OREGON FOLKLORE - WORK PROGRESS ADMINISTRATION: Surnames: Estes, Fraley, Shearer, Tate
Title: Folkways, and Social Customs in the Willamette Valley, from 1865 to
1900.
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Name and address of informant George Estes, Room 512 Board of Trade Building,
Portland, Oregon.

Date and time of interview: November 28, 1938. Forenoon and Afternoon.
Place of interview: Room 512, Board of Trade Building, Portland, Oregon.
Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant
Mr. J. Thorburn Ross, American Bank Building, Portland, Oregon.
Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.: Typical lawyers' office of two
rooms - private chambers and ante-room. Ante-room walls lined with shelves of
law books. Private chambers contain steel wall filing cabinets in which Mr.
Estes keeps book manuscripts, etc. The door between Mr. Estes private chambers
and ante-room is not equipped with a conventional door-closer so Mr. Estes has
attached a long rope to the top of the door and has run the rope through
pulleys to a point over his head. A tasseled hand grip is at the end of the
rope (similar to early-day French bell-pulls), and Mr. Estes automatically
reaches for the rope and pulls door shut as a person emerges. As Mr. Estes
vigorously denounces the use of tobacco there are no ash trays on his
paper-cluttered desk.

Information obtained should supply the following facts:

1. Elijah T. and Susan Estes.
2. Born 4-1/2 miles north of present town of Drain, Oregon, Douglas County,
January 11, 1861.
3. Wife, Maud Estes, deceased. Daughter, Bertha E. Estes (Mrs. E. L. Fraley).
4. Place of birth, (Near Drain), Roseburg, Portland. Dates not available.
5. Was educated in Douglas County public schools and at the Yoncalla Academy,
Yoncalla, Oregon. Graduated from Y. M. C. A., College Preparatory in Portland
and from the Law Department of University of Oregon. Dates not available.
6. Telegraph operator for eighteen years, concurrently serving as train
dispatcher and train master. (Dates not immediately available). Practice of
law thereafter.
7. Accomplished writer, author of seven published volumes. Skilled linguist,
fluent in Scandinavian languages, Chinese, and several Indian tongues, notably
Chinook and Calapooia. Keenly interested in natural sciences.
8. None.
9. Short, stocky, gray hair. Gesticulates freely in dramatically recounting
incidents of his past life. Convincing and eloquent speaker. Frankly and
without restraint evaluates himself and his accomplishments in glowing terms
which, in a younger man, would be set down as bragging or self-praise. He
does, however, speak in equally laudatory manner of the accomplishments of his
contemporaries.

10. Informant seems to have vivid memories of life and times in Oregon in the
eighties and nineties.
Name of worker Andrew C. Sherbert Date November 28, 1938.

Text:

As an index to my background and family tree, perhaps it might be well to
start with a short sketch of the Estes genealogy. My great, great, grand
parents, Jacob Shearer and his wife Sophia, emigrated from Germany to America
in 1740. They settled in a portion of North Carolina known at that time as
Guilford County. My great, great grandfather John Tate and his wife Elizabeth
emigrated from Scotland. 

Jacob Shearer was a two-fisted American from the start, was a Whig, and gave
three of his sons to the cause of liberty - one was killed outright and the
other two were hopelessly crippled for life. John Tate was also a soldier in
the Revolutionary War. My great, grand parents, David Tate and Hannah Shearer,
were reared and married in Guilford County, North Carolina, leaving there in
1793 to cross the Allegheny mountains on pack horses, hoping to establish a
home for themselves in what was then, "the west". There were, of course, no
roads then. After severe hardships, they forded the Kentucky river and settled
in a cane-brake.

Later, my great, grand father was drafted for service in the War of 1812.
Leaving his family in the cane-brake, ten miles from their nearest white
neighbor, he left for duty and was gone for three years. Returning, he moved
his family to Illinois where he later became the first Justice of the Peace in
Illinois Territory. He also, about this time, established a salt works, known
as the "Saline Salt Works", in Johnson County, Illinois. Later the family
moved to Iowa, about 1834, where my great grandfather again served as a
soldier during the Black Hawk War.

James Estes, an uncle on my father's side, once served as Sheriff of Cook
County, Illinois, then, as now, the county in which the city of Chicago is
located.

My parents, Elijah T. and Susan Estes, emigrated from Iowa by ox-team, Oregon
bound. They left Iowa in 1850 and arrived in the Willamette Valley in 1852,
after nearly two years enroute. They remained a short time in the Willamette
Valley, later moving south to a point near the foot of the Calapooia
Mountains. The old homestead, near the town of Drain, is still known as the
Elijah T. Estes Donation Land Claim.

