Owner Avery Hellman standing next to artist Melanie Yencken’s gingerbread model of the Markleeville General Store complete with windows and inside lights.
“Try this, you will absolutely adore it” she would say, holding out a tray of misshapen appetizers, “You know I am the best cook in the world!” Her modest smile filled the room and everyone ate what she had concocted. As a child, I did not understand why anyone would touch those burnt crumbles, but Alice Marie Fitzgerald Harscheid talked the talk. A word magician, she was charming and knew how to convince people.
We cannot choose our family, but we can certainly select our friends. My mother, Ethel Dolores Gavon, had indeed been a Bohemian of the age, though it wore off in her later life. The friends she picked were from every race and religion. Strict Protestants, German Jews that had survived the concentration camps, atheists, Buddhists, and even renegade Catholics. She was generally accepting of all of these viewpoints, except for staunch Catholicism, since she herself had very deliberately left the church.
Among this circle, Alice and my mother were the closest. They shared many secrets, and my mother would get so angry if she thought for a single second that Alice had told anyone else the things she kept hidden. They would fight and then make up. There was always a lot of drama, and each of them relished the intrigue. My mother was generous to a fault, and put buying treats from the bakery and gifts for others far above her other responsibilities.
Both worked as secretaries at the San Jose Mercury News, and then found new positions around the same time at Andrew Hill High School. Alice was in the main office, and my mother was the bank secretary. Both loved art, literature, poetry, and of course, the theatre. Both went back to college late in life, having missed out earlier. They had each been advised to take secretarial courses, which they did, but their coveted aspirations were much broader and more esoteric.
Alice’s husband Frank worked at Lockheed to make a living, but he defined himself as a poet. He spent his life working on derivations of the iconic “Western wind, when wilt thou blow/That the small rain down can rain/Christ, that my love were in my arms/And I in my bed again!”. I am not certain if there is any improvement that can possibly be made on that, but Frank tried with all his heart.
There are no historical documents that show the secrets, outright lies, and errors of omission that existed within the lives of their families and friends. There are only rumors, innuendo, and rusty memories. The tangled webs that were woven trying to protect their sense of themselves and the people they loved continue to reverberate through the generations. No matter what the locale, we are made of these stories from our past. We are actually constructed and put together by them. In addition to true destiny, what we believe, say, and do creates our future. They were both kept busy fabricating their own complex fairytales.
Alice was a devout but irreverent member of the Catholic Church. She taught Sunday School and never missed mass. She would often take me, and I loved it. If my mother had found out about this little ruse, she would have been outraged. It was yet another secret. She did not want me there, but when young, I was enamored of the small cards of the Saints. The artwork and stories had me mesmerized from the beginning, and I would collect them, hiding them in a basket under the bed. I am certain this was a sin, but Alice enjoyed it. She looked at me with a conspiratorial grin and giggled.
She would tell surprising jokes like “the priest, the rabbi, and the undertaker went out for lunch and…” She continually told me she could “walk on water.” When we finally went to our relative’s pool together, I begged her to show me. She trotted gingerly over to the edge and dipped in her toe. She looked at me sideways, and said “Oh no, this water won’t do. Back in Massachusetts, our water is much harder.” She knew it would be unlikely that we would ever travel to the place of her birth. “I will show you when we go.” That was a great disappointment. Of course, it took only a few years until I was old enough to understand her joke.
There were always parties, holidays, and birthdays with centerpieces, music, and carefully planned menus. They would scrape together enough money to go see grand productions like “Kismet,” or more modest performances at the High School.
We would frequent museums in San Francisco together, but their favorite place each season was to go see the multi-story Christmas tree at The City of Paris Department Store. It was meticulously decorated and truly majestic. We would dress up, white gloves included, and bask in the elegant fountains filled with perfume.
Our second stop would be Gump’s Luxury Department Store. Alice would ask the price of a high-end piece and stand, slowly taking her time to seriously consider the purchase. “It really does not go with the Degas in my living room.” she would regretfully inform the sales clerk. It was true that she did have a Degas, Renoir, Cassatt, and even a Monet, but they were all small reproductions.
Growing up, I never personally enjoyed this, but my mother and Alice loved their “pretend game”. Just for a moment they were catapulted into their dream world of glamour and elegance. My mother would make me dress up in red patent leather shoes on these occasions. I am not sure what we had to give up to get them, but they were the one fancy item in my wardrobe. Perhaps that is why I ended up in these mountains. The wilderness would definitely not suit my mother or Alice, but it is perfect for me.
At Gump’s, Alice would always find the smallest most inexpensive item she could. Even if rather odd, she would put it on display on a bookshelf, bringing people over to admire it. She would inquire, “Do you like it?” and then shrugging lightly, she would continue in an off-hand manner, “I got it at Gump’s.” She definitely knew how to impress herself at least.
Their friendship was a good one, and each brought a sense of adventure and joy to the other’s often sorrowful and challenging life. Their interchanges and camaraderie certainly made a big impression on my childhood.
This is Alice’s carefully guarded recipe for Christmas tarts. It is the one secret that will finally be revealed, along with her famous fruitcake. For some reason, she never let me help with the fruitcake recipe, but frankly, it looked horrible and tasted even worse. I include it because many of the adults back then found it delightful.
Alice Marie Fitzgerald Harscheid’s Long Anticipated Christmas Tarts
Cream together:
1/2 pound butter
6 ounces cream cheese
2 cups flour
Form into small balls and place in a mini tart pan. Using a (now vintage!) cone shaped wood canning sieve pestle, press into the dough until it looks like a tiny pie crust. Place 2 to 3 golden raisins and some broken pecans in each tart shell.
Mix 1 1/2 cups brown sugar, 2 eggs, 2 Tablespoons melted butter and some vanilla into a batter. Pour into each tart shell. Bake at 350 degrees for roughly 30 minutes until golden brown.
Alice’s Tried and True Holiday Fruitcake Recipe
1 cup lemon juice
2 cups sugar
1 cup butter
2 cups flour
4 large eggs
2 cups dried fruit
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup chopped nuts
1 gallon whiskey
Sample the whiskey to check for quality. Take a large bowl. Check the whiskey again to make sure it is of the highest quality. Pour one level cup and drink. Repeat.
Turn on the electric mixer; beat one cup butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one cup sugar and beat again. Make sure the whiskey is still OK. Cry another cup.
Turn off mixer. Break two legs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit. Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it loose with a drescriver.
Sample the whiskey to check for tonsisticity. Next, sift 2 cups of salt. Or something. Who cares? Check the whiskey. Now sift the lemon juice. Add one Table. Spoon. Of sugar or something. Whatever you can find. Grease the oven. Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees. Throw the bowl out the window. Check the whiskey again.
Go to bed. Who in the world likes fruitcake anyway?
