Our History from the Beginning
Learning to Drive in Woodacre by Andy Giddings I’m probably different from most people when it comes to driving. In 1964, I took a short cut and secretly taught myself to drive at age 12. I started by learning the clutch of the ’46 Willys backing it out of the garage then driving back in. It was Dad’s hunting jeep, rough around the edges, but a solid, if hard-riding scamp, with a small 4 banger and mud and snow tires. My civic-minded parents [Marylou and Al] were forever attending evening meetings, giving me the opportunity to venture out on a small loop up Oak Grove, left on Elm, down Castle Rock, across Garden Way, left on Redwood then back on Crescent, and back to the safety of the garage. I was filled with the profound glee each and every time that only forbidden fruit seems to provide. After a year or so I started venturing onto dirt Salix and sometimes up to the top of Carson turning around on the Conifer dirt, heading up past the old Korth house on the way to Gia- comini Preserve. It was there on a rainy night my early driving years came to a halt. In slippery conditions I slid off the road and got stuck. I immediately put the jeep into low range and got out and locked the hubs. It was looking good rocking back and forth in the slop until on one of the reverse surges, the jeep jumped with good traction and smashed into a big log on the ground. The rear tailgate was smashed in and the spare tire mounted there was tweaked at a weird angle. I powered forward out of the mud, got out and recoiled in horror at the damage done. The drive home was sheer terror, trying to think of any way to possibly explain the wrecked tailgate. In the end I threw myself on the mercy of Mom and she con- spired with me to hide it from Dad, who luckily didn’t pay much attention to the jeep until deer season, still six months away. Mom got our friend Red Scanlon to take the tailgate to his body shop and fix the damage. The funny thing was it came back primed in black and not the green it had been before. Dad never noticed a thing and I kept my promise to Mom to never drive again until I had my license. She employed a novel trick, hid- ing short match sticks against the rear tires and making sure they weren’t broken if the jeep backed up. My glory days of driving the quiet streets of Wood- acre ended with a whimper and fortunately no serious damage to anything other then my overblown ego.
My Mother’s Story by Martha McNeil
Ellen Redding was born in Nicasio, July 9 th , 1899. Her birthplace was in a house located directly across the square from St. Mary Church. The family moved to their grandfather’s ranch two miles away off of Rancheria Road. The ranch buildings and the house were at the base of a steep hill opposite Shroyer Mountain. Ellen, along with her siblings, attended Nicasio School. After graduation, she decided to be the first in her family to attend high school. That was a challenge! She could go to San Rafael High School if she had a relative to stay with. She stayed with an aunt and uncle, but the challenge was getting herself to San Rafael from Nicasio. In those days the transportation was horse, horse and wagon, maybe a car to the train at San Geron- imo Station then board the train to San Rafael. Ellen attended during the week and went home on weekends. After finishing high school she attended California State Normal School in Berkeley to get her teaching credential. She had an aunt and uncle to stay with, trans- portation about the same. Her first teaching job was at Burdell School, Novato. As the crow flies Ellen’s house was two very steep hills away from Burdell School. She rode her horse over these hills through the fog to her first teaching position. Her class was composed of several children from the same family. She would stop to visit Agatha Ryan and her brother, Dan. They would enjoy a cup of tea together in the afternoon. After a few months Ellen had the opportunity to buy her uncle’s car with the money she had made so far.
Train headed for the Valley alongside Sir Francis Drake Blvd. in Fairfax. Note the top of the building in the background that now houses the Coffee Roastery. (Photo courtesy of David Wilson)
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50 th Anniversary
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