The Southern Oregon Blizzard of December 1919 - Return to Paradise

Return to paradise

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by Bill Miller for the Mail Tribune

Monday, December 16th 2019

Snowballs were flying down at the Medford railroad depot.

Just before noon, the first passenger train from the north since the big blizzard of December 1919 had arrived. California-bound passengers left their cars and opened up joyous winter warfare.

Beginning Dec. 9, a near-nonstop blizzard with deep snow and icy temperatures had paralyzed most of Oregon. Portland was snowbound under drifts of two to four feet, and Salem quickly ran out of coal after 35 straight hours of snow. Near Roseburg, 200 feet of Southern Pacific railroad track was buried.

For the moment, only the Rogue Valley had survived.

“The mild climate of Medford and the Rogue River Valley was again conspicuously

Main St., Medford, Oregon, December 1919

demonstrated,” said a Mail Tribune story. “Only a part of the big storm was felt here in the shape of a 25- to 50-mile-an-hour gale of wind, accompanied by a little rain, and with a very moderate temperature.”

Barely three days later, Mother Nature turned the tables, forcing editor Robert Ruhl to admit “the weatherman is supreme. We had the temerity to question his supremacy Wednesday, and he proceeded to freeze us into a shivering silence about 12 hours later.”

Dec. 11, 1919 brought Medford and the valley the most snow ever recorded on a single day — a whopping 11 inches — followed by a hard freeze and a daytime high of 9 1/2 degrees.

“There have always been a few people — principally from Kansas,” Ruhl said, “who missed the cold, dry, snappy winter of the Middle West. It was much more invigorating than the milder but more humid atmosphere of the Pacific coast. Now we have shown our capacity to even satisfy this contingent. Nothing could be drier and colder and snappier than the past few days. There is plenty of snow, too, and a fine opportunity for skating on Bear Creek and bobsledding down Roxy Anne.”

Electric, telephone and telegraph lines were down, along with 72 poles between Medford and Ashland. Medford’s Main Street was a slushy mess with dozens of parked Model-Ts trapped at the curb. The Jackson County Creamery announced that because their trucks had broken down while fighting against the snow, it canceled milk deliveries. A broken water pipe eliminated radiator heat and a day of school for youngsters, while reports of broken water pipes in homes, businesses and hotels across the county continued to mount up during the day.

Everyone was trying to keep a smile and a positive attitude against all of their troubles.

Under the title “Cheer up. It might have been 10 degrees below instead 9 1/2 above,” Robert Ruhl called for a change in attitude.

“Let’s all forget the storm and cold conditions, the frozen pipes and other damage and loss in our homes and make the best of a bad situation by going skating on Bear Creek tomorrow, a feature that we may not be able to enjoy again in our lifetime.”

Columnist Arthur Perry continued his usual tongue-in-cheek style with a brief paragraph. “Let nature take its course. The snow will either melt and run off of its own free will — or cave in the roof.”

It would be weeks before everything returned to a semblance of everyday normalcy, but when it did, Ruhl confidently predicted it would be “with the blushing enthusiasm of an exiled angel returning to Paradise.”

Here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas, a light dusting of snow, and the happiest of holidays.

Writer Bill Miller is the author of “History Snoopin’,” a collection of his previous history columns and stories. Reach him at newsmiller@live.com.

WASP Mary Louise Webster - Last On-Duty Women Airforce Service Pilot to Die During WWII

9 December 1944

Mary Louise Webster, Class 44-W-8

Last On-duty WASP's to Die.

(30 June 1919 – 9 December 1944)

Mary Webster and a two-man crew were flying into a cold front with intermittent snow and rain and temperatures dropping. Their UC-78 Bobcat, nicknamed “the bamboo bomber,” was taking them on a cross-country training flight to Chicago

"Bamboo Bomber"- At-17

from Frederick Army Airfield in southwestern Oklahoma. Following her graduation that October, Mary had reported to Frederick for advanced training in B-24 Liberator bombers. With only 11 days remaining until WASP deactivation, it should have seemed ridiculous to continue training; yet, there she was, flying

WASP Pilot Mary Louise Webster

between Tulsa and Claremore, Oklahoma

Born June 30, 1919, Mary was the seventh of eight children and the second daughter.

