Diann Marsh (1935-2024)

Diann Marsh with some of her illustrations of historic Anaheim, circa 1980.

One of Orange County's great historians and historical preservationists, Diann Carol Marsh, passed away on February 18, 2024 at the age of 88. 

I didn’t know Diann as well as some of my mentors and slightly older colleagues did, but I was lucky enough to hang out with her several times when she made return visits to California. And we emailed back and forth periodically on matters historical. She was always a font of knowledge and offered encouraging words. And of course, her books are – and will remain -- a vital resource for all of us in this field. 

Residents of several local communities know of Diann’s specific contributions in their own backyards. But she actually had a major impact on the local history and preservation scene throughout Orange County.

Robert & Diann at the Tustin High School prom.

Diann was born on July 15, 1935, in Peoria, to Eldon and Virginia (Taylor) Travis. The family moved to Tustin, California in 1952 and Diann Travis would attend Tustin High School. The following year, she married her high school sweetheart, Robert G. Marsh and they moved into a modern home in North Santa Ana. However, what they really wanted was a historic home. It would be a while before that would happen.

By 1962 they were living in another modern home in Garden Grove, but with a growing family, they wanted to find a more “wholesome life” in the country. That year, the Marshes moved to a small ranch near Norco in Riverside County. There, her children had “plenty of room to run and play,” and the family maintained a veritable petting zoo of peacocks, chickens, goats, pigs, dogs, cats, turkeys, ducks, rabbits, and even a couple cows. 

In 1969 they moved again to a tract house in Corona, but the beautiful houses in the town’s nearby adjacent historic core reminded them of their desire for a historic home of their own. They loved the community of Corona, and were active in their church, the Indian Guides and Maidens, the P.T.A. and the Corona Art Association. 

When the gasoline shortage of 1973-’74 hit, it was decided that Robert needed live closer to his job.  So the Marsh family moved back to Orange County. 

321 N. Philadelphia St., Anaheim, circa 2023.

In 1975 they finally made their dream of owning a historic home a reality when they moved into 321 N. Philadelphia St. in Anaheim. This 1903 transitional Bungalow is known as the “Backs Honeymoon Cottage,” as it had been built as a gift from newspaper publisher Richard Melrose to his daughter, Jessie Melrose Backs, and her new husband, Fred Backs. Researching the home’s history only intensified Diann’s love of historic buildings and she took the role of architectural historian like a duck to water.

Diann and Robert soon joined the Orange County Historical Society. Diann would remain an active member of the Society as long as she lived in California. She made presentations before the Society on at least ten occasions, organized events, and contributed to many of their publications. Robert also served on the Executive Committee of the OCHS Board.

Over the years, Diann also served on the boards of the Santa Ana Historical Preservation Society, the Santa Ana Communication Linkage, the El Dorado Ranch Committee, and the Historic French Park Association. She was member of the Orange County Historical Commission (representing the 1st District) and the Santa Ana Historic Resources Review Committee. In 1983, Diann was the Coordinator of the California State Historic Preservation Conference. She was also a major contributor to the countywide effort to celebrate the Orange County’s centennial in 1989 – contributing a great deal of research and writing.

Diann Marsh (in red) with some fellow Orange County historians, 2009. L to R: Keith Dixon, Bill Hendricks, Phil Brigandi, Diann Marsh, Pamela Hallan-Gibson, Don Dobmeier, John Elliott. Seated: Jim Sleeper and Esther Cramer.

According to her friend and fellow writer Peggy Stortz, "In 1975, she was hired to do a historic survey of Escondido, Calif. For twenty-two years, she was a Historic Preservation Consultant. She provided architectural profiles for over 10,000 buildings in fifteen cities [throughout Southern California] and authored National Register applications for over 500 buildings and ten districts." 

As a historical architecture consultant, she sometimes worked through her own Marsh & Associates company, and other times in the employ of consulting firms like Thirtieth Street Architects of Newport Beach. 

Along with Andy Deneau, in 1976, Diann founded the Anaheim Historical Society – which, together with the efforts of the Anaheim Neighborhood Association, are the only reason ANY of the remaining bits of Downtown Anaheim survive today. She’s still a big enough deal there that she was made Grand Marshall in the Anaheim Halloween Parade several years ago. And the AHS continues to be a valuable part of the community.

Diann's illustration of an earlier incarnation of St Boniface Catholic Church, Anaheim.

Diann was also a gifted artist, known for her oil and watercolor paintings and her intricate pen and ink architectural illustrations. She studied art at Riverside and Chaffey Colleges and privately with professional artists. Her works were exhibited throughout the country, won prizes at the Orange County Fair, and graced many local history publications.

In 1985, the Marshes bought another historic home -- this time an 1883 Italianate Victorian in Santa Ana's French Park neighborhood. Former Anaheim City Preservation Officer Phyllis Mueller writes, “The Marshes sold their Philadelphia Street house to Keith and Judith Olesen, who themselves would soon become leaders in saving their neighborhood."

Diann and Robert bought their Santa Ana house for $10, moved it to a vacant lot five blocks away at 321 East 8th Street, restored it, and (in 1987) moved in. Their garden was decorated with elements of many historic buildings from Anaheim that had met their doom in redevelopment. To the house itself, she added stained glass windows from the old Zion Lutheran Church of Anaheim. 

The Marsh home at 321 East 8th St., Santa Ana, May 2024. (Photo by author)

“An old house has character just like a living person,” Diann wrote. “Over the years it has acquired its own personality. The joys and sadnesses of long ago linger in the halls. …Owning an old house is an unique experience, full of surprises, joys, problems and challenge. The fun of researching your own home at the library, of finding old bottles under the house left from the ’38 flood, making old woodwork glow, picking camellias from the bushes as big as trees far outweighs the problems.”

In 1998, the Marshes left California and moved into another historic home in history-rich Galena, Illinois. There, Diann continued her work -- albeit with a different geographic focus. Orange County's great loss was clearly Galena’s tremendous gain.

The Marsh home at 309 Park Ave, Galena, Ilinois, 2023.

Diann was involved in local historical, preservation and re-enactment groups in Galena, including volunteering at the Galena & U.S. Grant History Museum and at President Grant's home. She was also involved in the local arts council, Ex Libris Writers, the Galena Writers Guild, was a founding member of the Galena Center for the Arts, and served as clerk for the board of Grace Episcopal Church. In short, she took to her newly adopted hometown like a duck to water and was a big success there. And it seems the people of Galena loved her back.

In addition to her many articles, essays, short stories, editing and illustrating credits, and chapters in anthologies, Diann published at least eleven history books including:

• Santa Ana... An Illustrated History
• Huntington Beach: The Gem of the South Coast
• Anaheim's Architectural Treasures
• Anaheim's Colorful Heritage
• Corona, the Circle City: An Illustrated History
• Galena Illinois A Brief History
• Images of America: Galena

I don’t know enough about Corona or Galena history to speak to her books on those subjects, but her Santa Ana book is still a very well-respected resource, and her Huntington Beach book is, hands-down, still the best book on the subject. Robert served as editor and/or photo editor on most, if not all, of these books.

Diann and Robert Marsh, circa 1990s.

According to the Galena Gazette, “Diann is survived by her husband, Robert; their children: Elaine (Paul) Rumaker, Randy (Elaine) Marsh, Kevin Paul (Vivian) Marsh, Eric (fiancée Andrea) Marsh, Ginger Huff, and Rodney Marsh. She also leaves 10 grandchildren; seven great-grandchildren; a brother-in-law, Ethan; and two sisters-in-law, Sharon Fauber and Louise Jones. Diann was preceded in death by her parents; a daughter, Robin, in 1997; an infant son, Kevin Andrew; one brother, Glenn; and a sister, Elizabeth.”

I feel lucky to have known her – albeit mostly from afar and through her excellent body of work.

Diann Marsh with the author, Chris Jepsen, at the Orange County Historical Society, 2012.

And finally, in addition to my own thoughts, I wanted to pass along the following tribute from Diann's fellow local Anaheim historian, Cynthia Ward:

Diann Marsh was one of the people who shaped the person I became as an adult. 

Back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth… my Girl Scout troop was tasked with studying Anaheim history to complete a badge on our community. Diann Marsh and Andy Deneau, at the brand-new Anaheim Historical Society, very kindly stepped up to create a map, with notes on the locations, to guide our troop on a bicycle tour of old Anaheim. I don’t recall all the buildings. But I do recall the old Concordia Hall on Broadway, which at the time was used as the Pepper Tree Faire craft and antique mall. Today the lot is a storage yard for a landscape company. Such is progress. 

