Gary Moffat is a writer, former publishing executive and 2000 transplant from Chicago whose family launched one of Old Town Auburn’s favorite entertainment venues, Carpe Vino, in 2002. Moffat, who now has a print outlet for his opinions in a regular Sentinel column, has written for the Chicago Tribune, national shelter magazines, telecom industry publications and two self-published Internet newsletters. And, oh yeah, he wrote more than 100 columns on wine for the Auburn Journal. Carpe Vino, his latest venture, is a local magnet for lovers of fine wine, fine dining and fine art.
With tough times looming for many folks—especially in our real estate-dependent market of greater Placer County—many families here are girding themselves for a recession that the national media has convinced us is coming. For even the most optimistic among us, however, with the cold reality of rampant home foreclosures coupled with shrinking incomes and staggering fuel costs, it’s clearly time to hunker down financially.
Already we’re seeing consumer discretionary spending on many levels dramatically curtailed. The past Christmas season was a disappointment for many local retailers, and sales in January were generally very soft. Ask any restaurant owner in Auburn, and just about everyone will tell you that business is off—in some cases way off—especially during weekdays.
If you want an early head’s up about what is going on in this community, you need only attend the weekly Chamber Forum (a.k.a. “Meddlers”) in the Rose Room at City Hall on Tuesday mornings or the monthly Chamber of Commerce Board meeting in the conference room at the Creekside office complex. Informal reports—typically from Placer County Supervisor Jim Holmes and an official from the city—lend an insider’s view to the back story of what’s happening here.
These sessions produce breaking stories often enough that at least one local newspaper columnist bases the sum of his reportage on what he learns. Kudos to him because he’s willing to show up at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. – the regular start time for both meetings – to get the poop.
Heading into Christmas, I had written 20 columns for the Sentinel, roughly 20,000 words, and I had pretty much run out of my initial stock of ideas after launching this thing in July. My day job was in its peak season, I was running out of gas and I just wanted the holidays off. So, I did not write for two weeks.
By the response from some regular readers, you would have thought I had cheated them out of a 50-cent investment. “What’s up, Gary, did you get fired from the Sentinel ... where’s your column?” “Hey Gary, why wasn’t your column in the paper this week?”
A Cross to Bear: I spent some time exploring the Georgetown Pioneer Cemetery last week doing some research for a writing project, and amidst all of the sturdy stone monuments and neat family plots—most designed with the modest goal of lasting for eternity—I came upon a simple wooden cross. It was constructed from a stick of pine two-by-four, two pieces neatly lap-jointed and held tight with a pair of screws.
It was new and painted white, but the pigment was already beginning to leach from the surface of the soft wood. The name of the deceased was printed neatly by hand across the horizontal member in Magic Marker; the word “Uncle” descended the vertical. It was as crude a memorial as I have ever witnessed, but nonetheless, it struck me with its simplicity, honesty and the pure expression of familial love it represented.
No telling how long this fragile remembrance will survive. Perhaps a few years at best and it will be gone, and along with it, the last trace of this once-living soul. That’s okay, though, and nothing to fret about. A quick look around the graveyard proves that.
Grand monuments, constructed from fine granite and installed more than 150 years ago, had long ago surrendered their chiseled inscriptions to the ravages of Sierra storms and wind. The occupants are now as anonymous as the hundred or more pioneers at rest under markers that read “Unknown.”
Unlike most people who believe they have a book stuck in their gut somewhere, I know I do. I’ve been thinking long and hard about what to write, and I believe I’ve finally found the answer. So on January 2, I started work ... resumed it, actually, picking up the trail I embarked upon more than four years ago.
Back then I was consumed researching a series of historical pieces for my website about the structure housing my wine shop (and now restaurant), Carpe Vino, Old Town’s former Union Saloon. The deeper I dug into the Placer County Archives at the DeWitt Center, the more I lusted to learn the minutia about the larger-than-life characters who lived and died in the this compact enclave once known as “Lower Town.”
For starters there was Frank H. “Big Dip” Dependener, a Placer County Deputy Sheriff, one of the best known and most feared lawmen in Northern California for 27 years spanning the turn of the 20th century. He was straight from central casting—an imposing six feet, seven inches tall, Big Dip was a giant among men—especially intimidating to the flood of Asian immigrants who chose to stay in Auburn following completion of the Transcontinental Railroad. Big Dip was a one-time partner in the Union Saloon, but his true fame stems from tracking, and sometimes shooting it out with bad men all over the county.
Lesser in stature but an equally standout personality was Sheriff Elmer H. Gum, Big Dip’s boss for a time, who busted moonshiners during Prohibition with the same level of enthusiasm as our modern-day DEA officers who sniff out marijuana plots secreted in the ravines. Starting in 1929 and setting a technology standard perpetuated by Auburn’s contemporary police administration, Gum packed a Thompson submachine gun insisting it was essential for keeping Placer County free of undesirables.
