sonora2sonoma

By Tim Konrad

Sonora was a quieter place back then–nothing like the bustle and fuss of the traffic generated today by being the regional hub of commerce for a three-county area. Where once the loudest sounds to be heard were the noon blast of the fire alarm at city hall or the Jacob’s brakes of logging trucks slowing down on Washington Street as they entered town from the mountains, now there’s the much-too frequent intrusion of sirens—police and fire—as respondents’ race to administer their services to those in need. In reflecting on these ‘Sireneers,’ as I’ve come to call them, I’m made mindful of the time as a small child when I saw the Sons of the Pioneers (I love wordplay) appear in a Roundup Parade on Washington Street. As I said, memories lie in wait in profusion in such places.

The Sonora of my youth was a town of 2500 souls, many of them second and third generation Italians whose progenitors emigrated there during the latter half of the Nineteenth Century lured by the prospect of opportunities denied them for whatever reason in the “Old Country.”

It was not uncommon in those early days, when accompanying my mother on shopping excursions, to recognize practically everyone one encountered. My father was, like his father before him, affiliated with several of the fraternal organizations that formed the backbone of social life in rural America at the time. My parents shared bonds with their friends that went back decades; the resulting connections ran deep.

I would hear stories as I grew older about how the local Elks Club used to host an annual fund-raising event, called “49er Night,” where members would retrieve old slot machines and roulette tables from storage (all of which was illegal since gambling was outlawed in the state) and set up, for one night only, a casino at the local fairgrounds. An extremely popular event, this went on for years until, one year, when Edmund G. “Pat” Brown (Jerry’s father, later to become governor of California) visited Tuolumne County during his tenure as state attorney general. The local folks wined and dined him and told him about their event, after which, when Brown returned to Sacramento, he took steps to shut down the enterprise. My father, not a vindictive man, felt a sense of betrayal at Brown’s actions and never forgave him for it.

I also heard tales as a child about how Sonora used to be more “wide open.” From illegal distilleries during prohibition to prostitution, the place sounded like it used to be much more lawless and unencumbered than it was in the Sonora of my memory. My father told tales of how, during Prohibition, he and his friends used to go to outdoor dances in Columbia on Saturday nights. The dance floor was behind the Fallon Theater parking lot where the effects of earlier hydraulic mining had created a natural amphitheater, still visible today. They would park their Model T cars in the fashion of modern tailgate parties and serve up moonshine whiskey to the revelers.

My dad’s former business partner, Ralph Denton, a man who described himself as possessed of “the gift of gab,” used to tell a story about “Old Man Nicolini,” (father of the County Recorder at the time) from Chinese Camp, who was a distiller of bootleg whiskey during Prohibition. The local constable, as the story goes, was an amiable person who, if he knew you, would extend you the courtesy of alerting you when the Federal authorities planned to conduct raids on the local distilleries, in exchange, of course, for some “product.” Prior to the onset of one such raid, the constable warned Mr. Nicolini to conceal his operation, which, for reasons never made clear, but probably involving pride or stupidity, he neglected to do. As a result, he was caught, cited and subsequently made to appear in Court. When he had his day in Court, the judge told Mr. Nicolini his fine would be $20, to which the man replied “That’s nothin’! I’ve got that in my ass pocket.” The judge continued, “and a week in jail. Do you have that in your ass pocket too?”

Regarding prostitution, one notorious “house of ill repute” was located at Yosemite Junction, below Jamestown, where Highway 120 veers south from Highway 108 toward Groveland. It was managed by a fellow named Dave Bonavia, a man well known for his involvement in such enterprises in the Mother Lode of that time. Bonavia was implicated in a couple of scandals that came to public light while I was living in Sonora. One involved gambling and was the downfall of a business collaboration between Bonavia and a fellow named Russ Rolfe, who at the time owned the Sullivan’s Creek Restaurant east of Sonora at the site of what is now the Peppery Gar & Brill. At issue was a smaller building uphill and behind the dining establishment that was attached to the restaurant by a covered walkway. This building housed a gambling enterprise, run by Bonavia, and, by virtue of it’s being physically attached to the restaurant building by the covered walkway, it  led to the shuttering of the entire operation once it came to the attention of state authorities.

The other bit of scandal involved Bonavia and the sheriff at the time, a former Highway Patrolman named Mervin Mullins. Mullins, back in his state trooper days, was said by some to have been fond of forgiving truckers’ citations in exchange for a bit of cargo—say, a case of whiskey, etc. Later, after he’d become sheriff, Mullins was secretly tape-recorded having a clandestine meeting with Dave Bonavia on top of Myers Hill. While I can’t recall the subject of the conversation, its revelation caused a controversy that ultimately proved damaging to the sheriff and led to the end of his career in law enforcement.

To be continued: