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A Tribute to Bob Elder, One of Auburn’s ‘Originals’ |
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Written by Persia Woolley
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He was a quiet man. Some said shy, others said strange — aloof, unwilling to enter into conversations. But in our many encounters, first as neighbors, then landlord and tenant and finally as friends, we explored all manner of things.
He loved to travel and often took me with him:
- back to the stream running in the ravine beyond the grammar school where he and boyhood chums leapt from rock to rock when the water was high—and caught frogs when it was low.
- back to when East Placer Street was an unpaved lane down which townspeople went to buy hay from the farmers out beyond the Old Cemetery.
- or back to the hill above Crutcher Court where an ancient mansion stood deserted, filled with antique furniture and unmatched allure for the brave school boys who found a way into its cobwebby interior.
He took me with him when, as a teen, he walked from Auburn to Yosemite,
a feat that didn’t strike him as particularly remarkable. A born
naturalist, he hiked and swam, slept and observed his leisurely way to
that great valley, stopping at the occasional farm to offer work for
food. When the summer waned, he turned ‘round and walked home again.
As
an adult he traveled to Britain and Europe, South and Central America
and out to the naturalist’s Mecca, the Galapagos Islands. But nothing
was as special to him as the canyons and currents of his beloved
American River. He hiked, strolled and climbed its rocky walls, and
swam in the buff in many of its green pools. Almost to the end, a
summer day wasn’t complete without a trip to the River.
In the
decades after W.W.II, he became friends with another Auburn “original,”
Clark Ashton Smith. Smith took Bob to fantastic lands and dark,
threatening plains, clinging to their friendship because, he claimed,
Bob was the only one who understood him. And Bob, ever the lover of the
Sierra, took Clark Ashton up to the Summit looking for the two mammoth
rocks that proved to be such a gateway of creativity for the fantasy
writer.
Yet Bob was also the homebody, loving the house he was born in so much, the family gave it to him although he was a second son. He lived almost 90 years in it, being gone only for his service in W.W.II and a year or so away at college.
It was here I knew him best, seeing him walk slowly through the wild garden that covered the hill between our homes, carefully noting each flower, bush and tree. Sometimes he’d stoop to fix something on the ground, or trotting back to his garage, return with clippers to snip off a stray twig.
The first time I saw his lanky shape moving among the daffodils and iris, I thought it was a teenager and went marching out to inform the miscreant this was private property. You can imagine my chagrin and delight at discovering it was Bob himself. As the years went by his “walking of the bounds” became a charming, then reassuring, sight when I was sick—like watching God tenderly inspecting Eden every morning.
But perhaps the memory that makes me smile most was the evening two summers ago when he looked at me with a boyish, mischievous smile, full of satisfaction and announced, “I found a deserted spot and finally got my chance to go skinny dipping this year!”
So fare well, dear traveler, and thank you for sharing so much of your journey with me.
Persia Woolley is an author and former features editor for the Sentinel.
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