In the early fifties, there were no such things as stage lines, and, of
course, there were no railroads either in Oregon. In the later fifties,
however, a stage line was projected and established between Portland and San
Francisco. As fortune would have it, the stage line's proposed route bisected
my father's land claim. When the line opened for business my father set up a
stage station on his place and did a thriving business. The station was a sort
of division point, much as a railroad division is designated today. Here the
stages changed horses and drivers - the coaches themselves remaining but a few
moments before they once more sped forward. As many as fifty horses were kept
at this point. Drivers and hostlers of course made it their headquarters. It
became a very busy place. The stages in use were known as Thoroughbrace
Coaches, the name no doubt indicating the staunchness and sturdy construction
of the coaches.

It was in such colorful surroundings that I spent the first nine years of my
life. In 1870 (?) the railroad stretched its gleaming rails the length of
Oregon, relegating the colorful stagecoach to the limbo of hazy recollection,
to be revived occasionally in sorry effigy during a pioneer celebration or
wildest circus appearance. To my way of thinking, no more colorful or
picturesque character ever crossed the horizon of pioneer times than the
stagecoach driver. In my book, The Stagecoach , I have tried to make him live
again, with debatable success.

In the year 1867, the first telegraph line was put through from San Francisco
to Portland. It was called, The Union Telegraph Company. This amazing boom to
the spread of intelligence, consisted of a single wire suspended precariously
from tree to tree through the wilderness. The line followed the route of the
stage line to facilitate reaching the source of trouble when the wire broke -
which occurred frequently - because of wind or weather.

Upon establishing a telegraph station at Eugene and another at Oakland,
Oregon, these two towns being 60 miles apart, the telegraph company decided
that a station was needed somewhere between these two points. A station was
then established on my father's place, where it continued until the stagecoach
era ended. As a very small youngster I was initiated into knowledge of the
intricacies of that marvelous instrument, the telegraph. I was fascinated with
contemplation of the thought that by merely tapping a series of unintelligible
sounds on the telegraph key, a person's express words could be conveyed by
that slender strand of wire with the speed of light to Eugene (I had been
there, and it seemed a long way off) and that they would arrive right side up,
sensible and understandable. But the unintelligible sounds did not long remain
unintelligible to me. I soon learned to read the Morse Code and the messages
which clicked through our station kept me informed of the happenings of the
outside world, almost, if not quite as well as today's radio news flashes came
to the ear of the modern boy. Telegraphy grasped firm hold of me at that early
age and occupied my constant thoughts and activities for a great deal of my
life. As a matter of fact, and though I have been in the practice of law for
nearly 40 years, I still like to consider myself a telegrapher and am proud to
say that I hold life membership in the O. R. T., union of railroad
telegraphers. One of the most memorable periods of my life was during the
formation of the O. R. T., an organization which I was active in establishing.
But more of that later.

My work in the field of telegraphy brought me early to Portland. I have seen
this sprawling metropolis grow from a compact little village skirting the
banks of the Willamette. In my earlier days I contacted socially, many of the
aging pioneers who have long since passed from the scene. Right here I should
like to interject the statement that Portland's history, as set down by each
historian in turn (including my old friend, John Gaston), seems to me to be
entirely wrong. Too much stress is laid on the part played by Lovejoy and
Pettygrove in the founding of the city. Perhaps they did stake out the town
plot - perhaps they did flip a coin and give the town its name, but I contend
that what ever else they contributed to the establishment of the city of
Portland was of minor importance. I fully believe that I would not be sitting
here in this office building, that you would not be here to interview me - for
there would be no building here - if it were not for Captain John Couch.
Captain Couch took a small group of primitive dwellings in a setting of
stump-cluttered clearings and through his own efforts and determination gave
Portland the impetus that made it a city. Surely, Portland's future was
extremely doubtful had it not been for one man alone - John Couch. It
irritates me to see him treated historically as an incidental figure.

I have seen the coming of the first horse-cars - and what a luxury and
improvement over shank's mares they seemed! I have seen the advent of the
electric street-car, hailed the coming of the first chugging automobile - and
now, trackless trolleys. I have seen Portland's first squat buildings share
ground with tall structures. Airplanes dot the sky. Change, change, change,
always change, and no end in sight. But to me, the most noticeable change is
in the people themselves, and their customs. Some writer once said, "Human
nature never changes." I can't subscribe to such a promise. I think I see
evidence of great change in the nature of man. For one thing, we of today have
lost trust in our fellows, generally speaking. In the old days any man was
accepted as an honest man and worthy of trust and friendship until he
conclusively proved himself otherwise. Today, the reverse is customary. We
mistrust any man and his motives until he proves beyond a doubt that his
intentions are honest. Of course, we may accept him for what he says he is if
he can produce papers of recommendation from some person in whom we have
learned to place confidence. Even then, we are not above wondering whether or
not the recommendation is forged.