Mary graduated from the Holy Names Academy, a private Catholic all-girls high school in Seattle. After graduation, she studied for two years at the Seattle Business College and earned her diploma. Although believing business was her best career choice, Mary had always dreamed of flying, and when Central Washington State College announced a Civilian Pilot Training course in May 1940, Mary leaped at the chance. It wasn’t easy being one of only three women accepted in the program. “I knew Mary and I liked her,” a fellow student later told a reporter. “But there was a reluctant acceptance about her being in the program with the men. There were jokes that she

should be home raising kids.”

… After graduation from Avenger on October 18, 1944, and following her 10-day furlough, Mary reported to Frederick Army Airbase to begin her advanced training. A month later she was riding in the Bobcat with Lieutenant George Crowe at the controls. Crowe was from Wisconsin and had turned 21 just a few days earlier. … Also with them was 22-year-old Sergeant Melvin Clark, a married Oklahoma native who had been assigned to

Frederick when the base opened in September

WASP Mary Louise Webster

1942.

An hour out from Frederick on December 9, the UC-78 was flying at 9,000 feet above the clouds, when Crowe noticed ice forming on the wings. He radioed the air controller and received permission to descend; hoping warmer air would keep more ice from forming. Now, deep in the clouds, the aircraft began to fall and Crowe lost control. The UC-78 fell straight down and crashed, killing everyone aboard.

RIP

History Snoopin': Murder in the first degree?

Murder in the first degree?

by Bill Miller for the Mail Tribune

Monday, December 9th 2019

William Justus, one of Jacksonville’s earliest pioneers, was dead, shot through the head on a Sunday morning in 1883 by his oldest son, John.

John said the family dogs had treed a squirrel and were making such a racket that his father put down his newspaper and told John to shoot the squirrel and shut the dogs up. John grabbed his rifle and powder flask from the table in the corner, walked out onto the front porch, loaded a ball, and shot and killed the squirrel.

Chicken hawks then began swooping down on the lifeless animal, so John continued to fire until they scattered.

“I left the front porch to put the gun away,” John told the coroner’s jury. “I had just started in the door — the gun being still cocked. I had the gun lying across my left arm and I started across the floor to put it away.

“I went to let the hammer down and I suppose touched the trigger. The gun went off. I think I was about six feet from the door. I suppose it is about the same distance to where my father was sitting.”

The coroner’s jury spent the entire afternoon examining the horrifying scene. In talking with

neighbors, and perhaps William’s wife, the jury turned up testimony that aroused suspicion and strongly pointed toward deliberate murder.

John was 10 years old when William Justus and his wife, Lucinda, crossed the Plains from Iowa to Southern Oregon with seven of their eventual 12 children.

“Fourteen persons with ox team and schooner wagon,” John said. “We landed at Jacksonville in the fall, late in 1854. I did a man’s work and also walked barefooted all the way, driving 12 head of milch cows which gave us milk, all the way through.”

On June 18, 1883, 14 weeks after his father’s death, John, now 38, was arrested, charged with murder, and began his eight-day trial. The jury returned a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree.

Allowed to address the court, John declared his innocence in a long and sometimes rambling statement, trying to show that the death had been an accident.

Jacksonville Oregon Courthouse

Passing his first death sentence, Judge Hanna seemed overcome with emotion as he ordered John to hang. John, however, was calm and quiet.

On appeal, the Oregon Supreme Court reversed the verdict and ordered a new trial. They ruled that the grand jury had allowed illegal testimony from a non-professional “expert” who wasn’t competent to analyze the appearance and characteristics of a gunshot wound, and that the evidence was insufficient to warrant the verdict rendered.

In a second trial, 10 jurors at first voted for first degree murder, while two voted manslaughter. With further discussion, they settled on second degree murder, and John Justus was sentenced to life in prison.

Less than 10 years later, John received a parole and returned to Jackson County.

In 1920, he was 75, living at the Jackson County Poor Farm in Talent, and had submitted a letter to the Mail Tribune about his early life. When and where he died is unknown, but he likely was buried in a pauper’s grave.

An anchor, carved at the top of the stone that marks his father’s grave in the Jacksonville Cemetery, is a symbol of William’s faith in God and not evidence of a naval career. His wife, who had died 10 years after her husband, along with a 1-year-old daughter who died earlier lie nearby in unmarked graves.

Writer Bill Miller is the author of “History Snoopin’,” a collection of his previous history columns and stories. Reach him at newsmiller@live.com.

History Snoopin': Peter Britt and the momentous letter

Peter and the momentous letter

by Bill Miller for the Mail Tribune

Monday, December 2nd 2019

Peter Britt was heartbroken. Amalia, his lovely “Madonna,” the neighbor girl he had loved and painted in countless portraits since they were children, was officially engaged to someone else.

Her father had refused to let him marry her.

He couldn’t bear to suffer this pain. It was 1852, and there was free land in Oregon. Gold had just

Peter Britt

been discovered, and Peter was leaving.

He packed his wagon with a Colt pistol, a double-barreled rifle-shotgun, food and other supplies, and 300 pounds of photography equipment. He and three other men set out alone for Oregon Country.

For six months the companions continued on — over the Continental Divide to Fort Bridger in Wyoming, then to Fort Hall, Idaho, and finally arriving at Oregon City in October 1852. The men divided the wagon into two carts and split up.

Peter headed south with a yoke of oxen pulling a two-wheel cart loaded with supplies and his photo equipment. Other than a mule, the clothes on his back and five dollars in his pocket, it was everything he owned.

Coming around Blackwell Hill in Southern

Mt. McLoughlin

Oregon, Peter stopped in disbelief. The pointed peak of Mount McLoughlin sparkled with white snow. There was a valley surrounded by grassy hills and tall mountains covered in green pines. This looked like Obstalden, the Swiss village where he had been born. The wandering 33-year-old bachelor had finally found a home.

Peter camped on a brushy hill that looked down on the shanties and tents that made up the mining camp of Table Rock City, now Jacksonville. Over the next few days, he built a dugout cabin home where he opened a makeshift photo studio.

Word spread quickly that a photographer was in town. Miners posed proudly in their work clothes, holding picks, rifles, pistols — anything to impress the folks back home.

Within a month of his arrival, it began to snow, and a devastating winter began. The valley was isolated for weeks. Food supplies dwindled, and without springtime sun, there was no hope. Peter, in his typical frugal fashion, carefully managed his food until supply lines to the outside world finally opened.

When the snows thawed in the spring of 1853, Peter began to dream of the “easy” prospecting money his customers kept talking about. He closed the studio and with some other greenhorn miners took a claim on Ashland Creek. After a week of wading in frigid water and rocking a sluice box

morning ’til night, Peter settled up with his partners. His share was 75¢ and his prospecting days were over.

Peter had what they called in the old days hustle, always trying to find new ways to make a buck. His photography, mining investments and packing business made Peter a wealthy man. He came to town with just $5, but by 1857 his property holdings alone were worth in today’s money nearly $100,000.

Peter Britt House

He built a white frame house and studio. The second house evolved into one even larger and fancier — and then, an unexpected change.

A momentous letter came from Illinois in 1861. Amalia, his sweetheart of long ago, was suddenly

Amalia Grob Britt

a widow with a 7-year-old son. Peter asked her to come to Oregon and marry him.

Mother and child came around the Horn of South America to Jacksonville, and on Aug. 11, 1861, Amalia and a love-struck Peter were married.

Writer Bill Miller is the author of “History Snoopin’,” a collection of his previous history columns and stories. Reach him at newsmiller@live.com.