The Visit: An Unusual Walk Through Sonoma History on an Early Easter Morning

By Newton Dal Poggetto

In a delightful blend of fact and fiction, The Visit begins at dawn on an Easter morning, when a native Sonoman encounters a barefoot man in a blue serge suit emerging from the mist, walking in the middle of the street extending down from Shochens hill in the northern California town of Sonoma.
The two men walk, remember and talk of Sonomas past and present, when another barefoot visitor, in blue serge, joins them.
Three generations of Sonoma history unfold through the pages of The Visit with candid conversations, historical photos and engrossing tales of Sonoma and its people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479742875

Newton Dal Poggetto

Newton Dal Poggetto is a fourth generation Californian and a third generation native of Sonoma. He is a former judge and successful trial attorney. He has published two novels and has now created a fictional visitation of stories of people of the past.

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Copyright © 2012 by Newton Dal Poggetto.

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Contents

Author Note

Dedication

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Author Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is coincidental.

However, there are fictional meetings and conversations with my friends Bob Cannard, Don Eraldi, Henry Mayo, Bob Kruljac, Dan Augney, DDS, John Holden DVM, Henry Marioni II and Daniel Dolan, which could have occurred. And, of course my parents and grandparents lived and loved in Sonoma.

Dedication

For those who come to know

and enjoy Sonoma,

in The Valley of the Moon.

Acknowledgements

I thank our critique group consisiting of the late Arthur Chung, M.D., Gen. E. Ted DuBois, Carol Biederman, Wendy Kruljac, Yvonne Beere, and Lesleie Polit for their assistance and interest over the years in this and other writings.

Also assisiting are the Sonoma Valley Historical Society, Diane Moll Smith, Linda Hansen, editor David O’Donnell and photographer Melinda Kelley and designer Wendy Kruljac in preparing this for publication.

All of them have labored here in Sonoma Valley, this unique place in which we enjoy our lives.

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Cross at the end of Second Street East             Photo by Wendy Kruljac

CHAPTER 1

OUT OF THE MIST

At first light on Easter Sunday morning I drove into Sonoma for my usual walk and parked alongside the bike path near the Vella cheese factory on Second Street East. I got out of my car and faced north, uncertain whether to walk east or west. I looked for the large white cross on Schocken’s Hill, but the ground fog was too thick and I couldn’t see it. Then I noticed a dark object emerging from the dense mist, which materialized as a stocky man. He walked slowly, tentatively, in the middle of the street, perhaps unsure of where he was.

As he approached, he saw me and stopped. He appeared to be about sixty, bald, wore an oddly cut dark blue serge suit… and he was barefoot!

Good morning, I said.

He nodded and replied, "Buon giorno. He hesitated. Excuse me. I mean Good morning. He corrected himself in a faint Italian accent, his olive complexion coloring slightly in mild embarrassment. It has been awhile.

Ignoring his bare feet, I commented, You’re up early.

Yes, I get up with the chickens.

Where are you going?

For my morning walk around town.

Do you live here?

For almost forty years.

Where did you come from?

Glen Ellen. I was a young man when I came down from Glen Ellen.

Masking my bewilderment, I said cheerfully, I like to walk early in the morning, but I’m usually only able to on weekends.

"Bene. He shook his head as if clearing his mind. I mean ‘Good.’ Would you like to walk with me?"

Yes. I was trying to decide which way to go.

Shall we keep walking down this street?

Why not?

"Si, uhh, yes. He looked up at me. My name is Charles." He extended his hand and I clasped it, feeling his broad cold palm.

We crossed the bike path and Charles stopped, seeming puzzled. What happened to the railroad track?

It was removed after the railroad abandoned it.

Charles digested this, then sighed. Too bad. Did the automobile cause this?

Yes, and trucks.

Ah, he murmured. I like to take the train down to Sausalito and the ferry to San Francisco.

I probed gently. Have you been away a long time?