In the matter of bodily health, I have seen great change. Nowadays the average
person visits a doctor at the first twinge of pain. If his discomfort
increases he skips from specialist to specialist. The average person today can
glibly call off medical terms and can give the medical names of the many parts
that go to make up his body entire. He mentions, sinuses, thyroids, pineal
glands, appendectomies and tonsillectomies as easily as the old-timer used to
tell his neighbor that he had a lame back. With no disrespect for the old time
medical practitioner - he was a wonderful character, and smart, too, for the
times - according to my observations as a young man, his visits with his
ominous satchel in hand, very frequently preceded the definitely-final visit
of the village undertaker by but a few hours. As I say, this was nothing
against the doctor or his knowledge of medicine. It was simply that most
everyone trusted to the efficacy of home-compounded remedies until the shadow
of the grim reaper darkened the pillow where he lay. Then they called the
doctor. Every clan or family had a group of time-tried remedies which they had
used at one time or another with enough success as to include in the family
pharmacopoeia or file of receipts (pronounced "re-ceets"). People used their
muscles in those days - life was active, vigorous, body-wearing. Liniments
were used generously for anointing sore muscles of back and limb. Every family
had a liniment of their own compounding the virtues of which they proudly
boasted. White liniments, soap liniments, ammonia liniments, vinegar
liniments, chloroform liniments, and liniments the formulas of which only the
compounders themselves knew. Rock oil, later called coal-oil or kerosene, once
was regarded as a veritable panacea. Sore throats, chest colds, croup,
stiffness in the joints, lumbago, and a host of other common ailments were
cured almost miraculously by gargling, sipping, or smearing the affected parts
with this highly-praised, smelly fluid. I am a lawyer. Would anyone think of
coming to me today for a remedy if he found himself ailing? Quite unlikely,
yet I remember a time years ago, when a young neighbor girl came running into
our home, her face marked by anxiety, with extremely agitated voice she
blurted out: "Mr. Estes! Mother has a dysentery and is getting weaker and
weaker. I think she's going to die unless we can find something to help her.
We've tried everything but nothing does any good." Which meant that they had
tried their own family remedy for dysentery first, then probably several
others offered by nearer neighbors, and then had come to me. It was just about
milking time. I told her to run home, take a full quart of milk warm from the
cow, put it on the fire and boil furiously a quarter of an hour without
allowing it to scorch, and then cause her mother to drink every drop at once
while still as hot an she could bear it. The little girl did as I bade her. A
couple of days later the little girl trudged in at our gate carrying a bag of
seedling apples for me. Sort of thank offering I suppose. "Mother's dysentery
stopped less than an hour after she drunk the milk and she started getting
better right away," the little girl said. "She's as good as new, now." 


As I review the incidents of my past life I can but conclude that luck played
a major role in all that I ever did or in all that ever happened to me. A case
in point. As a young telegrapher in Portland, I had a great many
acquaintances. At the time of which I speak, Burnside street was a busy
thoroughfare -- the cross-roads of the Oregon country, where one might meet
anyone he had ever met or known before. In those few short blocks there
congregated people of all types, from the more or less dandified Portland
sophisticates, to the rough, uncouth wranglers of the hinterland. The gold
miner from eastern or southern Oregon rubbed elbows with the almond-eyed
Chinese. The farmer from Tualatin Valley walked the length of Burnside street
a time or two, before he started for home with the new plow he had purchased.
There was only one Burnside street on the face of the earth, and that was in
Portland.

One day I was approached by an acquaintance, a young fellow of no means, who
asked to speak to me confidentially. He said that he had made the acquaintance
of a miner, who at that very moment was waiting for him in a room in a
Burnside street lodging house, and who had possession of a gold brick worth
twelve thousand dollars which could be bought for three thousand. He said the
miner was badly in need of money and had come by the brick "never mind how".
It looked like a splendid investment. Now as it happened, my bank balance -
because of frugal personal habits - stood at a sum just about ample enough to
take care of such an investment. Three thousand dollars becomes twelve
thousand dollars - just like that. No long, tedious, slaving, scraping and
waiting for slowly amassed principal and small, annual interest accruing to do
the job. I hastened to the bank and drew out the three thousand. My
acquaintance and I hurried down to the miner's room, anxious to get there
before someone else did, or before he changed his mind. He was there. I bought
the brick. Certainly I was excited. My eyes bulged. The brick was golden
yellow and heavy as lead. I left the miner's room and with the winged heels of
a Mercury ran over to the shop of a jeweler and goldsmith who was a very good
friend of mine. I wanted him to appraise, and perhaps buy, my twelve thousand
dollar brick. My friend was out when I entered. It was some little time before
he returned. I jumped up and hurriedly told him of my good fortune. His face
turned ashen. He clamped his head with both hands in anguish and cried,
"George, George, what have you done? You bought a gold brick down an Burnside
street? Oh, George! You damned fool! Give me the brick. Run down to Burnside
street and see if you can find the fellow that sold it to you! Get the
Marshal! Hurry! Run!" Needless to say, I ran - but I arrived there too late.
My miner had checked out and disappeared in the brief interim that followed
the transaction. And here is why I say "luck" played a major role in all of
the incidents of my life: whether for good or ill. I mended my way slowly back
to the shop of my friend, the goldsmith. I was callow. I had never heard of
anyone being gold-bricked. At that time I hadn't heard that the Brooklyn
bridge was being "sold" by prosperous-looking New Yorkers to bucolic-looking
strangers on an average of once a week. I walked into the shop of my friend -
beaten, defeated, despondent. He jumped up excitedly at my entrance, shouting.