We were told to look for the hitching rings embedded in the alley-side of the old City Hall, and I remember somewhere with weaving looms and spinning wheels. 

Both Andy Deneau and Diann Marsh opened their personal homes to us. Oddly enough, Andy Deneau’s home was built by the parents of Fred Backs, who owned Diann’s home. Andy’s elegant Backs House had not yet been relocated (against his will) by the Redevelopment Agency, and the sprawling home sat so graciously on its large lot with mature gardens on Claudina Street. Diann’s charming Backs Honeymoon Cottage one block away was a work in progress, but it captured my imagination. I realized on that day I would never again be comfortable in a new tract house. The creak of old floors, the old-house-smell that can’t be described but can only be experienced, it was like coming home to a place I already knew and loved. My heart had been opened in a whole new way.

Many years later, my husband and I pursued that passion for ourselves, and took on the first of our Money Pit old-house projects. By then Diann had moved to Galena, but my time at the Heritage Services Reading Room made me aware of her work and I realized this was the woman who had so kindly fanned the flames of my early history-nerd heart. I was able to meet Diann a few times when she visited. By then I was serving as President of the Anaheim Historical Society, and we honored Diann with a special recognition during one of her trips back to California. (Note to future generations, do not design a crystal award for someone flying halfway across country to get it home.) 

Ward with one of her own "Money Pit" preservation projects, 2005.

Diann was also able to see the merger between the Anaheim Historical Society and the old Mother Colony Household, Inc., which had been contentious opponents in her day, in the battle between the “old guard” who often owned the old buildings being torn down for profit, and the “upstarts” trying to save it all from the wrecking-ball. Thanks to people like Diann, preservation won at least some of the war. 

Today, nearly that entire generation of historians has left us, and even some of our younger co-conspirators, like our beloved Phil Brigandi, have gone on to the Great Archives that await us all. But I hope that our generation can remember those who came before us, people like Diann who nurtured the love of these lived-in, loved-in places we treasure. We need to repay that time and effort they gave to us and find ways to reach out to the next generation that will someday inherit what we, in turn, have preserved. 

Thank you, Diann, for everything. You are missed. 

CW

[Blogger's Note: My thanks to Cynthia Ward, Guy Ball, Phyllis Mueller, and Roberta Reed, who each played a roll in this small  tribute.]

O.C. Q&A: Waveriders Edition

August 29,1966 -- The last day of surfing at the famed "Killer Dana" surf break before the Army Corps of Engineers closed it for the construction of Dana Point Harbor.

Q:  How long have people been surfing in Orange County?

A:  Perhaps a local Native American stood up in a canoe and surfed here thousands of years ago. But the first documented surfing in O.C. occurred over a century ago. 

Huntington Beach's new concrete pier was dedicated June 20, 1914, kicking off a two-day celebration that included dances, band concerts, sack races, swimming and fishing competitions, baseball games, demonstrations of diving and kendo, a church service on the pier, and a demonstration of "surf board riding" by former Waikiki resident (and first U.S. surfer) George Freeth. 

This "walk on water," generated less excitement than the fact that 15,000 automobiles came to town. Today, Huntington Beach celebrates surfing and downplays the traffic. 

Q:  Why do people from other states always ask me if I surf?

A:  It’s a big country, and few have time to develop nuanced understandings of each nook and cranny. Regional stereotypes are frequently wrong, but people do love falling back on them. 

Surfing is just exotic enough to qualify as a local quirk, but not exotic enough to fall outside inlanders’ comfort zones. For instance, taking visitors from landlocked states to the pier to watch surfing is always a hit. But taking them to Little Saigon for lunch and shopping may leave them with blank stares. They weren’t expecting that, and now they’re confused. 

So don’t upset the apple cart. When they ask if you surf, just say yes – Even if you can’t swim and need a walker to get around the house. 

Q:  Where does the stereotypical surfer exclamation “cowabunga” come from?

A:  Howdy Doody Show head writer Eddie Kean invented the nonsense word for use by the character Chief Thunderthud. He didn’t want him to say “how,” like other TV “Indians.” Cowabunga was later adopted by 1960s surfers as an enthusiastic exclamation or greeting, which was later re-revived by certain ninja turtles. 

The nonsense prefix “kawa” (cowa) was already used on Howdy Doody. Perhaps not coincidentally, the “nga” ending is a standard suffix for place names among the native Gabrielino/Tongva people of Southern California (including Orange County north of Aliso Creek.) Place names like Tujunga, Cahuenga, Cucamonga, and Topanga are among the only Tongva words still popularly used. Although a New Yorker, Kean was undoubtedly in touch with Hollywood folk who perhaps shared the only real Indian words they knew.

A 1990s OCN surf report ad featuring Mike "Mr. Anaheim" Tucker.

O.C. Q&A: West County Edition

Mayor Jack de Vries, City Manager Burt Wesenberg, a dairy cow (name unknown), and Assistant City Clerk Susan Guertin toast the incorporation of Dairyland in 1955.

Q:  What (and where) was Dairyland?

A:  The city we now call La Palma was originally called Dairyland and was created to keep cows in and people out. 

After WWII, suburban growth pushed many dairies out of Los Angeles County and into rural areas like west Orange County. When suburban sprawl (quickly) caught up with them once more, the resettled dairymen fought being pushed out again. 

In 1955, (the same year another D-land opened in Orange County) they incorporated the city of Dairyland, with ordinances against residential development. The ploy was short-lived. In 1965, the city's first tract homes were built and voters changed the town's name to La Palma, after La Palma Ave. The cows were soon sent packing.

Q:  When did Stanton become a city?

A:  Which time? Stanton became a city twice. 

The folks neighboring the rail stop of Benedict banded together in 1911 to keep out a proposed sewer facility for Anaheim. With the help of local politico and developer Philip A. Stanton  --  who also founded Huntington Beach and Seal Beach -- they formed the City of Stanton and told Anaheim where to put their stink. In 1924, with the threat long passed, they found that running a city was sort of a bother and disincorporated. 

Stanton didn't bother becoming a city again until 1956, when Orange County was growing by leaps and bounds. Locals realized that if they didn't form their own city (again), they would soon be gobbled up by a neighboring city and lose local control.

Q:  How did the City of Cypress get its name?

A:  The town took its name from the Cypress School District – founded in 1896 – which, according to the late great historian Phil Brigandi, was simply named for the then-popular ornamental tree. 

But Cypress could have easily ended up with another name. In the early years, some called it Waterville, highlighting the area’s many artesian wells. And in 1927, there was briefly talk of changing the name to Lindbergh, in honor of the celebrity aviator. 

With the local dairy industry’s dramatic growth after World War II, the town followed in neighboring Dairyland's footsteps and incorporated as Dairy City in 1956. To nearly everyone’s relief, it was soon re-renamed Cypress.

O.C. Q&A: South County Edition

Crime scene: Monarch Bay Plaza (shown in 1966). Note United California Bank on the right.

Q:   What was Orange County’s biggest bank heist?

A:  It was a doozy! Here’s the story as told by local historian and former Dana Point mayor Carlos Olvera: President Richard Nixon once talked labor leader Jimmy Hoffa into paying $3 million for a pardon to get out of prison. Once freed, Hoffa wanted his money back. And he knew Nixon had it in safe deposit boxes at United California Bank at Monarch Bay Plaza – now part of Dana Point. A group of thieves from Ohio was enlisted to rob the bank, get Hoffa’s money back, and help themselves to any other loot. 

The crooks cut through the bank’s roof and vault ceiling on Friday night, March 24, 1972 and spent three nights busting into about 500 safety deposit boxes. They took an estimated $30 million.  Accounting for inflation, it was the largest bank heist in U.S. history.

The burglars were later caught and served time. But Hoffa reportedly got about a third of his money back.

Q:  What's the story on the iconic Taj Majal Building in Laguna Hills?

A:  It began as the headquarters of the Rossmoor Corp. -- developers of the Leisure World communities -- which architects Burke, Kober & Nicholais also designed. When the four-story neoclassical contemporary structure at 23521 Paseo De Valencia was built in 1964, it stood out like a sore thumb amid grassy plains and understated tile roofs. The locals soon dubbed it "the Taj Mahal," and the name stuck.  

