put on his good suit and came for dinner.
Hi grew up in Woodside and graduated from the Woodside School in 1887. Like most of his friends, he went to work after the eighth grade. He held a variety of jobs but the one he spoke about most was in a lumber mill on the other side of Kings Mountain. At the end of the work week he hiked down the dusty road to Woodside for home and recreation. On Sunday nights he made the return trek to rest up before his regular Monday eighteen hour shift. Alternate days were light-—only twelve hours. He camped out or slept in one of the many small huts that dotted the mountain for use by wood-choppers. When his work took him to the Huddart Park area he was able to stay at home, but other workers sheltered in the tiny structures, two of which remained on the Huddart estate close to Greer Road well into the forties. Hi was the one who built the bridge at the end of Greer Road.
The Bottger family home lay at the foot of the mountain. The original building on the property was a toll house manned by Hi’s mother and his sister Lucy. Alerted by bells on the animals, often eight-horse teams, the Bottger ladies were on hand to collect from lumber, tanbark, and farm wagons that traveled the thoroughfare. Water wagons sprayed occasionally to keep down the dust. Later, the family lived in a more spacious wood-framed building which upon the death of his mother, Hi put up for sale.
Our Grandfather learned about the property, bought it, and took possession on Armistice Day, 1918. Grandmother was horrified by the old house, the barns and outbuildings and much preferred being in San Francisco, but to please her husband, she made the arduous weekend drives down the Peninsula. All Grandfather saw were the beautiful forest-covered mountains that reminded him of his European homeland.
Grandfather immediately began to make improvements. The old barns and sheds came down. Neighbors adopted the cow and the chickens, the well was filled in. Grandmother was delighted to have a place to throw everything she wanted to get rid of, including the grindstone. Hi gritted his teeth at the changes, but the loss of the grindstone was almost more than he could bear.
My grandparents asked Hi to stay on. He did and occupied his boyhood room for a number of years until our family expanded and needed more space. He then moved to Albion Way to the home of his sister and brother-in-law.
Meanwhile, he helped my grandparents settle in. Over the years he built a wide porch around the house, constructed a fireplace, laid out a garden, seeded a lawn, fabricated a brick patio and paths, planted a grove of redwoods, created a screened recreation room, and everything else that was suggested to him.
He also entertained my brothers. He told them stories, taught them how to make root beer and took them all to the cowboy movies in Menlo on Saturday afternoons. At least once a summer he piled the boys in his old Ford for a day of huckleberry picking on Kings Mountain. This involved the ladies of the house in a spate of pie baking, a somewhat unpleasant task because of the small stems that clung to the berries. Hi, of course, came to devour the finished product.
He also seemed to enjoy the Sunday night dinners. Grandmother always provided a substantial array of food for our large family and numerous guests, of which Hi was one. Right before dinner, Grandfather invited him to the tank house, a tall building next to the house that contained a ground floor room with a sink and a cabinet of glasses. We children sometimes peeked in to see the two gentlemen toasting one another.
Hi explored every foot of Kings Mountain. He knew the location of the old lumber mills and took us on hikes to see the remnants of their boilers. He even knew of the existence of a pocket of coal which he dug out and burned in the stove of his cottage on Albion Way. He told us the location of two Indian burial grounds along Kings Mountain Road, one close to Woodside Road near what he called “Dobe” Corners (because of the old adobe that stood there) and another about a half mile up the road. Another point of interest on the same road was a small cemetery where some of his contemporaries were buried. The graves were later removed. He also showed us a hidden spring of mineral water near our house to which we sometimes walked after dinner, often taking our guests. Best of all, he shared with us the location of his two favorite swimming holes in the creek.
Every summer Hi took off on a long car trip. He had an old car with a canvas top held up by side braces. Because he camped along the way, he stored boxes of canned goods on the running boards of the Ford and filled the inside with necessary gear. Over the years he visited almost every state and always sent cards to the family. On one he wrote, “The Grand Canyon’s great, but I’ve seen a nutmeg grater.”
Hi liked all the ladies, but his enduring love was the local school teacher. She was interested in him as well but grew tired of waiting for his declaration and married someone else. Until his death, he kept her picture hanging on the wall of his cottage. He was always somewhat of a ladies’ man until an explosion caused him to become deaf. Even at that, in his later years he would occasionally dye his white hair red and come calling on Grandmother’s housekeeper, Helen. Although Helen professed a complete lack of interest, we children noticed she did a lot of giggling when he was there. Despite his conquests, he remained a lifelong bachelor.
Hi was a hard worker, a kind person, and a good friend. We were too young to realize that we should have listened more closely to his wonderful stories. His memories and experiences would have provided a treasure trove of local history. Henry Bottger exemplified the best of old Woodside.
No comments:
Post a Comment