"George, you're the luckiest damn fool in the world. I've tested your gold
brick and it's solid gold to the core. An ingot worth pretty near what your
miner said it was."

Now there's a gold-brick story with a different twist. My whole life has been
just like that. Just luck that my father decided to settle at the foot of the
Calapooia Mountains, instead of taking up residence in the far-heralded
Willamette Valley, as so many other immigrants did. Just luck that the stage
line found it necessary to cross my father's homestead claim. Just luck that
the first telegraph line followed the stage route through our place during my
infancy, causing me to know the Morse code almost as soon as I had learned my
letters. You might say it was luck that placed me at the head of all the
railroad telegraphers of the English-speaking world, for a time. It was
discovered early in my life, that I had the gift of elegant, and eloquent
speech. Unimposing in stature - they called me "Piecrust" when I was a
youngster, I was so short - I doubtless would have remained blushing unseen
had it not been for the commanding resonance and timbre of my voice and the
easy flow of impressive words I could summon at will in debate or discussion.
Environmental changes cannot properly be said to change a man's nature, but
such changes most certainly do change his habits and behavior. Perhaps the
small boy of today who can rattle off the name of a certain automobile by the
angle of its fenders, the size and shape of its hubcaps or the design of its
radiator ornament, is just as smart as the small boy of half a century ago,
who could tell the name of any bird on wing, knew the names and habits of
every animal that walked or insect that crawled. I am inclined to give the
latter small boy a slight edge, however, in any test of the powers of
observation. I an amazed at the lack of knowledge of the flora and fauna of
this wonderful state, displayed by grown-ups, to say nothing of children, in
this day and age. When I was a youngster it was extremely unusual to find
anyone whom on a stroll could not call the names of all the grasses, flowers,
trees, shrubs, etc., found on the way. Because of this lack of familiarity
with nature on the part of most persons, I find it extraordinarily easy to
pose as an authority on the flora and fauna of Oregon. How many persons, for
example, know that the salmon - that God-given commercial fish of our waters -
can drown in the Columbia river? Not many are aware of that fact, yet it is
absolute truth. And here is why: A salmon's gills are so formed as to permit
the fish to swim only against the current or in still water. If the fish swim
with the current its gills soon became clogged with river silt causing the
gills to became inoperative, thus shutting off the supply of oxygen necessary
to keep the fish alive. For this reason, Salmon never enter the Columbia river
except at ebb tide.

If you will look in your dictionary you will find the definition of "beaver"
given somewhat as follows,

"Beaver - Any of a genus of amphibious rodents having palmated hind feet and a
broad flat tail...."

I contend that the beaver is not an amphibious animal. I have correspondence
in my files from G & C Merriam Company, publishers of Webster's dictionary,
regarding their dictionary's erroneous definition. I base my contention
entirely upon personal observations arriving at the following conclusion: The
average human being retains full reasoning power for about two minutes while
under water. After that he falls into a comatose state which obtains for an
average of twenty minutes. He is then dead, or drowned, unless resuscitated by
heroic and doubtful measures. Now, no one would think of terming a human being
an amphibian - would he? The beaver is equipped with lungs similar to a dog,
cat, or human being, as you will. Where the beaver differs from the human
being, however, is in his ability to stay under water longer than the human
before he falls into a comatose state. A beaver seldom stays under water
longer than six minutes - never more than ten. If he did he would drown,
exactly the same as any other land animal.

Possibly because of the country's vastness; the ruggedness of its topography;
or the fact that the Northwest was a struggling young country - Oregon's men
of wealth, in the past; have invariably been highly democratic. (I mean
socially, not politically). Take, for instance, Portland's men of means of a
generation or so ago - I won't name them, they are all well known and their
names stand out prominently in any history of the city's growth. I do not
recollect a single one of them who lacked what is known as "the common touch".
They walked the streets of the town, meeting their financially less fortunate
neighbors with a smile and hello, and a hail by their first names. These men
were never unapproachable. Their doors were always open to callers. They did
not dress differently, act differently, or appear to feel different from the
poor folk with whom they came in contact. No real westerner in the old days,
no matter how many thousands or hundreds of thousands of dollars he could lay
claim to, ever was "purse conscious" or expected you to make obeisance before
him because of his money. And if you had any business to transact with him you
dealt with him personally, and not with his twenty-second assistant vice
president.

As the result of personal observation, together with a number of business
experiences still vivid in my memory, I regret to say that the eastern
contemporary of the western man of wealth was quite the opposite. An easterner
of means might arrive in Portland in his private car; step out at the depot
clad in striped pants and swallow-tail coat, his nose elevated at an angle in
keeping with a high degree of self-evaluation; and find a plain dressed
Portlander rich enough to buy and sell him, whittling a stick on the depot
platform.

I shall have to return to my experiences as organizer for the Order of
Railroad Telegraphers to sort of illustrate the foregoing points.

After having organized the entire Southern Pacific and allied railroad systems
for the unions it then became necessary to present our demands to the railroad
heads. Now in those days, businesses, large or small, were operated
differently than today. I mean they were managed and controlled differently
then they are now. The president of a railroad ran the railroad. His word was
law. There was no board of directors to con and mull every new move the
railroad contemplated making. Some question came up, we'll say, and if it was
an important one the president of the road answered it; and his answer or
decision was final. If he made too many mistakes, why the road merely got a
new president, that was all. While he was in the chair, however, he ruled with
as much power as a czar.

Before we could present our demands, it was necessary to appoint a committee
to represent the various districts into which the line was divided. The choice
of committeemen was not altogether a happy one. One member turned out to be a
tightwad who refused to attend a committee meeting unless all his expenses
were paid to and from the point selected for the meeting. And I was once
foolish enough to advance him twenty-five dollars out of my own pocket to
assure that he would attend one important meeting. Another member was a rabid
socialist, which in those days was considered much further "left" than a
communist of today. He was for disrupting the whole social system and insisted
that we "take over" the Southern Pacific railroad for ourselves, and kick out
the owners and higher ups -- the president of the road and all his ilk. I, as
general chairman, asked him what we would do with the United States Army after
we had taken over the railroad. His insane answer was, "The Army is with us."
I then remarked that perhaps the union members whom the committee represented,
would not care to take over the railroad. He answered, "They don't know what
they want. It's up to us to do their thinking for them." His answer was not a
new one. It's the answer of tyrants and dictators since the world began. This
committeeman was chosen by his people to represent them, and he was ready to
sell them out. He was not different from Torquemada, who burned thousands of
his countrymen because they didn't believe as he did. Here let me quote a page
from my account of the railway struggle

"This 'Communist' abolished many things:
CAPITAL - MARRIAGE - HEAVEN.
He said there wasn't any.
That downed Heaven with a bang.
But it raised HELL.

Who sues by the Law is bound by his declarations. He gets no more than he asks
for - if he gets that.

Having abolished Heaven, this 'Communist' was 'estopped' by the Law to ask of
St. Peter, admission thereto. He could not ask for a place he had abolished.

He could not go to Heaven.
Whither was he bound?
There are but three destinations beyond here:
HEAVEN:
HELL:
THE DEN OF CACUS:
Proceed by Cancellation.
STRIKE OUT HEAVEN:
HELL and The DEN OF CACUS remain.
The DEN OF CACUS is the final destination of Sodamites, infected JEW PERVERTS
and the Gentile Women who have contacted their LEPROUS DEGRADATION. Against
them HELL has shut its doors.
They are too vile for HELL.
They cannot go to HELL.
(If you want to know more about it, read my book, "[The Den of Cacus?]),
Nothing but HELL is left for US:
For HIM, because he abolished HEAVEN:
For ME too, because he abolished it for me.
Both of us are in a HELL of a fix.
So, when I meet him in HELL-----"

There were eight members on the committee. Six of them were logical and
reasonable. The two above mentioned, balked all efforts at formulating any
sensible plan. It was finally decided that if we were to accomplish anything
at all we must first got rid of the two misfit committeemen. We could not
legally dispose of them and no time remained to apprise their constituents of
the trouble we had had with them, so the other members decided on a scheme to
oust them without arousing suspicion. It was well known that we had
practically no money to go on, so we simply let it be known that for lack of
funds we were going to cut the committee down to five members. So not to
arouse suspicion of connivery, we at the same time dispensed with the services
of one of our most valuable committeemen, with his full knowledge and consent.
We hated to have to do this, but it was the only way. No one ever suspected
the truth. But the railroad heads had already heard about the dissension in
our ranks and decided to capitalize on it. Our first move was ignored
completely. I might add here also, that a number of rank and file members
withdrew because of our committee squabbles. Nevertheless, we went right ahead
with our plan and issued an ultimatum to the head of the road. His name was J.
A. Fillmore. That gentleman, whose home and headquarters were in New Orleans,
was a living, breathing archetype of the cartoonist's "Bloated Capitalist". He
weighed more than three hundred pounds, had a face as big as a cart-wheel and
a "bay window" like an ocean-beach hotel, and a voice that rattled windows. He
was hard as steel in bargaining. Gave no quarter. Had scant regard for the
rights of labor, though he himself once was a laborer in the vineyard. When he
gave an order he expected it to be obeyed. He was not afraid of us. I myself,
was referred to derisively as, "a Moses from the hazel-brush of Oregon." But
as hard and aloof and snobbish as Mr. Fillmore was at first, the time came
eventually when he found out that he was no match for a handful of sodbusters
from the back country such as we were. The day came when he was stuffing
perfectos - or 'fusees' as railroadmen called cigars - that cost fifty cents
each by the box, into the mouths of our committeemen. The workingman of today
who thinks he has a tough time of it, would hardly believe that such
conditions could ever exist as did in those days. You would scarcely think it
possible that a big, money-making enterprise like a rail-road would resort to
such scheming tactics against labor as the railroads of that day certainly
did. For instance: they seemed determined that no telegrapher or station agent
would receive more than fifty dollars per month, regardless the duties
performed. If a telegrapher worked at a station that also carried Western
Union wire traffic, the telegrapher usually received fifteen dollars per month
from the Western Union Company. Then, we'll say, the station also happened to
be the village postoffice and the agent was the postmaster. For this service
the government paid the agent fifteen dollars per month. That made thirty
dollars. Then the railroad company - who of course knew to a penny how much
the agent received for those two services - made it a point to pay him exactly
twenty dollars per month for the services he rendered them, making a total of
fifty dollars per month the agent received from all sources. His duties as
postmaster sad Western Union representative perhaps were sinecures but his
work for the railroad was certainly anything but that. He was an the job
twenty-four hours a day for the railroad and in the above instance received
twenty dollars per mouth for his services. If he hadn't had the postmastership
or Western Union commission the railroad would have paid him fifty dollars
just the same. How long do you think the worker of today would stand for such
inequitable treatment at the hands of a corporation? 

But I have always noticed that things usually have to get pretty bad before
they get any better. When inequities pile up so high that the burden is more
than the under dog can bear, he gets his dander up and things begin to happen.
It was that way with the telegraphers' problem. These exploited individuals
were determined to get for themselves better working conditions - higher pay,
shorter hours, less work which might not properly be classed as telegraphy,
and the high and mighty Mr. Fillmore was not going to stop them. It was a
bitter fight. At the outset, Mr. Fillmore let it be known, by his actions and
comments, that he held the telegraphers in the utmost contempt. In the early
days of the hearings it was common for Fillmore to vent his feelings
explosively in such terms as these:

"I tell you, Estes, those God damned lazy, worthless good-for-nothing
telegraphers will have to take care of the switch lamps."

Now as I may have said before, I was raised a strict Methodist and up to this
point in my life had never found it necessary to use profane words or phrases
to add force to any speech I cared to make. But this was too much, even for a
Methodist, and I hope I may be forgiven - for the first time in my life I
called profanely upon the Deity to support me in the retort I thought Mr.
Fillmore's statement demanded.

Jumping up at the opposite side of the table from the redoubtable Fillmore, I
banged my fist on the desk with as much force and vehemence as he had done,
and, surprising even myself, I tossed the following he-man threat in his
teeth:

"I tell you, Fillmore, before the telegraph operators will ever clean and
mount another switch lamp we'll see your God damned old railroad a million
times in hell."

Instantly there came a change over Mr. Fillmore. His respect for me jumped a
thousand points. My own estimate of my prowess took a sudden leap. Most
business transactions, legal arguments, trades and deals, are one tenth 'will
do' and nine tenths bluff. Fillmore saw his bluff couldn't stick. He had found
a man who could pound a desk with as much vigor as he could. He had found a
man - albeit a Methodist - from whose tongue could roll resounding, profane
oaths, quite as well as from his own. Big man that he was, he promptly cooled
down and quickly capitulated on this one point, saying with a smile:

"All right, Estes, they want have to do it then."

And with that statement from Mr. Fillmore, the filling of switch lamps became
forever more no part of a telegrapher's work. But there were other points to
be settled. The filling of switch lamps was but an insignificant thorn in the
telegrapher's crown. Each point was a new and important issue in its own
right. Each had to be laboriously and bitterly fought out between the
committee and Mr. Fillmore. Each bit of ground gained by the committee was
given grudgingly by Mr. Fillmore. But in the end, right triumphed, as it
always does if you give it time, and telegraphy at last came into its own as a
pleasant, interesting, fairly lucrative occupation.