In 1968, investment broker Joseph Dulaney bought the building, but lost it when his business unraveled. The FBI determined Dulaney was a con man who'd duped nuns and scores of Leisure World residents. Dulaney disappeared, hopscotching around the globe. He was captured in Curacao, but the case was thrown out for insufficient evidence. The building's current owners have officially renamed it the Taj Mahal Medical Center.

Q:  Grandma’s sure white swallows perched on her head at Mission San Juan Capistrano. White swallows!?!

A:  Capistrano’s famed cliff swallows are usually AWOL, so visitors often misidentify any small birds as the expected swallows. The real cliff swallows have iridescent blue backs and crowns, buff colored bodies, red chins, brown wings, and brown tails that are not forked. Local marketing materials create confusion by often depicting fork-tailed barn swallows – a different species altogether. 

But for decades the Mission contributed to the bird-related confusion by providing guests with bird feed for flocks of white doves (i.e. glorified pigeons). Countless thousands of tourists took proto-selfies with the doves and later marked their snapshots, “Swallows at Capistrano.” Before the Mission stopped selling bird feed, seagulls also horned in on the action. But even the tourists didn’t mistake the squawking, web-footed gulls for swallows.

Q:  How did the city of Rancho Santa Margarita get such a long name?

A:  It wasn't their first choice. It was dubbed "Santa Margarita" during its development in the 1980s, in honor of the old Rancho Santa Margarita y Las Flores. But the existing town of Santa Margarita (founded 1889) near Atascadero defended their unique identity. The battle ended amicably. 

"We have every right to use the name Santa Margarita," wrote Orange County developer Tony Moiso to a San Luis Obispo County Supervisor, "However, we do recognize the worry you have voiced on behalf of [your local] residents. I have modified our postal application to request a Rancho Santa Margarita mailing address." Today, Santa Margarita's population is less than 1,260 and Rancho Santa Margarita's is 47,949.

A brief history of citrus in Orange County, California

Citrus shipping crates featured colorful brand labels, each represented specific packers, fruit sizes, and levels of quality.

There was no citrus industry here when the name “Orange County” was first suggested, but we eventually more than lived up to our name. Orange County’s Valencia oranges reached a peak of 77,000 acres in production in 1948. We also grew lemons, grapefruit and other citrus here. But for much of our history, the sunny orange defined us, promoted us, and drove our economy. 

The gardens at Mission San Juan Capistrano were probably home to Orange County’s first orange tree, beginning in the late 1700s. But oranges didn’t make an impact here until 1870, when Anaheim Justice of the Peace William Hardin planted the seeds from two barrels of rotten Tahitian oranges and began to sell the resulting trees.

Charles C. Chapman: Father of the Valencia.

Our first Australian navel orange trees were imported and planted near Orange by Patterson Bowers in 1873. But it was the arrival of the Valencia orange – a native of the Azores – that proved the most important for Orange County’s future. 

The first Valencia grove in Orange County was planted in 1875 by Richard H. Gilman on the site of today’s California State University Fullerton. Soon, Sheldon Littlefield – who later served as one of our first County Supervisors – planted another grove east of Fullerton. In 1895, Littlefield’s grove was purchased by Charles C. Chapman, whose marketing and agricultural acumen, along with the natural sweetness and juiciness of the fruit, brought the Valencia to prominence.

The arrival of the railroads was critical to the growth of the citrus industry.

Various influences bolstered the growth of our citrus industry. For instance, wine grape growers, whose vines had been devastated by Pierce’s Disease, were looking for a new crop to grow just as oranges were coming to the fore. And the arrival of the railroads in the 1880s created a national market for locally grown fruit.

Citrus packing houses began to open across Orange County, often tied to cooperative associations of growers like the Anaheim Orange & Lemon Association or the Yorba Linda Citrus Association. Each local association was an important institution, providing not just agricultural infrastructure, marketing, political clout, and a bit of financial stability for growers, but also a sense of community.

An orange packing house in Fullerton, early 1900s.

The most important of these organizations was the regional Southern California Fruit Exchange – eventually known as Sunkist. They provided their members with scientific advice, astonishingly effective national advertising, and modern packing plants. They persuaded Americans that Valencias were the best type of oranges, and that oranges were healthy and good for everyday eating – not just an exotic oddity. Beginning with a 1916 ad in the Saturday Evening Post, Sunkist also convinced Americans that the previously overlooked juice of oranges was the perfect drink to accompany breakfast.

