'CASSIE HILL' Wife, Mother, Telegrapher, Wells Fargo Agent ---------------------------------------------------------------------- My dear sister: Last Tuesday we had one of the grandest birthday parties our home has yet to have. Of course the beautifully decorated cake, with its pink and yellow roses reminiscent of old Roseville was special, the punch extra tangy, the guests most enjoyable. But it was the birthday girl who was spectacular. Not that she is a girl -- by no means. But her qualities, tiny build, twinkling eyes the color of ripening wheat, and a smile that reveals a lust for living, remind one of youth. That alone, I would imagine, contributed to Cassie Hill's 100th year on this great earth. Yes, I did say 100, and years full of abundant living, sensitivity and, I rather guess, a bit of sensationalism. She was once a Wells Fargo agent during the last century, a period when most women either took care of their large families or taught school. But Cassie wasn't a single woman without responsibilities, or one who had a man around to help with bringing up a brood of five. For a time Cassie had both. But she also had another career. In the misty sienna glow of the old Roseville railroad depot, with its wood-burning potbelly stove, iron scales, and straight-back chairs, Cassie took meticulous care of in and outgoing express, both human and otherwise, noting destination, weight, departure time, and content of packages to be shipped. Wearing the familiar green visor pulled down over her brown hair, white gauzy sleeves cuffed at the elbows, long skirts brushing the wood-planked floors, she treated each traveler with friendliness and respect "I'm looking for the Wells Fargo man," a burly, dusty cowboy asked, slinging his grips onto the oak counter. He dropped a smoke on the floor, killing the fire with the toe of well-worn boots. Getting up from the rolltop desk, Cassie pushed back the visor and smiled. You're looking at her." "You're the Wells Fargo agent?" He looked surprised. "Sure am. What can I do for you?" For a moment the cowboy was stunned, speechless. Three children darted into the room, one carrying firewood for the hungry stove, the oldest boy dragging a box of peaches he was going to sell to train customers, and a small girl kicking at a crate to make it move. Cassie paid little attention to her clamoring children. By now she was used to having them mix with the business of operating a Wells Fargo station. Finally the cowboy recovered from his initial shock; he shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to tell Cassie what he wanted shipped back East. "I reckon you can count alright. I've got two grips and this box. Want them to go to my mother in Philadelphia. Does your train go there?" "Sure will." Cassie took the pencil from behind her ear and got out an order form. Cassie Tomer Hill was born into a struggling Iowa family in August of 1854. Ma and Pa Tomer had six children and country living for them was difficult at best. After hearing all those exciting tales about the California Gold Rush, with creeks lined with precious ore ready for the picking, Pa Tomer must have decided he could do no worse out West. So he and Ma Tomer packed up all six children, and with their meager belongings, joined a train of some seventy-five covered wagons that were headed for California. Cassie was 2 years old at this time. It must have been pretty hard for that poor mother and all those kids in one wagon, all wishing they were already in the promised land. But then, it was determined folk such as the Tomers who built much of the great state of California. Each child had one toy, perhaps a cloth doll or a carved animal, to help idle away the time as they bounced along in the wagon. The weather changed from extreme cold to desert heat, depending on the altitude. Many fellow travelers became ill, and those who died were buried along side the trail, with a fallen tree for a headstone. Hardship was commonplace. The Tomer family traveled for five months and ten days to the Nevada territory, where they first settled. But living wasn't any easier there, and after four years of trying to satisfy the growing family's needs, Pa Tomer moved on, this time settling on a small ranch near Woodland, California. Northwest of Sacramento, Woodland was once a rolling, grassy prairie dotted with wide gangling oaks, brilliant California poppies, and waves of wild bush lupine and native weeds. In the summer the air was dry and lazy and warm winds danced across the rangelands. Jackrabbits and grey squirrels scurried easily between the woody coverings, and doves and noisy black crows abounded. The Tomer children must have had great fun in those vast and tranquil fields. To Be Continued . . . Woodland....... -------------------------------------------------------------------- Copied by Nancee(McMurtrey)Seifert September 25, 2005 iggy29@rnetinc.net 'A Closed Mouth Gathers No Foot.'