At the conclusion of negotiations, as a reward for the signal service I had
rendered as Chairman of the telegraphers' union and indefatigable champion of
the workers' cause, I was given a purse containing fifteen hundred dollars in
gold, and a diamond-studded gold match worth five hundred dollars. These gifts
were purchased and donated by grateful telegraphers as tokens of esteem for
their leader in a hard-fought battle for the rights of labor.

If anyone doubts the veracity of my statement regarding the watch, I will be
glad to have him accompany me to my pawn-broker where the watch may be seen. I
regret to say that because of financial difficulties the watch has been in
"hook" for a great many years. Several years ago I attended a reunion of the
C. R. T. in San Francisco. Mindful of the prominent part I took in the
organization - or reorganization - of the union years ago, the present
organization insisted that I be present. It was unthinkable that I attend the
convention sans my watch. Some old timer would be sure to want a glimpse of
the wonderful, diamond-studded watch which I so proudly wore away from San
Francisco on that eventful day, half a lifetime ago. To me, it was either
attend the convention with the watch in my pocket and the ornate chain across
my vest - or not attend at all. I persuaded a friend to advance the money
necessary to temporarily release my watch from custody of the three balls,
whereupon I blithely journeyed to San Francisco to strut proud in the
convention. Upon returning to Portland, I once more placed the watch in the
hands of the pawnbroker to raise the money to reimburse my benefactor. For
sentimental reasons I should like to have the watch in my personal possession
- not that it's important for me to know the time of day, for I seldom go
anywhere, and town clocks are everywhere.

Nature will be any man's friend if he will only let her. Take, for instance,
the rattlesnake. Rattlesnakes have the reputation of being man's enemy. In my
opinion this reputation is entirely unearned, I have had lots of experience
with these snakes - I like them and they like me. They know I am their friend.
They know I mean them no harm, and what is the result? The result is that I
may walk into a den of rattlesnakes without the slightest danger to myself.
They seem to know and trust a person whose intentions are not to molest then.

To my knowledge I seem to be the only person who has observed that the
Columbia river always reaches its flood stage, with the astrological sign of
the constellation of Leo rising. The only other place where such a phenomena
occurs is in Egypt, and the river is the Nile which, like the Columbia, rises
annually in the month of June.

(Interviewer's note). (While it is true that the Columbia - and I believe, the
Nile - rises in June, the zodiacal period of Leo, the lion, is from July 21st
to August 21st inclusive).

With the papers crammed each day with news of labor strife - and with two
great labor factions at each other's throats, I am reminded of a parallel in
my own early and more active career. Shortly before the turn of the century,
in 1898 and 1899 to be more specific, I occupied a position with regard to a
certain class of skilled labor, comparable to that held by the Lewises and
Greens of today. I refer, of course, to the telegraphers and station agents.
These hard-working gentlemen - servants of the public - had no regular hours,
performed a multiplicity of duties, and, considering the service they
rendered, were sorely and inadequately paid. A telegrapher's day included a
considerable number of chores that present-day telegraphers probably never did
or will do in the course of a day's work. He used to clean and fill lanterns,
block lights, etc. Used to do the janitor work around the small town depot,
stoke the pot-bellied stove of the waiting-room, sweep the floors, picking up
papers and waiting-room litter. Telegraphy was just part of his job, though he
perforce was expected to keep his ear cooked at all times for the messages
passing through the station sounder. In other words, he was an actor with a
wide repertoire. Today, capital and labor seem to understand each other better
than they did a generation or so ago. Capital is out to make money. So is
labor - and each is willing to grant the other a certain amount of tolerant
leeway, just so he doesn't go too far. In the old days there was a breach as
wideas the Pacific separating capital and labor. It wasn't money altogether in
those days, it was a matter of principle. Capital and labor couldn't see eye
to eye on a single point. Every gain that either made was at the expense of
the other, and was fought tooth and nail. No difference seemed ever possible
of amicable settlement. Strikes were riots. Murder and mayhem was common.
Railroad labor troubles were frequent. The railroads, in the nineties, were
the country's largest employers. They were so big, so powerful, so perfectly
organized themselves - I mean so in accord among themselves as to what
treatment they felt like offering the man who worked for them - that it was
extremely difficult for labor to gain a single advantage in the struggle for
better conditions.

The Order of Railroad Telegraphers was organized in the late eighties, with a
handful of members. The Order struggled along gaining little ground and adding
few members for a decade, which brings it up to the period of which I speak.
It was apparent that if the Order was to be of service to railroad
telegraphers, was to force recognition from the employers, it would have to
present a united front. Would have to enlist the support of every last
telegrapher on every last line in the country. With ten years of stagnation
behind it, the task of lining up the country's railroad telegraphers one
hundred percent, seemed an impossibility for the wan, weak and puny
organization. And right there, with failure unquestionably staring me in the
face, is where I actively entered the picture. I was appointed chairman of the
Order and charged with the hopeless assignment of expanding its membership
until the most insignificant telegrapher on the least important branch of the
smallest railroad in the remotest spot in America could reach into his jeans
and jerk out a paid-up card in the Order. Fired with ambition to at least make
a creditable showing, I entered the one-sided battle, and, how well I
succeeded you may learn by asking any gray-headed faded-eyed "brass-pounder"
who saw service forty years or more ago.