Idealized scenes of a sunny, happy, prosperous, healthy Southern California accompanied Sunkist’s vast marketing campaigns, and contributed greatly to migration from other parts of the country. California promoted the orange while the orange promoted California.

Chinese orange pickers, Santa Ana, circa 1895.

For more than half a century, citrus provided a good life for many, and provided a living – directly or indirectly – to most Orange Countians. Locals either worked with citrus or did business with those who did. The industry, and particularly the Valencia orange, transformed and defined much of the landscape and permeated many aspects of daily life. When the trees bloomed, their sweet fresh scent hung over the county. And when frost threatened the trees, orchard heaters or “smudge pots” darkened the skies and left a layer of black soot on everything.

Changes in the citrus market were always front-page news, and the annual Orange County Valencia Orange Show in Anaheim (1920-1931) was one of the biggest events on the calendar. Healthy citrus sales even helped buffer us from the effects of the Great Depression. On the other hand, a well-timed labor action, like the 1936 citrus strike, could cause serious community-wide panic.

Packing house crew, Santa Ana-Tustin Mutual Citrus Assoc., circa 1940.

In the early years, Japanese and Chinese laborers did much of the local citrus work. But from the mid-1910s on, most of the laborers were from Mexico or of Mexican descent. Many Hispanic neighborhoods, camps and colonias sprang up near packing houses and among the groves, bringing with them cultural traditions that were new to many Orange Countians. 

The years following WWII saw Orange County’s landscape and economy shift rapidly from agriculture to suburbia. The population expanded at a shocking rate, from only 175,000 in 1946, to 703,925 in 1960, to 1,420,386 by 1970.  Accordingly, demand skyrocketed for more housing developments, roads, schools, shopping centers, etc. Orange trees gave way to concrete and stucco. But new development was only one of several reasons for the long slow death or Orange County’s citrus industry. 

The annual California Valencia Orange Show (1921-1931) was a huge regional event. This postcard depicts the show's grounds in Anaheim in 1926.

By that time, the tristeza virus or “quick decline” was already attacking Valencia trees throughout Southern California. Spread by aphids, the disease killed as many as 243,920 of Orange County’s trees in a single year. A new grafting combination was discovered that was immune to the disease, but it required the expensive tearing-out of the old groves, replanting, grafting, and patiently waiting for new trees to reach maturity. For five to eight years there would be no crop to harvest.

Adding insult to injury, local land began to be taxed on its “highest and best use.” In other words, farmland was suddenly taxed as though it were residential or commercial property. After paying their taxes, the already besieged citrus growers made almost no profit, making buy-out offers from developers tempting or even necessary.

Standpipe, smudge pot and sickly trees make way for housing, 1967.

Today, only a few small, (often sickly) specimen orange groves remain, as reminders of our past. The last of Orange County’s 45 packing houses, the Villa Park Orchards Association, moved to Ventura County in 2006. In places, one can still see the old lines of eucalyptus – which once provided citrus groves with shelter from the wind – now standing along the edges of roads or housing tracts. 

But the orange left its mark on Orange County. The industry gave us the framework on which many of our still-vibrant communities were built. Some of our streets bear the names of growers, fruit varieties and packing houses. And the long-term investment and attention groves require gave us a tendency toward cautiousness, patience and thrift, and an aversion to fixing things that aren’t broken. 

Mature orange groves, Placentia area, June1961.

But perhaps most of all, citrus gave Orange County its image and identity as a healthy, happy, sunny spot where success grew on trees.

O.C. Q&A: Newport Nautical Edition

The historic Balboa Island Ferry, Newport Harbor, 2012. (Photo by author)

Q:  What was the first boat built in Newport Beach?

A:  Ill-starred entrepreneur Edward J. Abbott built a small steamboat, The Last Chance, for sightseeing excursions in 1892. But strangely, its longest journey would be over land.

