My daughter was home for a scant three weeks and one of our favorite things is to run errands around the valley where I can bore her to tears with useless trivia. Fair bet? I’m guessing that 98.935% of the people who live here have no idea of the origin of most street names.
Being related, Indy had the good graces to pretend fall asleep and pretend-snore as I pontificated and we motored along stately Arcadia Street, long Newhall’s answer to Beverly Hills. It was named after Arcadia, Kansas, home to the Santa Clarita Valley’s long-forgotten son of The Sunflower State, Henry Clay Needham. HC was sent here by Kansas governor John St. John to the brand, spanking new town of Newhall to build a Prohibitionist community in 1898 on 10,000 acres.
St. John was one of America’s most influential politicians then, leader of the Prohibitionist Party that spearheaded the 18th Amendment, which essentially banned the drinking and mass production of alcohol. Needham wrote the strict Kansas state law that prohibited booze. St. John, one of the founders of the women’s suffrage movement, survived an assassination attempt, running for president in 1884. Of all things, he died from heat exhaustion in 1916.
Our own Henry Clay Needham? He had wagonloads of problems, trying to start that huge Prohibitionist enclave here in Santa Clarita. For one thing, there were almost more saloons than people here in the late 19th and early 20th century. For another? The fine print in the sales agreement stipulated that if ANYONE was caught drinking on your little patch of purchased heaven, your entire property and holdings were subject to forfeiture back to the owner. Even the staunchest of teetotalers didn’t want to chance losing their home via a drunk cowhand found sprawled outside the barn. Needham ran three times for president and once couldn’t accept the nomination due to food poisoning. Neat trivia? Running for president, senator and California governor, not once did he carry his home Santa Clarita Valley. Today? That new industrial center in south Newhall was built on his old ranch property.
My dear old pal, Gladys Laney, who made her transition a few years back at 103, recalled the elder statesman. Dear Gladys noted the staunch anti-booze advocator had a sweet tooth craving that would shame Beelzebub.
And, of course, this Prohibitionist connection is also why we have a Kansas Street.
Motoring about, Indy and I passed Robert C. Lee Drive up Canyon Country way. Friend Bob was a former William S. Hart Union High School District superintendent and I shared with Indy how, years after the fact, he upped my D-minus in chemistry to an A-minus. I had written a tongue-in-cheek op-ed piece about threatening to sue Hart for back wages. The reason? With my hard-earned near-F in a math/science disciplines, I was doomed to a life in the New Delhi Untouchable demographic of newspaper columnist. I kiddingly wrote seeking an eight-figure settlement for lost back wages. I’m in the middle of teaching a local history class, way up Mentryville. A caravan of black district SUVs roared up the narrow road. Lee, a brigade of district suits and the school district’s attorney solemnly piled out of the caravan. A briefcase was opened and Bob, straight-faced, offered that if I dropped my imaginary lawsuit, 30 years later, he’d rocket my grade up to an A-minus. Still have the official diploma framed.
I’m glad Bob has his street.
There’s McBean Parkway. It’s named after one of the darn grumpiest people to ever set foot in this riparian nirvana. Atholl McBean married into the Newhall family and was an uber-capitalist during the great Depression. He took over The Newhall Land & Farming Co. Back in the late 1920s, the ENTIRE SCV was up for sale. Asking price? Pocket change of $750,000 for the whole shooting match. The company was in terrible neglect. Not only did McBean (possibly the most influential person of SCV’s 20th century) modernize it, but he launched the foundation for turning it into the rather charming albeit vanilla-docile planning family yuppietorium it is today.
Ever wonder why the oak-shaded section of Happy Valley in Newhall got its name?
In 1910, Fred Lamkin began developing the farm land south of Lyons Avenue into a residential area of primarily ranchettes. In fact, up until the 1930s, much of the land was a huge throughbred race horse ranch. Lamkin had married into New-hall’s Pennywitt family and one of his sisters-in-law had such a cheerful disposition, she earned the nickname of, “Happy.” This forgotten, cheery woman’s legacy lives on a century later.
Powell Street in Newhall was named after our early 20th century jurist, John Powell. Big-game hunter. Adventurer. Explorer. He was on the expedition in the mid-19th century to rescue fabled explorer, Dr. Stanley Livingstone, of “Dr. Livingstone, I presume …” fame. On his deathbed, our local judge confessed his greatest accomplishment was freeing some 700 Africans bound for slavery.
So many streets. So many dusty stories. So many typos.
Lyons Avenue should be Lyon Avenue, after the twin 19th century pioneer brothers, Sanford and Cyrus. Sanford was the storekeep. Cyrus? The gunfighter. Vasquez Canyon was named after the swashbuckling thief, murderer and womanizer, Tiburcio Vasquez. Bouquet? A misunderstanding lasting nearly 200 years. A French sailor, Francisco Chari, settled the area and called his spread, in Spanish, “The Ship Ranch.” Which is Rancho del Buque. American cartographers thought Fran meant “bouquet” as in flowers. And so it’s been ever since.
I must confess. If I were high holy mucky muck mullah of this charming indentation in Earth’s crust, I know some people after whom I’d love to name public structures.
Like chemical toilets. Beggars’ graveyards. Electronic devices and battery recycling centers. And, of course, The Abandoned & Three-Legged Dog Play Park.
I originally typed, “Canyon Country,” but some destination-sensitive soul keeps changing it to “Palmdale,” where I have no jurisdiction.
Sigh. I hope The Mighty Signal doesn’t name a multi-gendered office restroom after me …
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