Quite a while.

We walked a few steps, he raised his head and stared at the old stone building as it appeared from the mist. Ah, the brewery. Too bad it failed. We tried hard to make it a success, but there were too many problems. And I could see big changes coming.

What happened?

Well, he said softly, Prohibition came in. At first we couldn’t believe it. It’s against all of history and human nature. As we stepped closer, Charles looked up. What happened to the top floor? It’s gone.

For a while it was a mushroom-growing plant, but it caught fire and the top burned off. Now it’s Vella’s cheese factory.

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Vella’s Cheese Factory in Charles time, and today

Photo on left courtesy of Sonoma Valley Historical Society- Today photo by Melinda Kelley

That didn’t seem to register.

We made good steam beer, but our brew-master was a hard man to get along with.

Was that John Steiner? I remembered my father telling me about him and his owning the Union Hotel and the social hall next door.

Yes, he answered, as though he expected me to know this. A tough German, but I got along with him. Our boys are good friends.

How strange, I thought, where did this polite, old-fashioned man come from? I decided not to speculate, but to suspend disbelief and encourage him to tell me more.

As we strolled down Second Street East, Charles stopped to look at the old redwood horse barn. Young Harry is not taking good care of his father’s barn. He loves his Clydesdale horses, but he isn’t interested in much else.

Young Harry? I suspected he was talking about Harry Castagnasso and referring to the early 1920s. Harry’s son Milton is eighty-seven now and lives in the family’s two-story Victorian on the corner.

We crossed Spain Street and continued south. Charles passed a few houses and stopped in front of a fine remodeled home set back from the street. I see Angelo has fixed up his house. No wonder he’s broke.

Angelo who? I asked gently.

Beretta. Angelo and Angelina. Angelina drinks too much, but she is a good soul. She should have had children.

I remembered them, and I searched my memory for more clues about the time frame Charles was talking about. Angelo operated a small ice-making plant on the east side of the Plaza and the Berettas had died about forty years ago.

I looked closely at Charles, as he moved toward East Napa Street, not bothering to look for traffic, he crossed. He stopped at the stone bridge and gazed down on Nathanson Creek, which flowed gently beneath it.

The creek looks about the same, he said, bending over the iron-pipe railing in the low stone wall.

Rip Van Winkle came to mind. But Charles seemed to have been away much longer than twenty years. I scanned his mildly protruding middle-aged profile, the celluloid collar and the thin black necktie. His white shirt was stiffly starched and his general appearance reminded me of an early-twentieth-century wedding picture. I recalled my parents’ 1921 wedding portrait, but Charles didn’t resemble my father, and his suit seemed to predate the one my father had worn for the picture.

Charles straightened and looked down the creek; the clear water moved through a long pool toward downtown, then turned south. Sonoma is such a pretty little town, much like my birthplace in Tuscany.

Where was that?

Porcari, just outside the wall of Lucca.

I had been to Lucca, and to Porcari, a small town about five miles to the east, on the road to Florence. Many of the Italian immigrants to Northern California had come from Tuscany in the last thirty years of the nineteenth century, and quite a number had settled in Sonoma County because it resembled the Tuscan countryside and had a similar climate.

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Clewe House (now Cedar Mansion)         Photo by Melinda Kelley

Charles turned away from the creek, moved a few steps and stopped again to look at the extensively remodeled Clewe home and garden. Ah, Fred has such a fine home. His father built it right. But some of the rooms are too small. I like the Duhring home better. It looks more Roman than the Clewes’ German.

Knowing something about local history, I recalled that the Duhrings and the Clewes had been across-the-street neighbors and had largely established the new eastside residential district. It was distinct from the cluster of original Spanish California residences closer to the Plaza.

Charles looked across the street to the rather grand Duhring residence and grounds, and, as though remembering, said, "Judge Tom Denny married a Duhring and the two of them moved in when the older Duhrings