The Last Chance was declared unseaworthy, but Abbott used it to haul tourists around Newport Bay for a couple years before it was grounded. In 1894, he hauled the boat inland, over unpaved roads, using a team of eight horses. The boat came right up Santa Ana’s Main Street and was then loaded on a train car. From there, it traveled through Santa Ana Canyon and then circuitously through San Bernardino and Riverside Counties before being offloaded at Elsinore Junction and dragged (probably by mules) to Lake Elsinore. Historian Jim Sleeper speculated that Abbott, who died shortly thereafter, may have succumbed to injuries incurred during the move. The rickety boat survived a bit longer than Abbott, ferrying tourists around the lake.

Q:  What’s the origin of the Balboa Island Ferry?

A:  The ferry service is older than you think. In the early 1900s, real estate developers underwrote temporary ferry services from Balboa (the end of the Pacific Electric trolley line from Los Angeles), to the latest subdivisions around Newport Bay. Only the Balboa Island Ferry proved useful enough to survive. 

Attempts at ferry service to Balboa Island had been made since 1906, but the first supposedly regular service – a rowboat with a single-cylinder engine and dedicated landings – came in 1909. In 1919, island lots began selling better and Joseph A. Beek took over and improved ferry operations. 

Beek’s first little boats were for people, not vehicles. But they could push an automobile-laden barge. It wasn’t until 1922 that cars could be driven directly onto a larger ferry. Today, the ferry – still run by the Beek family – transports about 1.5 million passengers annually. 

Although a busy Saturday night might include a lot of passengers who are just on their way for a Balboa Bar or frozen banana, the ferry is also important. In fact, during times like the recent closure of the Balboa Island Bridge, the ferry becomes the only way for the 6,000 people who live on the island to reach their homes or for customers to reach the many businesses there. It also serves as a faster way for many residents of the Balboa Peninsula to reach the mainland.

The Beeks make little to no money operating the ferry and are happy to break even. They provide it as a service to their community. 

Q:  How long have gondolas plied the waters of Newport Harbor?

A:  Around 1905, real estate promoter Abbott Kinney brought gondolier Giovanna “John” Scarpa from Venice, Italy to traverse the canals of newly developed Venice, California. A couple years later, John moved to Newport Beach, where couples happily paid him for romantic rides through the bay while he sang Italian love songs. 

Remembering the water carnivals of his homeland, in 1908 Scarpa enlisted eight rowboats and canoes to join him for a nighttime, lantern-lit boat parade. It marked the birth of the traditions later known as the Tournament of Lights and the Newport Beach Christmas Boat Parade. The boat parade is still held annually, and you can still hire a gondola any time for a romantic evening with your sweetie.

O.C. Q&A: University of California Irvine Edition

Knights demonstrate battle technique at Wayzgoose, 1986.

Q:  Didn't UCI once hold Medieval fairs?

A:  The Wayzgoose Medieval Faire, a school spirit event held every spring since 1970, was UCI's oldest tradition. Its name came from an annual celebration held for printers' apprentices in medieval England. Entertainment included magicians, jugglers, game and craft booths, music, puppeteers, Shakesperean plays and demonstrations of jousting and dueling. Everyone was encouraged to wear period costumes, and at least one Wayzgoose ended with a torch-lit banquet featuring court jesters and strolling minstrels.

The theme, however, began to slowly erode in the 1990s. In 2012, Wayzgoose was officially un-medieval-ifed and given a new eco-friendly theme: "Zero Waste."  One assumes such exciting themes as "Oral Hygiene" and "Paint Drying" were already snapped up by other festivals.

By 2017, even this neutered version of Wayzgoose was dropped from the "Celebrate UCI" open house event of which it had once been a part.

Q:  Other than the library, where can I get my Lord of the Rings fix in O.C.?

A:  Want to visit Gandalf, Bilbo Baggins, and their friends? Just take Ring Road to Middle Earth,… in Irvine! 

In 1974, UCI’s students voted to name the new dorms "Middle Earth.” Each building is named for a character from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings trilogy -- which had gained greater followings in the 1970s -- and the halls are mostly named for places mentioned in the books, like Mirkwood or Rohan. Middle Earth has grown to twenty-four residence halls, two dining facilities called Brandywine and Pippin Commons, the Bucklebury Library, the Helms Deep Fitness Center, and more. (Back in the 1990s, even UCI’s email servers had Tolkien-related names.) 

Sadly, there’s no actual Middle Earth theming to be found on campus aside from the names. UCI should hire Disney’s Imagineers to make it look less like Irvine and more like the Shire (or Mordor, depending on how you see Irvine).

Q:  Why does UCI have an anteater as their mascot?

A:  In 1965, students were thumbing their noses at convention and authority. Marches were held, draft cards were burned, and UC Santa Cruz's sports teams started playing as the Banana Slugs. 

When students at the new UC Irvine voted to select a mascot, student leaders eschewed fiercer options and lobbied hard (and campaigned at polling places) for the anteater. 

This strange looking critter was on the ballot thanks to two UCI water polo players, Pat Glasgow and Bob Ernst, who'd been inspired by an anteater in the comic strip “B.C.” The cartoon anteater made a “ZOT!” noise when snarfing up ants with its long tongue – a noise which remains UCI’s unlikely battle cry to this day (along with “Give ‘em tongue!”). Administrators wrongly assumed the mascot, chosen in a rigged election, would fade away. 

One thing’s sure: Today’s Irvine of beige stucco and HOAs would never do something this silly and fun again.

O.C. Q&A: Movie Edition

John Wayne and his son, Ethan, join Walter Knott at the opening of the Log Ride at Knott's Berry Farm, 1969

Q:  How far back does John Wayne’s connection to Orange County go?

A:  Orange County screwed him up so bad, he had to become an actor. In November 1926, USC football player Marion “Duke” Morrison seriously injured his shoulder while bodysurfing -- showing off for sorority girls -- at Balboa. (Sounds more like the Wedge than Balboa proper, but the media reported it as Balboa.) He had to give up football and his money was running thin, so he dropped out of school for a year to work behind the scenes at a movie studio. He was, of course “discovered,” became “John Wayne,” and never went back to football. He did, however come back to Newport Beach and lived there from 1965 until his death in 1979.

Q:  Okay, but why is our airport named for John Wayne?

A:  Friendship and politics. Supervisor Thomas Riley was a friend, fellow Newport Beach resident, and Republican political ally of actor John Wayne. Riley talked to Wayne about renaming the Orange County Airport for him in the late 1970s, and the actor – who kept a plane there – liked the idea. 

In June 1979, shortly after Wayne’s death, Riley wrote a resolution to implement the change. The resolution called Wayne "a true American patriot" and the embodiment of "traditional American values." Despite some protests, Riley slipped it into the Board of Supervisors’ “consent” agenda, and it was passed 4 to 0, with no public comment.

Ironically, only thirteen years earlier, both Riley (who now has a terminal named for him at the airport) and Wayne signed petitions against the airport expanding or allowing jet service. As Newporters, neither wanted noisy planes going over their homes all day.

Q:  What’s Dana Point’s connection to the Hollywood sign?

A:  In 1923, developer Sidney Woodruff constructed an enormous hillside sign in L.A., advertising a planned community: HOLLYWOODLAND. Later, the letters LAND were lost, and a star was born. 

In 1927, Woodruff led a syndicate to reboot the failed Dana Point subdivision. In buying the land, he acquired some preexisting infrastructure, including a bluff-top gazebo and streets named for the colored ship lanterns which lighted them. A resort-like community with Mediterranean architecture and a marina were planned and marketed with hype worthy of Hollywood. 

Houses, businesses, a pier, and the beginnings of a hotel were built. Woodruff expanded the colored lantern motif and planted flowering plants to match the lantern color of each street. But thanks to the Great Depression, the town’s growth came to a screeching halt until after World War II. 

Q:  Other than Disneyland, does Orange County have any Star Wars connections?

A:  The signature scar on smuggler Han Solo’s chin came from Laguna Beach. 

In 1964, actor Harrison Ford had an apartment in the hills above Laguna Canyon and a job as an assistant art buyer for Bullock’s department store at Fashion Square (now MainPlace) in Santa Ana. Driving to work on Laguna Canyon Road one morning, he fumbled with the seatbelt in his Volvo and accidentally ran over a curb and into a telephone pole. He busted his chin open on the steering wheel. 

Luckily, the resulting scar didn’t keep Ford from getting a coveted roll in John Brown's Body at the Laguna Beach Playhouse the following year, where his acclaimed performance led to his discovery by Hollywood. The scar only helped in portraying adventurers, rogues and intergalactic smugglers.