To give you an idea of the membership strength when I took over my duties as
organizer, let me cite a few scraps of data from memory: The San Joaquin
Division of the Order had about 110 telegraphers eligible for membership, but
only two belonged. Of the two, one was a religious fanatic who was
subsequently committed to an insane asylum. Out of 140 eligible for
membership, the Los Angeles Division had one lone member - doubtless a brave
soul. It took courage to belong. If the "Company" discovered an employee
dallying with the notion of joining the Order, they straight-way trumped up
some excuse for severing him from his job. They did a neat job of it, too.
Here's how they did it: They never discharged an employe because of union
activity. It was always because of "reduction of force", "reorganization" or
other reason. However, in giving him his clearance papers - any employee
leaving the service of a railroad was given clearance papers - they employed a
secret code, known only to railroad officials, which as effectively
black-listed him as if it were written in plain English. The paper on which
the clearance was typed, had a water-mark. The water-mark was a crane, a bird
with long legs which extended nearly the length of the paper. If there were no
red lines crossing the crane's legs or neck, the clearance was exactly what it
appeared to be on the surface - a recommendation to be honored by any road in
need of the applicant's services. But if the red lines were there, although
the wording of the clearance was identical with the honorable one, the
applicant could as easily obtain work on a railroad as fly to the moon.

So in October, 1898, with only one hundred dollars in the Order's treasury on
this coast, I set about the work of breaking down the apathy towards the Order
which existed among the telegraphers of the Pacific states. With more than six
thousand miles of lines to cover, it was impossible for me to make personal
calls on the telegraphers. Also, any organizing I was to do, must be done by
me without relinquishing my job as station master of Grants Pass, Oregon - for
I had a loving wife and beautiful daughter to think of, and could ill afford
to surrender my position and go about junketing for a causes however worthy.
How would you have gone about it? Well here's how I solved ny problem: Do you
recall a few years ago when a wave of chain letters flooded the country asking
for dimes? It's no new thing. Similar waves of chain letters have spread over
the country from time to time as far back as I can remember. Armed with a
roster of names of all telegraphers at work on west coast railroads, I marked
an "X" after the names - few enough they were, too - of those who already
carried a card in the Order. To the ones marked "X" I sent a letter enclosing
a tentative draft of a working schedule, which I promised the railroads would
be forced to accept from us if we were only strong enough numerically as to
speak with the voice of strength. I then asked each member to write a letter
to the non-members near him, passing along my message and soliciting the
non-member for his application to the order. Each non-member received from 100
to 200 letters and concluded he was the last to join. The effect was magical.
The idea took hold, grew by leaps and bounds, like a snowball rolling down
hill gathering size and weight as it sped onward. From time to time I sifted
out the stubborn ones, the ones who resisted minor efforts at enlistment. To
these I directed an overwhelming onslaught of mail from their brother
telegraphers. One by one they come under the banner. Remarkable as it may
seem, the day shortly dawned when we had gotten down to that "last"
telegrapher in that remote place - a man named Fields, station agent at Reno,
Nevada. Fields was reputed to be a "Company" man, and was said to have
remarked "that he would see the O. R. T. in hell before he'd join." Now the
truth of the matter is that the course of the Order's history should not have
been altered a whit, had we concluded to forget about Fields and let him stay
outside the fold, but a queer quirk in my nature caused me to want to "get
that man". I wanted to make my conquest a complete, one hundred percent
victory. To get this one man. I sent out thirteen hundred letters to key
members all over the lines, asking them to write to Fields at Reno, asking him
to join the O. R, T.; also asking them to enlist the aid of all other members
in their letter writing campaign. Fields was swamped. Having a sense of humor,
a portion of which quality I hope I still retain, I also dispatched a letter
to the King of England and the Czar of Russia - Russia was then a monarchy -
apprising them of the situation and asking them to write to this man Fields
urging him to join the O. R. T. I sent copies of these letters to Fields as a
joke, never expecting to hear from the recipients of the originals. Imagine
our surprise, however, when the [Czar of Russia?] - entering into the spirit
of the thing - [sent Fields a letter?], bearing the crest of the Romanoffs,
urging him to join the Order as I had suggested. In conclusion - yes, Fields
came in.

Comment:

For further information on the Rawhide Railroad, see "The Genesis of a Myth,
Re Estes Book, The Rawhide Railroad."