Of Mines, Media and Moguls

...my very first story

I often gaze at a real estate site called “CIRCA Old Houses.” Meticulously, I work my way through the farmhouses, Victorians, Greek Revivals, Tudors, converted barns, churches, and true mid-centuries. Breathing them in as if I were there., it has become a habit since the pandemic. Nearly 4 years ago my husband and I moved into a home full of rich history, built in 1953, by common folk with dreams, imagination and drive. A plumber with artistic flare and his wife with roots in the south. Every room had a story and every detail spoke of the labor and love poured into our home. A first offer, we began to discover an incredible tie to the family which lead us to my parent’s small rural town in Oregon. Our story here in California is the continuation of their story. The six degrees of separation that tie us to each other are the hands that hold us throughout the world and for centuries.

Back on my computer, Civil War homes will often pop-up on land where last battles took place and I walk the battlefield looking around in disbelief. How could this old home have stood for so long, quiet, mesmerizing, surrounded by untouched farmland. Reasoning away every single thought I have but what comes to mind is what Ecclesiastes 1:9 says. “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is and what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun.” I realize as a form of escape my mind and heart are transported to another place and time. The structures might be old but the stories are nothing new to today.

I stumbled upon a home for sale in Palermo, California built by the father of William Randolf Hearst. Senator George Hearst & his young wife Phoebe Apperson Hearst built one of the most beautiful examples of a Queen Anne Victorian set on 800 acres in 1896. Immediately my mind raced. I walked the beautiful grounds, ran my hand up the intricate staircase, opened the ominous pocket doors and stared in awe at the great room. His back to me, paper in hand, fingers tapping, cigar smoke in the air. Who was George Hearst? It seemed that the whole world knew who his son was. Like many a media mogul today, quote, “he was unassuming, impeccably calm, and indulgent of "prima donnas, eccentrics, bohemians, drunks, or reprobates so long as they had useful talents." Bold headlines, aggressive, exaggerated, scandalous news, use of cartoons and illustrations, populist politics, progressive crusades, crime and human-interest stories sold his penny papers. What was new?

William’s paternal great-grandfather was John Hearst. He, his wife and six children, migrated to America from Ballybay County, Monaghan, Ireland, as part of the Cahans Exodus in 1766., derived from the original Ulster-Scots people, a Scotish-Irish ethnic group. They were farmers like many of my paternal great-greats were. His grandfather, William, was a poor Missouri farmer in debt. George, his son didn’t have much schooling, yet he hung around the local French lead mines and was allowed to prospect with his friends. They would cash in on small free bits of lead. This would turn George into one of the wealthiest, most knowledgable and naturally talented men in mining of his era. When his dad, William, died, the family was left in deep debt., so 26 year old George worked to save their farm, took care of his mom, two siblings, and in his spare time studied mining. In 1850 he would leave home with two cousins and join a party of 16 on a treacherous journey to mine gold in California.

The first year proved to be a disaster leaving George and his cousins with $40 to share. The three prospectors moved to Grass Valley, where they discovered a gold-bearing ledge between there and Nevada City. Later, after much success and wealth George would be owed a gambling debt. He was offered the San Francisco Examiner newspaper in lieu of money and he took it to remain loyal to his friends. The paper would become a good place to promote his political party and their ideals. Eventually, his son William would insist on taking control and just like that the only heir to the long fought fortune would grab and turn the Examiner into a famous newspaper., a stepping stone to the future of an enormous media empire. Once he won over the prestigious New York City market, William would go on to win a Pulitzer, and become one of the wealthiest, most controversial and talked about figures in the world.

William was about 3 years old when his father was a member of the California State Assembly. During George’s short-lived political career he also acquired Rancho Piedra Blanca, at San Simeon, which was later developed into Hearst Castle by William. I believe it was the summer of 1971 when we stopped there in our white 60’s station-wagon as we made our way up the coast on holiday. I was 10 years old and had long combed through our collection of British royalty books full of castles, queens and play houses that looked like grownup homes. I wondered if this was American royalty?

The imaginary tour of George and Annabelle’s home had me thinking about my heritage. It’s true what they say about losing someone. The inheritance of my heart beats back into every ounce of goodness I can think of, trying to find a desperate way to say thank you out loud to my dad. I understand you now! Your life wasn’t perfect and your ancestor’s lives weren’t perfect but in that imperfection there was so much beauty. The heart of my dad was often hidden in the day to day yet his stories were rich when on the slight chance he told them. I see his never-ending creativity and those are the scenes I draw near to., yet as I aged I wanted more from him and I lamented over it. I wanted things he couldn’t give me. I wish I had spent more time asking him about his life instead of wanting him to initiate a poetic conversation with me about mine. I wondered if William was too busy building on the Hearst empire to appreciate the stories of his inheritance? Did he understand where he came from? Did his dad share stories? A generation of quiet, focused doers.

The endless river. Water running over stepping stones. Each generation rising, floating, sinking, repeat. Seeking better, crossing oceans, trekking prairies, leaving family, holding onto grief and loss from wars, plagues, famine., many dying along the way. Fighting for a piece of a dream, dying while laying the foundations of buildings, bridges, railways, toiling on farms and digging in mines. Stories that repeat themselves time and time again.

As I stand upon the Rock of my Maker, looking over the glistening river, and back through my own history I am so many people. They tie my story together as I will tie my grandchildren’s stories together. Whole, broken and missing pieces.

The story of us, like it or not, is the family we keep.

George and Annabelle Hearst Mansion, Palermo, Ca - CIRCA Old Houses