sonora2sonoma

By Tim Konrad

Sonora’s Main Street, Washington Street, followed the course of an old Indian trail as it descended into the little valley that had been transformed by 1850 into a booming mining town by the influx of gold-seekers hoping to strike it rich in the Gold Rush. The street names in downtown Sonora were first noted back in 1850, when they appeared on a map by Cooper & Gulledge.

Our little block of South Shepherd Street was bordered by Barretta Street to the east, Lytton Street to the south and Livingston St to the north. According to an article, “Sonora’s Early Streets,” in the Tuolumne County Historical Society quarterly, “Chispa,” Vol. II, No. 4, April-June, 1972, Barretta Street was named after Jacinto Barretta, one of South Washington Street’s pioneer merchants. Lytton Street got its name from a member of the town’s first informal city council, John B. Litton. Shepherd Street was named in recognition of Dr. William M. Shepherd, “one of Sonora’s most colorful and turbulent pioneers.” A physician and heavy drinker, Dr. Shepherd was known for “being as proficient with a Bowie knife as he was with a scalpel.”

Near the bottom of the hill overlooked by my house, the ground rose up again sharply just beyond what was once my boyhood friend Mike’s house, the bottom-most of the small string of houses that lined our block. Once the grass turned yellow and dried up in the small triangle bordered by Livingston, Shepherd and Barretta streets, this grass-slicked 45-degree slope made for the perfect surface for us kids to slide down while riding on pieces of cardboard.

Occasionally, someone would get ahold of a large box, such as a refrigerator carton. After knocking out the end flaps, several of us would climb inside and tumble down the hill,  head over heels, sometimes spilling out the sides, laughing, while the carton continued its downward course, with the abandon only children can muster.

On one occasion, my joy was short-lived; while sliding down the hill, the cardboard under my knees met abruptly with an ill- tempered rock that penetrated the cardboard, and my knee, occasioning a trip to the doctor that involved needles and stitches to repair. Another incident brought my celebratory mood to a screaming halt, literally, when a foxtail sticker became lodged in one of my eyes.

Springtime, when the grass was still green and the soil still soft from the spring rains, created the perfect conditions for pulling compact, throwing-sized clods of dirt and grass from the ground. We neighborhood kids would take full advantage of this phenomenon as we gathered in opposing groups to play war games, lobbing dirt clods at each other while ducking down to avoid becoming struck by incoming missiles. By gripping the grass close down to the base and throwing over-hand, as in hardball, some of us could hurl a dirt clod with respectable accuracy. This was an accomplishment worthy of celebration, but only when we were on the offensive side.

After the memories start flowing, however, there’s no choosing which ones attain prominence: once that spark is lit, they all tumble out of a piece, good and bad alike, associations cascading one after another until the fount of inspiration dwindles to a trickle.

On the whole, my memories of the joy I experienced sliding down that hill, or even ducking to avoid being struck by incoming dirt clods, eclipse any residue left from the cuts and bruises I experienced in the doing of it.

And that’s something to be thankful for!

To be continued: