Delhi's Haunted House

The ghost of a "lady in white." (Art by C. Wilkins, courtesy J'aime Rubio)

 [Author’s note: When I stumbled across this story in old newspapers, I wanted to share it. But after working on this article for a while I was surprised to find that my friend Mary Adams Urashima had already posted a piece about the same incident. After some consideration I went ahead with my own article, hoping to find a way to provide a unique spin. I hope I've done that. Happy Halloween!]

"Police today were mystified by the reported appearance of a ‘ghost’ in a home at Delhi, [a] small settlement a mile south of Santa Ana," reported the Los Angeles Times on August 27, 1941. The eerie goings-on caused quite a stir.

To try to chase down that ghost, it may help to start with an understanding of the place it appeared and the cultural norms and lore of the locals.

Early Delhi

The community of Delhi (pronounced “dell high”) is centered east of Main St. along Warner Ave., which was once named Delhi Ave. Pioneer James McFadden purchased 4,000 acres here in 1868 and named the area for his family’s old hometown of Delhi, New York. 

In the early 1900s, McFadden gave a portion of his land to the Southern California Sugar Company for the purpose of building a sugar factory to serve the area’s vast sugar beet growing industry. Soon, with the factory nearly complete and a new railroad spur under construction, McFadden was able to sell off other parcels of his ranch at advanced prices to land speculators. 

The Southern California Sugar Co. factory (Courtesy Orange County Archives)

In 1909, Fred and Henry W. Hinze created the first of several subdivisions to support the new industry. Henry also oversaw the factory’s construction and served as its first superintendent. But the sugar company's two largest stockholders: James McFadden and James Irvine, soon sued Henry, saying he'd cheaped out on construction in order to keep a larger profit for himself. By 1910, McFadden and Irvine were invested in a new rival factory -- the Santa Ana Co-Operative Sugar Co.-- within sight of the first factory. Two years later, Delhi’s second residential tract was carved out of the adjacent W. G. Emmett ranch. "To the man of small means," Emmett advertised, "this is YOUR opportunity.”

 And finally, in 1915, the C. E. Measor Subdivision was added to Delhi by inveterate Santa Ana bootlegger Catherine Measor Leieritz and her unruly children.

The Santa Ana Co-Operative Sugar Co. factory (Courtesy Orange County Archives)

From early on, the new community of Delhi was largely Hispanic. Many of its early residents had come to the U.S. to flee the violence of the Mexican Revolution. In Delhi they found a relatively peaceful spot where non-Anglos were allowed to buy land (a rarity in the early 20th century) and where many jobs were available at the sugar factory. The neighborhood had only five hundred residents in 1920, but grew by leaps and bounds from the 1930s through the 1950s. It was annexed into the City of Santa Ana in 1929.

Culture and the Supernatural

Belief in the supernatural is largely taken for granted in Latin American and continues to run deep with many Mexican Americans. These ideas are often rooted in a combination of Christian and indigenous traditions. 

A good example is El Dia de los Muertos (the Day of the Dead) which is celebrated on November 1st and 2nd. Celebrants visit family graves and build decorated home altars to help the spirits of dead loved ones find their way home to visit. Decorations, parades, and other traditional elements are more light-hearted than somber. In part, the celebration has its origins in the Medieval European Christian traditions of All Saints’ Day and All Souls' Day. But it’s also infused with ancient indigenous cultural traditions honoring the dead. The Aztecs had at least six festivals throughout the year that resembled Day of the Dead, the most similar of which was celebrated between October 20th and November 8th. One of the precepts of El Dia de los Muertos is that the veil between life and the afterlife is a very thin and sometimes permeable.

A Day of the Dead offrenda (altar) (Courtesy Paolaricaurte)

As recently as 2014, a Pew Research survey still found widespread belief among U.S. Hispanics in the presence of ghosts in our midst. Combine these cultural norms with the dynamics of any small town (i.e. word travels fast and everyone knows everyone's business) and it seems 1940s Delhi was the perfect place for a ghost story to develop and spread. 

The Ghost Appears

The aforementioned Times article continued with the details of the haunting. But the better telling of the story appeared in the Aug. 26, 1941 Santa Ana Register:

'GHOST' VISITS DELHI; HAS RESIDENTS OF HOUSE ON RUN

The first "ghost" seen in Orange County in many years may not be "the real McCoy," but is sufficiently real to three women who were given medical treatment last night in Delhi after "seeing" the apparition, and a man was so frightened he could neither talk nor move for three minutes according to reports by Santa Ana police and Matt Lujan, well-known Delhi resident and unofficial mayor of that community.

The "ghost" was so real, Officers Harry Prichard and Roy Hartley reported, that an entire family moved from their home at 522 Central Avenue. Lujan says he doesn't know what the "ghost" could be, is going to try to find out, if possible, by visiting the Central Avenue home some midnight soon. Last night when he searched the place with a flashlight, he found nothing to disturb him, but both he and the officers will vouch for the fright caused by the apparition.

As 8:45 o'clock last night, Lujan called police to the scene. The officers found Frank Garcia walking about the yard at 516 Central in a daze. Lujan then reported he first noticed Garcia acting strangely, stopped and found him unable to move or talk. 

Finally, when Garcia could speak, he said he was planning to move into the house at 522 Central, vacated by Pedro Munoz, Mrs. Munoz and family at 4 o'clock yesterday morning. Garcia is son-in-law of the Munoz'. He said, when he entered the front room of the house, he saw a woman with long hair and dressed in white, standing in the middle of the room but when he spoke to her, she faded away. It was just after that episode that Lujan discovered the paralyzed Garcia.

While Lujan was calling police, Mrs. Munoz arrived at the place she had left that morning, "saw" the woman dressed in white--and fainted into unconsciousness. According to the officers, Mrs. Munoz was suffering a bad case of shock. A physician was called to treat her after they gave first aid.

Mrs. Gomesinda Calderon, 510 Central, and Mrs. Bruno Canstaneda, 510 Adams, residents of the area, also received medical treatment last night after hearing of the excitement. They too had seen and heard of the "ghost" before, they said.

According to the Munoz family report, they heard noises at 4 a.m. yesterday "and couldn't stand it any longer," Lujan said. Munoz then took one load of furniture away and while he was gone, a voice outside the door inquired: "So you are leaving?" and when Mrs. Munoz opened the door, nobody was there. Last week, while the Munoz boys, 8 and 10 years old, were alone at home, a masked man appeared in the house, the boys said after running from the house to a neighbor's. Four nights ago, Mrs. Munoz was frightened "speechless," it was reported, when a "cold hand" touched her forehead.

But to date, nobody has offered an explanation of the "ghost's" activities nor explained the noises which drove the Munoz family from the home.

Mysteriously, even the house that replaced the "haunted house" is now blurred out on Google maps.

The following day’s Register had even more on the subject,… 

'GHOST' OF DELHI FAILS TO APPEAR

The "ghost" of Delhi was "on vacation" last night.

That's what several persons who watched for "her" reported today. Frank Garcia, . . . said he had a quiet night last night. He added that he had several men friends with him at the "ghost" place, however. 

Matt Lujan, unofficial mayor of Delhi; Manuel Viega, Santa Ana funeral director; F. Villanueva, editor of Las Noticias, Orange County weekly; and Frank Estrada, 1901 West Fifth, stayed at the "ghost" place, . . . from 9 o'clock last night until 12:30 o'clock this morning, Lujan reported, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. A score of curious persons drove to the Central Avenue residence to "have a look" last night but none reported seeing anything even resembling a ghost. . . 

Garcia, after his first night of occupying the house, reported he had been uncomfortable and that he thought he had been slapped in the face during the night. A living room door which had been closed, was found open later. Nobody has been able to explain the cause of the excitement to date. Lujan reported a Long Beach man offered Garcia $5000 [the equivalent of about $92,000 in 2021 dollars] if Garcia could show him the "woman in white."

Ghostbusters of Delhi

From a newspaper editor, to an undertaker, to sugar plant workers, the group that staked out the house all night came to the task with a wide variety of skill sets. 

The most famous among the team of “ghost hunters,” Matt Lujan of 304 Adams St., was indeed known as the “unofficial mayor of Delhi” for decades. Born in Chihuahua, Mexico in 1906, he and his wife Nellie were living in Delhi by 1932. At some point he became the designated interpreter for the community, often acting as a liaison between the residents and the police, City Hall and the press. He also organized Delhi’s holiday events, actively protected the interests of his neighbors, and even disassembled malfunctioning streetlights himself, bringing the broken parts to the city for repair. He lobbied hard for improved roads in Delhi, and when the city wouldn’t upgrade them, he lobbied for Delhi’s succession from Santa Ana. (Every town should have a Matt Lujan or two.)

Modern view of Main St. near Delhi (Courtesy HistoricSouthernSantaAna)

One of the less well-known among the party was sugar factory worker Frank Estrada, whose previous fifteen minutes of fame came in 1916 when he was arrested for running a “blind pig” frequented by sugar plant workers in Los Alamitos.

Meanwhile, the two police officers who were sent to investigate, Harrison "Harry" Prichard and Roy Hartley, were among the department's older officers -- both nearing retirement. Perhaps the Santa Ana P.D.'s dispatcher felt that ghostbusting wasn't the most strenuous work.

Who's That Ghost?

Delhi’s ghostly woman in white matches some elements of the Mexican folktale of La Llorona, although the story is missing a few of its usual pieces: La Llorona is typically wailing and often appears near a body of water. However, there are supernatural "white lady" stories in many cultures, and the key recurring thread is that of a woman's ghost bound to the earth by some tragedy. 

Advertising art for the 2019 movie, "Curse of La Llorona"

Historian J'aime Rubio traces the story of La Llorena back to pre-Columbian tales of "the Aztec Goddess Cihuacoatl, who took the form of a beautiful, almost angelic lady in white" who drifted through the night, lamenting, . . . ‘Oh my children…your destruction has arrived. Where can I take you?’” Rubio also finds roots in an early legend of a native woman who was rejected by the Spanish soldier who fathered her child. In the story, the child dies (in some versions by her own hand) and the mother kills herself. But "even in death she faced the agony and torture of roaming the land eternally, especially any area with waterways or lakes, searching for her lost child."

Statue of Cihuacoatl (Courtesty INAH Museum)

Just about every older town in California seems to have some version of a "woman in white" (or blue, or black, or pink) ghost story. Why not Delhi?

The Delhi "ghost" also has similarities to San Juan Capistrano's famous "Lady In White," who was supposedly first seen in 1930, walking along the railroad tracks. Historian Pam Hallan-Gibson describes her: "The 'white lady,' who materializes in fog and likes to call attention to herself, has been sighted on Los Rios Street, the Capistrano Villas, Las Brisas, and in the foothills behind Del Obispo. She's a playful ghost, dressed in a long white dress, who cavorts and teases, but never lets anyone catch up to her." Hallan-Gibson says that the ghost's appearances on Los Rios St. are generally "near the giant pepper tree north of the Rios Adobe" and that the spectral woman can be seen "tossing her mane of long, black hair [and] beckoning you to follow." Sometimes the woman is seen with a black dog.

No Further Sign of Ms. Ghost

Today, the house in Delhi where the haunting occurred is gone and a more modern house sits at that address. No further news reports of ghosts at that address can be found after the 1941 incidents.

The current house on the property was built around 1955. Shrubs obscure it nearly as much in person as Google's "fuzz" filter does online.

Most communities have local stories that have been passed from generation to generation. It would be interesting to know if some version of this haunted house tale persists today in Delhi's folklore. 

Whether or not one believes in ghosts, the study of folklore is as important as it is interesting to learn about. Knowing the stories that we pass on to one another is part of understanding history and community.

Lost paintings of Orange County adobes

"The Yorba Adobe" by Anne Robinson (Photo by Don Dobmeier)

Help find two missing paintings! 

Laguna Beach artist Anne Robinson (Olivera) painted painted scenes of two historically important Orange County adobes: The home of Bernardo Yorba in Santa Ana Canyon, and the Trabuco Adobe (an estancia of Mission San Juan Capistrano) near today’s Rancho Santa Margarita. The painting of Yorba's home was done sometime before 1933. The painting of the Trabuco Adobe was done around 1926, when Robinson presented a paper about the history of Trabuco Mesa to the Orange County Historical Society.

"Truabuco Canyon" by Anne Robinson (Photo by Don Dobmier)

These two photos were taken by Don Dobmeier in 1977, so we know the paintings still existed then. 

A note tucked into OCHS' subject files (generations ago) under the heading "Trabuco" shows that the paintings were stored in "mirror box[s]" in "Bowers storage" and were marked or identified as "#1816, EG6 and EG7.” 

We do know a handful of places where the paintings do not seem to be currently located: Bowers Museum, CSUF Special Collections, the Orange County Historical Society, and the Orange County Archives. 

Here's what the folks at AskArt.com have to say about the artist: 

"Born on a ranch in the Santa Ana Mountains near Trabuco, California on April 3, 1893, Anne married Joe Olivera early in life but kept her maiden name on her artworks. By 1918 she had settled in Laguna Beach and had become active in the local art scene. She soon built a house there at 565 Monterey Drive where she lived for the rest of her life. She and Anna Hills often made painting excursions on horseback into the Santa Ana Mountains and nearby deserts. Working en plein air, she painted small oils on wood with a palette knife prior to 1953, after which poor vision prevented her from continuing. 

Her signature was usually in brown paint in block letters 'AR' or 'A. Robinson.' The artist died in Laguna on Dec. 26, 1977." 

Please drop me a line if you know the whereabouts of these two paintings.

W. L. Adams (1841-1926) of Tustin

Recently, Guy Ball sent me a copy of this photo (above) from the Tustin Area Historical Society’s collections, which was identified as “W. L. Adams home, Main and B Streets in Tustin, circa 1890.” He wondered what else I could learn about Adams. Here’s what I was able to glean from vital records, census, newspapers, directories, etc, over the course of a couple hours:

William Lawson Adams, Jr. was born in 1841 in Morrisville, New York. He married Clara Eliza Kellow in Omaha, Nebraska on Sept. 7, 1875.  They still lived in Omaha just prior to coming to California in the 1880s.

William Lawson Adams, Jr.

They lived in Tustin, near 4th and B Street, from at least early 1892 until at least 1904 and grew oranges. Along with D. H. Thomas and Paul Seeger, William was among the three men who drafted the constitution and by-laws of the Tustin Fruit Association in September 1893. It appears he also owned sizable pieces of property in New York and Tennessee. Mrs. Adams was a member of the Tustin Thimble Club.

In February 1907, the Adams sold six acres in Tustin to Mrs. H. F. Story of Highland. It’s unclear whether this transaction marked the family’s departure from Tustin, but by 1910 they were living in Los Angeles. Clara and their daughter, Helen Dunn, both died in 1911. By that point, their old Tustin property was owned by Orange County Supervisor Jasper Leck and his family. 

Clara Eliza (Kellow) Adams

William L. Adams died in Los Angeles at age 84 on February 7, 1926 and was buried at Fairhaven Cemetery in Santa Ana. He was survived by his daughters: Mrs. J.A. Koontz, Jr. (Gertrude Adams) and Mrs. A.J. Bridger (Mildred Adams). 

Alice Chandler: O.C. cowgirl and Sheriff's Deputy

Orange County’s Dorothy Alice Chandler was a cowgirl, sheriff’s deputy, pilot, trick rider, horse trainer, riding instructor, dog breeder, ranch hand, missionary, movie extra, and model – all during an era when many expected women to stay home and keep house.

Right now, the Orange County Archives is exhibiting a small display about Chandler in the first-floor lobby of the Old Orange County Courthouse in Santa Ana. It’s unclear exactly how much longer this display will be up, but plans are already beginning for a new display on a different topic. So those with an interest should probably check it out soon.

Part of the Orange County Archive's exhibit about Chandler.

Born June 19, 1928 in Memphis, Tennessee to George Ernest Chandler and Constance “Connie” Clara (nee Williams) Chandler, Alice Chandler was destined for a colorful life “way out west.”

When Alice Chandler was three her family came west to visit her grandmother in Tustin. Connie was pregnant with Alice’s younger brother and fell very ill, requiring a longer than expected stay. Ultimately, they spent the rest of their lives in Southern California. 

Alice grew up living in a small house with her parents, six brothers and two sisters. The Great Depression was hard on the Chandlers. Alice’s father worked as a grove fumigator and was once charged with lying to get unemployment insurance money. In 1940, Alice witnessed her five-year-old brother accidentally killed with a shotgun.

While in elementary school, Alice fell in love with the outdoors, horses, and the Old West. In eighth grade, she dropped out of school and was then home-schooled by her mother. From then on, she wore blue jeans, which were not allowed for girls in school. 

The family finally caught a lucky break when George got a job working on the Irvine Ranch.

In the 1940s, Alice Chandler’s father was a gardener for the Irvine family, and the family lived in a shack near today’s Peters Canyon Park and Irvine Park, in Orange Park Acres. Their light came from lanterns and there was an outhouse in back, but – much to Alice’s delight – the house was right in the middle of the Irvine Ranch’s cattle operations. 

Alice Chandler on the Irvine Ranch, circa 1950s.

Chandler was given a horse for her 16th birthday. Soon, she and her sister had learned to break horses. Alice was as expert horsewoman by the age of 21. In later years she would sometimes help the Irvine Ranch cowboys during large cattle roundups.

Alice often chased trespassing hunters and fisherman off the property. Local Sheriff’s deputies suggested that her efforts might be more effective if made official. On August 1, 1949 she went to see Orange County Sheriff Jim Musick who interviewed her, made her a deputy, and gave her a badge. Her duties were to keep trespassers – especially poachers -- away from Peters Lake (which Myford Irvine considered his private hunting and fishing refuge) and to respond to other local emergencies as needed. “You may be a special deputy assigned to the Irvine Company,” said Musick, “but you’re a real deputy. And if I ever need you, you’ll be on call.”

It was an unpaid position, and no training was provided but several deputies and cowboys had already taught Alice how to shoot. Her mother purchased a .32-caliber Smith and Wesson revolver for her to carry while on duty. For three years, her presence kept poachers at bay. “What the guys knew was that I was tough,” she said. “I can be feminine, but don’t mess with me.”

Beginning in the early 1940s, Connie Chandler bought the land they’d been living on in Orange Park Acres, plus 100 acres surrounding it, creating the Chandler Ranch – an equestrian center at 20342 Chapman Ave. Many young Orange Countians learned the fundamentals of horsemanship there. Alice Chandler worked the ranch and taught riding lessons. 

The ranch faced some financial troubles beginning in the mid-1950s and there were attempts to take advantage of the situation and defraud the Chandlers of their land. Connie Chandler went to court repeatedly, studying the law, acting as her own attorney, winning reversals in the District Court of Appeal on two occasions, and holding onto her ranch for many more years. However, eventually the ranch went bankrupt on its own and Connie sold it to what Alice later called “a religious cult.”

In the early 1950s, Alice Chandler tracked down and purchased a descendant of celebrity dog Rin Tin Tin and made extra money breeding German Shepherds. She became a respected breeder and supplied a new Rin Tin Tin to producer Lee Duncan.

When her brother began flying his own plane, Chandler caught the flying bug. The sale of the puppies paid for ground school for Alice and her sister. Her father paid for their first plane and often rode along with them. 

Sign (attached to a bus) advertising Chandler Ranch. (Courtesy O.C. Archives)

Alice first became a pilot, then an instructor, and eventually owned her own four-seat Cessna. She even earned a hot air balloon license, which she never had the opportunity to use. She only gave up flying when her mother was injured in an auto accident and required a great deal of care for the rest of her life.

During the 1950s, Gene Holter’s Wild Animal Show would stable some of their exotic animals at Chandler Ranch when they were in the area. It was an early brush with show business for Alice Chandler, but hardly the last.

Alice visited the Irvine Ranch on business and met movie director Billy Wilder who was filming parts of the 1957 Jimmy Stewart film, “The Spirit of St. Louis” there. Wilder saw Chandler and two of her sisters and made them extras in the film. Although she briefly joined the Screen Actors Guild, Alice was never on the big screen again and never saw Wilder’s film. “There are a lot of chores on a ranch,” she said. “We didn’t have time to go to the movies.”

But in the 1960s, noted rodeo rider Montie Montana offered her a job trick riding and barrel racing in his traveling Western equestrian show. “We rode with his wife and daughter for years,” Alice said. 

In the early 1970s, Alice Chandler served as Secretary and Treasurer of the Southern California Cattleman’s Association, working side by side with the likes of Tony Moiso of Rancho Mission Viejo.

Alice also did missionary work with children in the Middle East. She returned to Orange County to care for her ailing mother, who died in San Juan Capistrano in 1975. 

Alice’s experience with her mother prepared her for yet another career, working as a caregiver for the elderly. She herself eventually retired to Laguna Woods. 

Chandler (right) celebrates her 79th birthday in 2008 with Sheriff Sandra Hutchens.

In 2008, at the age of 79, Alice wrote a letter to Orange County’s first female Sherriff, Sandra Hutchens, sharing her story and offering to finally turn in her special deputy badge. It seems the Department had never officially decommissioned Chandler or asked for her badge back. She also offered some words of support: “I could not have been more blessed to have the wonderful memories that I have of all these men that thought enough of me  to respect me, and there should be no reason that you are not respected also, and I am sure you will be.”

The Archives’ exhibit about Chandler includes artifacts and many photos. The Old Courthouse, at 211 W. Santa Ana Blvd, Santa Ana, is open Monday through Friday, 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. (The Orange County Archives, located in Room 108, is open Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. to noon and 1:00 p.m. to 4:30 p.m.) As always, I encourage you to see the historical exhibits by OC Parks throughout the building as well. 

P.E. Red Cars to O.C. Streetcar: What goes around...

N. Main St. at Santa Ana Blvd, trolley track removal, Santa Ana, Sept. 1960. (Kim Richards Collection, OCA)

Recently, Kim Richards donated a collection of photos to the County Archives that included scenes of the Pacific Electric Railway trolley tracks being torn out of the streets of Downtown Santa Ana in 1960. They're not just good photos, but also particularly timely since they arrived just as new tracks are being installed through some of those same streets for the forthcoming $407.76 million OC Streetcar project.

N. Main St. at Santa Ana Blvd, Sept. 2021. Striped barriers mark the boundaries of an area where new streetcar track is still under construction. (Photo by author)

The Pacific Electric's big "Red Car" trolleys first arrived in Santa Ana in 1905, to much fanfare. There had been an earlier trolley system -- first horse-powered and then steam-powered -- that ran between Santa Ana, Orange, and Tustin. But the Red Cars were an enormous improvement. Not only were they larger and more reliable, but they also connected Santa Ana to a vastly larger area of Southern California. This private trolley line was an absolute boon to the public.

City crew removes "Red Car" tracks from a Downtown Santa Ana street, Sept. 1960. (Kim Richards Collection, OCA) 

But as the 20th century marched on, the proliferation of the automobile and of bus services made the Red Cars obsolete. Now people could go EXACTLY where they wanted to go EXACTLY when they wanted to go there. And a route change could be made in a moment rather than a period of months and the cost of a huge construction project. The last day of P.E. passenger service in Santa Ana was July 2, 1950. 

Crew installing OC Streetcar tracks on Santa Ana Blvd at Sycamore St., Aug. 2021. The Old Courthouse is behind them. (Photo by author)

The Pacific Electric tried to adapt by switching many lines over to bus service. But apparently it was too little to late. The P.E. is now but a fond memory for a dwindling number of Southern Californians. (Oh, and you can still ride restored cars at San Pedro or the Southern California Railway Museum.)

On Sept. 12, 1960, over ten years after service to Santa Ana ended, city crews began tearing the old track out of the streets in advance of a large repaving project.

Kim Steaffens Richards' father and stepmother both worked for the City of Santa Ana, and she presumes the 1960s photos (including the two samples in this post) came into the family's possession at that time.  

Turning onto 4th St. on a farewell excursion run, 1950. (Old Courthouse Museum)

This final photo is not from the Richards Collection, but shows P.E. Red Car 309 on Fourth St. during it's last run through Downtown Santa Ana on June 30, 1950. Veteran conduction Les Frank bought donuts and coffee for his passengers. 

Arch Beach Won’t Stay Put

Arch Beach postcard, circa late 1920s.

When it comes to researching the history of real estate, no place in Orange County holds a candle to the Laguna Beach area for sheer convolution, complexity, and opportunities for confusion. Even seemingly simple questions about Laguna often end up requiring days or weeks of research to sort out. For example, since the late 1800s the name “Arch Beach” has described a significant area of the south coast, now annexed into Laguna Beach. But where IS Arch Beach exactly? Historically, the moniker has drifted like a jellyfish from one spot to another to another.  

“First, the name was applied to the large homestead-period township,” writes Jane Janz, the only Laguna Beach historian ever to make much sense of the Arch Beach story. “Secondly, it was used for the small town of Arch Beach whose name appears on lists of towns that failed due to the real estate collapse [at the end] of the 1880s. This area centered around the Diamond Street area. Thirdly, and for the largest period of time, the name of Arch Beach was applied to [an area from] approximately Sleepy Hollow, on south to Nyes Place.”

That seems plenty complicated enough. But there’s even more to the story. In fact, “Arch Beach” has migrated up and down the shoreline over one and a half miles and has variously been confined to the coast or stretched well inland into Laguna Canyon. Let’s take a look at the various spots called Arch Beach and how (or whether) they intersect:

Township of Homesteaders

In June 1876, William Henry Brooks arrived in the area now known as Woods Cove, about halfway between the mouth of Aliso Canyon and what is now the heart of Downtown Laguna Beach. He was joined that December by his brother, Lorenzo Nathan “Nate” Brooks who started a homestead there. It was empty land for many miles around, and the local Indians greeted them by trying to steal their ponies. But Nate Brooks, in particular, saw this as “the choicest spot on earth.” William’s wife, Annie H. Brooks, named the place Arch Beach after a natural rock arch (near the end of Pearl Steet) through which one could walk at low tide. In 1883, Nate Brooks platted the land and brought a little water down from the hills by digging a 500-foot tunnel. He also opened a dirt wagon path to the village of Laguna Beach, which was platted that same year by Henry E. Goff – one of the four pioneer Goff Brothers.

Early iteration of Arch Beach (in blue). Map from Jane Janz's book, Naming Laguna Beach.

The name Arch Beach was soon applied to the entire Township immediately south of Laguna Beach, which extended all the way up across the hills to Laguna Canyon. The only beachfront included within the township boundaries extended from Victoria Beach south to about Wesley Drive.

A Boom Town

Later, during the railroad boom of the 1880s, there was talk that the A.T.& S.F. Railroad would lay tracks along the coast south of Laguna Beach as part of their San Diego line. As such, some speculated that Arch Beach would be an ideal spot for a little resort town, if only someone would build a hotel, wharf and depot there. 

Hubbard Goff's Arch Beach Hotel, late 1880s.

Around 1886 one of Henry Goff’s brothers, Hubbard S. “Hub” Goff built his Arch Beach Hotel and a store on the blufftop at the end of today's Diamond Street. With no source of local lumber for the hotel’s construction, a schooner (possibly the "Emma") anchored offshore and floated in the needed redwood. At about the same time, Hub’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Lulu V. Goff, filed for a homestead on another key portion of Arch Beach. Whether she was acting at her father’s behest or whether she was independently following in her family’s pioneer tradition is unclear. (She completed the homestead to achieve ownership of the land in 1891.)

In 1887, Hub Goff, Nate Brooks, and Pomona City Engineer Harry F. Stafford laid out the new subdivision or town of Arch Beach around the hotel. It extended from Bluebird Canyon Drive to Upland Road. Curiously, the town was not located within the boundaries of the old Arch Beach Township. The March 26, 1887 Santa Ana Blade reported, "During the past few weeks about seventy-five lots have been sold in the new town. The hotel is nearly or quite completed, and a restaurant, news-stand, livery stable, meat market and about twenty other buildings will there be constructed within the next six weeks." 

Arch Beach tract map, 1887 (Click to enlarge)

Around the same time, Santa Ana Valley Land & Improvement Co. bought some of the Goff Brothers’ land adjacent to the new village and began to advertise a forthcoming new hundred-acre city they dubbed Catalina-on-the-Main (or sometimes Santa Catalina-on-the-Main). According to their October 1887 promotional pamphlet, History of Santa Ana City & Valley, the new seaside community was to extend "from Aliso Beach to Arch Beach on the North and to Three Arches on the South." By the time of the pamphlet’s publication, the company had already purchased 300 acres toward the new development. 

(Note: Conflicting contemporary newspaper reports indicate that Catalina-on-the-Main was a joint effort by the Fairview Development Co. and the Santa Ana Immigration Association, or, alternately, was a project by Boston-based travel agency Raymond & Whitcomb Co. On a related note, almost a half century after the fact, a Santa Ana Register article claimed that in 1880 "the Raymond S. Whitcomb interests had purchased a point, which became known as Goff's Island," because it showed promise "as an ideal resort spot.")

Catalina-on-the-Main, 1887. From a photo by Conaway and Hummel.

The pamphlet continued: "The lands at the sea shore are the most delightful imaginable, abounding in the wild and picturesque scenery, quaint grottos and caves, splendid beach, and exposed and quiet bathing 'grounds.' For years this particular beach has been the resort each summer of hundreds of persons . . . At this city the company will plot, lay off and improve the suburban property, affording opportunity for purchase to those who may wish. . . Nor is this all. This development company will build a railroad to connect Santa Ana and Catalina-on-the-Main. A line will be built within the next two years to connect this city with Long Beach . . . which already has rail communications with Los Angeles. Every indication points unerringly to the centering here of immense railroad interests and wealth, the completion of which will alone suffice to sustain a large and flourishing city.”

In 1888 a hopeful Hub Goff and Nate Brooks built a pier at Arch Beach. The town also had an improved supply of water (piped in from Bluebird Canyon) which gave it an advantage over nearby Laguna Beach. Essentially all the pieces were in place for Arch Beach to be a big success, except for the most crucial element: the railroad. 

The precarious-looking Arch Beach Pier

At that point, Laguna Beach and Arch Beach were still separate towns with some significant topography between them, including Bluebird Canyon and Sleepy Hollow. One way into Arch Beach was to take the stagecoach from El Toro (a.k.a. Aliso City) down through Aliso Canyon to the shore. According to local historian Jane Janz, the little dirt road between Laguna Beach and Arch Beach – eventually improved and known as “The Old Coast Road” – could be difficult going in inclement weather but was frequently used. “My mother said that her Dad would hook up the old buggy to the horse and take her mother to Capistrano for a treat dinner.”  But roads on this part of the coast were less than ideal. (Access up and down the coast improved dramatically in the 1920s with the advent of the State Highway.)

Nate Brooks

The Bubble Bursts

When the railroad boom went bust, dreams for Catalina-on-the-Main dissolved before the surveyors were even done driving their stakes, and the land reverted to the Goff Brothers. (It seems only marine biologists would continue referring to Catalina-on-the-Main as a place name into the mid-1890s.) Brooks’ original Arch Beach subdivision did a little better. Writes Meadows, “Some houses were built and a small village developed. On June 21, 1889 the community was granted a post office [two years before Laguna Beach], but lack of patronage caused it to be closed on May 24, 1894.”

Another view of the Arch Beach Hotel, circa 1889.

The boom town of Arch Beach gradually fizzled out. In March 1892, Goff sold the hotel to Charles D. Ambrose of Pomona and returned to farming.  The Santa Ana Blade put a positive spin on the story, claiming “This deal is the beginning of a new era of prosperity for Arch Beach.” At this point the hotel’s rates were $1.50 a day or $10 a week. Arch Beach was still a vacation spot, especially for folks from Riverside looking for a place to escape the summer heat. There was still hope.

But the Panic of 1893 set in, the Santa Fe built their line inland (more or less following the old El Camino Real), and any lingering dreams of a successful Arch Beach faded rapidly away. Businesses closed, people moved away, and a good deal of the land was sold for taxes. After the largely touristless summer season of 1894, Ambrose abandoned the hotel and went back to farming himself. The hotel and the land around it were sold for $500. 

In 1895 Augusta E. Towner wrote an article for Charles Fletcher Lummis’ Land of Sunshine magazine, still extolling the virtues of Arch Beach: 

"Arch Beach is a most romantic spot; set like an amphitheater amidst hills, its oceanward frontage precipitous, with fanciful arches at base of the cliff, against which the breakers fling high their spray. A curious natural rock-arch gives name to the beach. …Good water is piped to the cottages. Arch Beach is exceedingly attractive, too, out of season, when wildflowers cover the hills, or winter storms roll in a thunderous surf."

The Arch, 1895. Photo from Land of Sunshine, Vol. 3, No. 2

But Towner’s efforts were too little too late. The boom town was no more.

In late 1897 and/or early 1898, the long-deserted hotel’s new owner, Joseph Yoch, paid Santa Ana house mover Fremont Thorpe to cut the building into three pieces and move it across the hills and arroyos to Laguna Beach. There, it was added to Yoch’s Laguna Beach Hotel to become the New Hotel Laguna. This newly Frankensteined-together building was located at the corner of today's Coast Highway and Laguna Avenue and had thirty rooms and two bathrooms. It proved popular and in 1930 was replaced with a new and modern Hotel Laguna, which still stands.

Woods Point

In 1906 and 1907, Clementine “Clemma” E. Woods – Pasadena resident and treasurer of a Colorado mining company – bought up much of the Arch Beach boom town area. Soon, the townsite atop the cliffs was being called Woods Point, and the coast below Woods Cove. Her husband, Harry Edwin Woods, had been a newspaper publisher in Ohio but had moved west and gone into the mining business. The two proved an important asset to the greater Laguna Beach area, contributing generously out of their own pockets to improve the community. 

Woods Point and Arch Rock, circa late 1910s. Photo by Clara Mason Fox.

Meanwhile, in 1912, the somewhat flimsy Arch Beach Pier finally succumbed to the elements, bringing an end to one of the last symbols of the former boom town.

A hotel would not grace Arch Beach again until 1915, when the Arch Beach Tavern was built a few blocks inland at 2180 Catalina Street. By that point, automobiles and better roads were both more commonplace. And in the 1920s, the completion of Coast Highway made this area even less isolated, increasing property values. Large vacation homes were built in the area, primarily by rich out-of-towners, including many from Los Angeles and Pasadena. 

Postcard from the Arch Beach Tavern.

In the late 1920s, Clemma Woods subdivided her property and sold lots through the Skidmore Brothers’ real estate firm. One of the many homes built during that era – a large Tudor which sat at approximately the site of the old Arch Beach Hotel – would later serve as the home of actress Bette Davis. (A large “D” can still be seen on the chimney of the house, which is just north of the public stairs leading down to the beach.)

People remembered for some time that this area was called Arch Beach, and it was still referred to that way into the 1910s. In 1911, for instance, a new development just to the northeast (inland) was dubbed Arch Beach Heights.

Lost in Downtown Laguna

In 1887, the same year he helped file the Arch Beach town plat map, Nate Brooks also filed a plat map labeled “Part of Arch Beach, Plat II,” which extended from Cleo Street south to Calliope Street near the heart of Laguna Beach. Aside to references to the official subdivision name, it would be many decades before people commonly referred to this area as Arch Beach.

Arch Beach, Plat II, surveyed by S. H. Finley, July 1887.

Arch Beach Migrates South Again

The 1920s saw the name Arch Beach on the move again. Depending on who you asked and when, it could have been located anywhere from Bluebird Canyon Road down to today’s Aliso Circle.  

In his 1922 promotional pamphlet, A Rambling Sketch in and About Laguna and Arch Beaches, Orange County, California, David Andrew Hufford hedged on the exact location but rambled on with a plethora of puffery about Arch Beach:

“A few years ago, a noted globe trotter once said, ‘there is but one Arch beach as there is but one Yosemite,’ and I am not inclined to dispute his opinion. And another world traveler who visited all the European watering places, said nowhere could he find such a beautiful coastline, and to ‘see it once was to live.’ Everything considered – climactic conditions, pure oxygen, in the frostless belt, where Nature has done so much, it is now up to the home builders—is par excellence for your seaside home.”

Hufford also offered the following acrostic: 

ARCH-BEACH-BY-THE-SEA

Announced to the world by Jesuit Fathers, 

Revealing its picturesque caves and pools;

Carved out here and there, its rugged beauty

Hidden so long from the open road.

But now a castle ov’rlooks the sea, and 

Each rock and promontory beckons

Artists, who marvel at the changing colors.

Coast line so picturesque, mountains so grand,

Here Nature repays you for an automobile ride.

The Arch Beach Realty Co., located at Pearl Street and Coast Highway, opened in the mid-1920s. They remained into the early 1930s, selling coastal property to the rich and famous and property on the inland side of the highway to the slightly less rich and famous.

An 1894 sketch of "The Arch" by Clara Mason Fox. (Courtesy O.C. Archives)

By the late 1920s, people were referring to Villa Rockledge – the elaborate summer home of the Mission Inn’s Frank Miller– as being in Arch Beach. It was not in or adjacent to the boom town site, but rather farther down the coast. It was, however, right atop the old Aliso Beach Township northern boundary line. In fact, people started gradually applying the name Arch Beach primarily to the area from Villa Rockledge down to about today’s Wesley Drive – an area once included in the old Aliso Beach Township. This stretch constitutes one of Orange County’s most picturesque stretches of coastline, including Pirate Tower, Treasure Island Beach, Victoria Beach, and Goff’s Island. Whether by dumb luck or by dint of historical precedence, the name Arch Beach had finally come home to roost on part of the land where it started. 

Postcard of Arch Beach, circa 1920s.

Every Arch Beach is the Real Arch Beach

Eventually, the area called Arch Beach expanded northward to again consume EVERY section of coastline that had ever been given that name, from Sleepy Hollow down to Nyes Place. However, the far inland reaches of the old township weren’t included in this. 

The old Arch Beach boom town site became part of the newly incorporated City of Laguna Beach in 1927. Still, some of the picturesque homes of the early Woods Cove years remain. And of course, the beautiful, rugged shore still beckons to those with a little romance in their heart.  

View of beach below original Arch Beach Hotel site, 2021.

But the true location of Arch Beach remains fuzzy in the minds of many. “People have confused the name many times,” says Janz. “There is one local lad who insists Arch Beach was only around the Bluebird Beach area.”

So if anyone asks, “Where is Arch Beach,” just tell them it’s south of the original boundaries of Laguna Beach. It will probably satisfy their curiosity and won’t require a half hour of explanation.

[Thanks to historian Jane Janz of the Laguna Beach Historical Society for sharing her family stories and historical resources, clarifying several important points, and generally helping the author sound smarter than he is. No Laguna Beach history article is complete until it’s run through “Janecheck.” Thanks also to historian Eric Plunkett for pointing out spots where I needed to be clearer.] 

The Pacific Beach Club

Front page of the Santa Ana Register, Jan. 21, 1926.

The following article was originally published in 2011 in the journal Orange Countiana, Volume VII (Orange County Historical Society). But it began in 2005 when I stumbled across a small but surprising blurb about a "negro beach club" near Huntington Beach in a 1926 issue of the Santa Ana Register. Once I was aware of this lost bit of local history, I kept chipping away, doing original research, and gradually the story began to emerge. 

When I began, the only secondary sources I could find on the Pacific Beach Club were a few notes from historian Bob Johnson and brief mentions in Leo Friis’ Orange County Through Four Centuries and Samuel Meyer’s, Fifty Golden Years: The Story of Newport Beach. Since the publication of my article (and a series of lectures I gave afterward), I’ve been glad to see others pick up the story and, with additional research, provide further context and value. Sadly, others -- in the rich tradition of the Web -- just steal content directly without so much as a credit line. 

In posting this article online here, I have added additional images, and added or expanded a few lines of text where I now know more than I did ten years ago. I hope the forgotten story of the Pacific Beach Club becomes part of our cultural understanding of Orange County history and that the site of the Club will someday be widely recognized as historically significant.   -CLJ

Concept art of a completed Pacific Beach Club. Adapted by the author from promotional art in the March 20, 1925 California Eagle. 

The Rise and Fiery Fall of the Pacific Beach Club

Chris Jepsen

In the mid-1920s, a large, elegant, and controversial beach club, exclusively for black people, was built about a mile south of the Huntington Beach pier. If it were still standing today, it would be one of Orange County's most iconic structures. The club's turbulent story is one of hope, racism, dogged determination, and possibly fraud. Yet few Orange Countians today have heard of – much less know what became of – the Pacific Beach Club.

In the 1910s and 1920s, access to municipal pools and parks was extremely limited for anyone who wasn’t white, and their access to Los Angeles area beaches was nearly nonexistent. This exclusion was accomplished in various ways including local ordinances, privatization of beaches by white clubs, and by renting beaches to tenants who would enforce white-only rules. In some cases, white beach-goers would confront those crossing racial lines, and in many locations, police would roust blacks from the beach as undesirables. Violence was also employed, as it was in 1920, when three police officers assaulted a black family that refused to leave Santa Monica Beach. They threw a child aside and beat and shot the father.

 In 1912, Mrs. W.A. Bruce tried to improve the situation by opening a small stretch of coastline to blacks in northern Manhattan Beach – a spot that became known as Bruce's Beach. This small “resort” and its visitors immediately became the target of harassment by adjacent white property owners. Later, the Ku Klux Klan became involved and harassment escalated to terrorism. Bruce's Beach succumbed to the pressure and closed in 1924.

At the boundary of “The Inkwell" beach at Santa Monica, circa 1925. (Photo courtesy "Shades of L.A.: African American Community," Los Angeles Public Library)

Just below Venice Beach, in 1921, white real estate huckster A.C. Langan marketed a proposed black seaside retreat called Lincoln Beach. But the plans fell through, and Langan was soon led away in handcuffs for an unrelated embezzlement scam. 

In 1922, blacks tried to purchase a stretch of beach in Santa Monica for the purposes of building a clubhouse, bathhouse, and amusement center. But local business owners complained bitterly, and the city blocked the development. 

The following year, the City of Los Angeles agreed to lease 200 feet of beachfront near El Segundo to black businessman Titus Alexander for a similar project. But when word got out, a new “Beach Playground Protection Association” – a front for the Title Insurance & Trust Company – quickly drafted a referendum that successfully kept that portion of public beachfront from being privatized.   

In 1924, white residents forced the closure of Caldwell’s Hall, a dance hall for blacks, and took further steps to ban black people from living in Santa Monica or Ocean Park.

But 1924 also brought black Southern Californians a glimmer of hope with the founding of the resort town of Val Verde (sometimes called “the black Palm Springs”) in the Santa Clarita Valley. It was popular and so successful that it survived until the 1960s, when other vacation spots desegregated.

A family on an outing to Val Verde Park, 1927 (LA County Public Library)

Also in 1924, a tiny sliver of beach called the Inkwell opened to blacks at the end of Pico Blvd. But it was ridiculously small, and there was little reason to think it would last. In short, a beach getaway where black people could relax and enjoy the Pacific was long overdue. 

Surprisingly, it was a white attorney from Los Angeles, Halbert R. “Hal” Clark, who took on the challenge. On December 1, 1924, he purchased seven and a half acres of unincorporated beachfront property between Huntington Beach and Newport Beach from Col. S.H. Finley. From Los Angeles, the property could be reached via the new Coast Highway, or with a $1 trip on one of the Pacific Electric Railway’s “Red Cars.” Today, the rectangular parcel of land is part of Huntington State Beach, across Pacific Coast Highway from the Cabrillo Mobile Home Park, and just north of Newland Avenue.

Hal R. Clark, candidate for County Attorney, Montgomery Co., Kansas. (Coffeyville Daily Journal, July 29, 1908)

Hal Clark was born in Ohio in 1881. He lived in Kansas and Indiana before settling for good in Los Angeles with his wife, Carolyn, and his daughter, Evelyn. He was what you might call “ethically challenged.” In later years he was suspended by the State Bar for accepting cases from ambulance chasers, and was indicted by a Federal grand jury for selling oil drilling permits for land he didn't own. Yet he was resilient – or at least shameless. Only one week after being sentenced to probation for mail fraud in 1932, he spoke before the Women’s Political League as a candidate for State Assembly in the 59th District. He also went on to run, unsuccessfully, for the Los Angeles Board of Education in 1934 and 1945. 

Col. Finley, who sold Clark the beach property, was a three-term County Supervisor in Orange County’s First District. He was also the mayor of Santa Ana, the County Surveyor, a member of the Board of Education, and the founding Secretary of the Metropolitan Water District. Successful in real estate, he had been one of Philip A. Stanton’s key partners in purchasing and developing the land that became Huntington Beach. Why he sold land to Clark for a black beach club is unclear. However, it's worth noting that Finley had recently won re-election to the Board of Supervisors, defeating Bert A. Dawson, a member of the Ku Klux Klan.

Within a few weeks of purchasing his beach property, Clark hired builder Charles E. Row of Long Beach for what was expected to be a $291,000 construction project. 

An item about the project in the prominent black Los Angeles newspaper, The California Eagle, declared: 

“The whites have for years enjoyed their clubs and organizations for the gathering of members for social and recreational enjoyment. We must now awake to the fact that if we are to provide ourselves with a portion of the Pacific NOW is the time – The past few years have seen the beaches entirely taken up by Clubs and subdivisions... There is at this time no place left on the Pacific near Los Angeles where we may congregate for any purpose.” 

Orange County’s beaches were not segregated by law or in practice, as they were in Los Angeles, said Robert A. Johnson, historian and co-author of A Different Shade of Orange: Voices of Orange County, California, Black Pioneers (2009). “In part, there just weren’t enough black people in Orange County to create an official policy. The idea of their own club would have appealed because it was the sort of thing whites had in places like Santa Monica. And it also would have given them a sense of security that they couldn’t be pushed out again.”

According to the Santa Ana Register, Clark's “Pacific Beach Club” was “not a proposition in which the colored people are investing their money, but is an amusement project fostered by Clark and his associates. The colored people have no direct interest in the project at the present time other than it is their plan to make the club an exclusive colored beach colony.”

That would soon change.

Club president E. Burton Ceruti (BlackPast.org)

While Clark was readying the property, the Pacific Beach Club itself was being formed by a group of prominent black Angelenos. Only members and their immediate families would be able to use the Club’s facilities. Life memberships were originally sold for $75 and Associate memberships for $50. However, the membership costs rose incrementally over time. It was planned that by the end of ten years, the membership fees would have paid for the Club’s facilities, and ownership would be transferred from Clark to the Club itself.

In 1925, the Club’s Board of Directors included some of Los Angeles’ best known black professionals:

• President E. Burton Ceruti, an attorney
• Vice President Dr. James T. Smith, a pharmacist.
• Secretary Rev. William R. Carter, a Baptist minister.
• Treasurer Dr. R.S. Whittaker, an Otolaryngologist.
• Dr. Roberta “Batie” Cecelia Robinson, a physician.

The Eagle later identified other additions to the Board, including: 

• Hon. Frederick Madison Roberts, California’s first black State Assemblyman. 
• Dr. Albert Bauman, a pharmacist and future president of the L.A. Urban League.
• Dr. Wilbur C. Gordon, a physician.
• Dr. R.C. Orffut, (probably a misidentification of Dr. Georgia K. Offutt, a podiatrist).
• Joseph Blackburn Bass, editor of the California Eagle, and husband of the newspaper’s influential publisher, Charlotta Bass.

Other prominent black leaders also supported the project, including H. Claude Hudson, president of the Los Angeles Chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). 

Pacific Beach Club president E. Burton Ceruti was particularly well known as a civil rights leader. He was a native of the Bahamas and was educated in New York before moving west and passing the California Bar in 1912. In Los Angeles, he became an attorney for the Colored People’s Protective League and took the lead in forming the local branch of the NAACP, for which he also provided legal counsel. He led the NAACP in numerous legal battles, including the fight to end racial discrimination by the Los Angeles County Hospital’s Training School for Nurses. He also fought to suppress D. W. Griffith’s 1915 film, “The Birth of a Nation,” which glorified and helped revive the Ku Klux Klan.

Pacific Beach Club board member Joseph Blackburn Bass

The Pacific Beach Club’s leadership was impressive, and so were the proposed club facilities. The architecture of this complex of large, white stucco buildings was to be “Egyptian” – a popular theme in the 1920s, also seen in such landmarks as Grauman’s Egyptian Theater in Hollywood. Handsome towers anchored the corners of each building and gave the complex a certain amount of grandeur.

Descriptions varied a bit from one promotional pamphlet or article to another, but most of the Club’s features seemed set from the beginning. One of the first buildings to be erected was the bathhouse, located on the eastern end of the Club’s land. When completed, it was to include showers and 2,000 lockers. There were also plans for a large recreation hall with a “spring floor” for 3,000 dancers, as well as a balcony for entertainers, a large roof garden, club rooms, fireplaces, lounging rooms, a radio room, an auditorium, and a stage with a capacity of 450 people. Also, a 100 foot by 100 foot clubhouse would be among the first buildings constructed. 

This, the only known photo of any of the Pacific Beach Club’s buildings, (identified as the Dance Pavilion,) appeared in The California Eagle as construction neared completion.

The Amusement Zone would feature all the concessions found at any beach resort – all owned by the members. All concessionaires and employees of the Club were to be black. A large campground with over 200 tents (with rents never to exceed $10 per week) would also be built on the grounds, as would a supervised children’s playground.

The entire property would be surrounded by a white stucco wall, which would be “a replica of a prominent movie studio at Culver City” (probably MGM). Members’ cars would be kept inside the fenced grounds in an attended parking lot. Security was clearly a major consideration.

One illustration of the club optimistically depicted its own covered depot on the adjacent Pacific Electric trolley line. A building to house a restaurant, drug store, grocery store, and more was to be added by the end of 1925. 

The Pacific Beach Sales Organization had their offices in the YWCA Building, on 12th Street in Los Angeles, where a Mr. Peace offered a sales pitch to prospective members twice daily. 

As the groundbreaking approached, Ceruti said, “The Pacific Beach Club is no longer a proposition: It is an established fact.” Perhaps as much to settle the nerves of local residents as to attract new members, board member Rev. William R. Carter added, “The Constitution and by-laws of the Pacific Beach Club are so constituted that they eliminate the possibility of undesirables among the membership.”

Indeed, the “negro beach colony” project was watched with concern from adjacent and predominantly white communities. 

“Announcement of the plans … to establish a colony on the beach caused strenuous protests on the part of citizens of Huntington Beach and Newport Beach,” reported the Register. “The objections were ignored, however, and construction of the buildings started.”

Ground was broken on Sunday, March 22, 1925. Rev. J.D. Gordon of the Tabernacle Baptist Church of Los Angeles began his speech to the assembled masses with the words, “Draw up nearer folks!” The driving of the first pile immediately followed the speech. “Race leaders” gave brief lectures, and people brought their bathing suits to “test the surf.” The Huntington Beach Police had to request assistance from the Sheriff to deal with the heavy traffic along Pacific Coast Highway.

“Things went along fine, and it looked like the fondest dreams would come true,” wrote the Eagle. “We watched with doubt and skepticism for the promised buildings…. We saw them rise slowly but sure … as the massive structure rose to illumine the horizon.” At least “99 percent of the members went into the proposition with the loftiest intention, and visualized a beach home for the race.”

County Board of Supervisors Chairman Tom Talbert said he thought the movement to develop the club was a bluff to gain publicity for the promoters. He said the County Board of Supervisors was keeping an eye on the matter, and could take action in the future if necessary. 

But the Huntington Beach Chamber of Commerce and other civic groups wasted no time in passing resolutions to discourage the project. This officially expressed disapproval was the first significant sign of trouble. It was the tip of the iceberg, and the Pacific Beach Club had continual problems from then on.

It began when the railroad refused right of way across the tracks to the Club’s property. After much wrangling, the Pacific Electric crossing was obtained through court action. Meanwhile, some of the lumber and equipment was actually skidded into the site under a railroad trestle.

Pacific Electric trestles near the Pacific Beach Club site, 1933 (Orange County Archives)

Taking a similarly obstructionist stance, the Board of Trustees (City Council) of Huntington Beach would not provide water lines to the Pacific Beach Club. This too was ultimately solved by the Club’s lawyers.

J. A. Armitage, Secretary of the Huntington Beach Chamber of Commerce, told his fellow members he had spoken with Clark, and felt the resort would not be injurious to the local community. Nonetheless, the Chamber created a committee to handle the publicity, propaganda, and fundraising needed to thwart the Pacific Beach Club. The members of the committee included Chamber president (and future mayor) Samuel R. Bowen, Judge Charles P. Patton, City Trustee James H. Macklin, City Attorney Lewis W. Blodget, and Edward H. Cookingham of the telephone company.

The Huntington Beach News reported Macklin’s sentiments: “Adjoining properties would be injured by the colored people, as had been the case in other localities.” He also told the Chamber that black people were picnicking in the city park. Patton replied that since Macklin lived near the park, he should be appointed to “see that the colored visitors were made comfortable.” Ominously, the suggestion was met with “a good round of laughter.” 

Downtown Huntington Beach, 1923 (Huntington Beach News)

Ironically, a number of Huntington Beach officials – including Macklin – were being targeted for removal from office by members of Ku Klux Klan at that time. Chamber president Bowen denounced the Klan, appropriately calling it an organization “founded on prejudice, hate, and intolerance…. Its success would supplant the freedom guaranteed us by our government, and a reign of intolerance would follow.”

Meanwhile, there was already trouble at the Pacific Beach Club construction site. 

“Carpenters... had overheard persons remarking on what a fine fire the buildings would make,” the Los Angeles Times later reported. Clark had trouble getting contractors to take the job, and even more trouble getting them to stay.

Still, hopes ran high for the Club in Los Angeles’ black community. On September 7, 1925, black families gathered at the construction site for a bathing beauties parade intended to promote new memberships in the Club. The event was for black people only, but white reporters from the Register “crashed the gates” to cover the event. More than 400 cars were parked along both sides of the highway, with each car averaging five passengers. The day’s events took place on a platform built on the seaward side of the uncompleted dance hall. Crews with movie cameras and radio broadcasting equipment attended. 

At the Pacific Beach Club bathing beauty contest, Labor Day 1925. Judges, including Joseph Bass, Dr. Royal Clark, and several others, selected Mildred Boyd (right) as the winner. She was a dancer at the Cotton Club in Culver City, and was part of the Creole Cuties Revue. (California Eagle)

The Los Angeles Times reported that the “negro bathing beauty parade” was believed “to be the first in the country,” and that the upscale black-only resort itself would also be a first. 

The event began with brief comments from Rev. G.M. Gordon, who held no illusions and pulled no punches: 

“The white people are not doing this because they love us, but rather in anticipation of making a profit on the land investment…. But I would rather come down here and be free than to be forced by law to take certain places or positions at other places of amusement. The white folks think they are superior to the negro, but this is not true. They do have the money, however, and we must learn to use them and their money.” 

A “stock selling” was held, with life memberships in the Club now priced at $80. Performances by a “colored orchestra” followed. This, in turn, was followed by the bathing beauties parade itself. The costumes were modest, even by the standards of the day. Fried chicken, banana cream pie, and chocolate cake were served.

Pacific Beach Club beauty contest, Labor Day, 1925 (California Eagle)

By September 13, 1925, workmen were driving pilings for the dance hall and clubhouse. Contractor Charles Rowe – who also held a mortgage on the property – rushed the work, which had been held up repeatedly. 

In early November, the Register reported that two additional “negro colonies” were being considered for Orange County: one in Garden Grove and the other between Santa Ana and Orange. This may have been a reflection of the Club’s optimism, or could just as easily have been planted as a story to help spread sentiment against the Pacific Beach Club to other parts of the county.

By the end of the month, construction neared completion on the huge steel frame of the dance hall, and the bathhouse awaited only its stucco finish.

In December – with 200 memberships sold to residents of Los Angeles, Long Beach, and Orange County – the Club suffered another major setback. State Corporation Commissioner Edwin M. Daugherty refused to allow the Club to issue bonds. 

“The bonds were to mature in one year and the club, in its agreement with the bond company, was to pay . . . twenty percent of the monthly net profits for redemption of the bonds,” wrote the Register. “The club would be required to earn a net profit of $802,500 for the first year of operation to meet minimum principal and interest payments on the bonds. In addition to [finding] the plan of the club was not feasible, the commissioner found that the security for the bonds, including buildings and tent houses, was subject to rapid depreciation and of such character that in the event of a forced sale, it was unlikely that the bond issue would be realized.”

An overlay of the Pacific Beach Club property (in green) on a later map. Click to enlarge.

Construction was halted and the contractor left the job. Club memberships were now up to $90 and the struggling sales office made wild claims that it expected to sell 4,000 memberships in the coming year.

Harry C. Layton of San Pedro took over the construction contract, but almost immediately started trying (unsuccessfully) to back out. 

“Several other construction companies have had representatives in Huntington Beach during the past few days, investigating the responsibility of the club,” the Register reported. “The buildings were supposed to have been completed last summer. The framework of a large bathhouse… and the skeleton of a large dance hall have been built. Work on the tract has been very irregular. Work was halted again Tuesday [December 15] when Montgomery Burns, engineer in charge of the pile driver at the colony, dropped dead while at work. The pile driver was driving piling upon which a promenade is to be built.” 

Rumors began that a “group of capitalists” were interested in buying the property for a high-end, white-only resort. Meanwhile, some Orange Countians made repeated efforts to persuade the County Board of Supervisors to buy the Club’s property and turn it into a public beach. The Supervisors did not choose to address the issue.

Despite these impediments, construction progress lurched slowly forward, and Clark announced that the Pacific Beach Club would officially open on Lincoln’s Birthday, 1926. 

Then, around six in the morning, on January 21, a fire began in the northwest corner of the clubhouse. The only witness was the Club’s night watchman, Alonzo H. Sneed, who had living quarters along with his wife Ella in the bathhouse. Sneed said he had just gone off duty and was heading to bed when he heard a noise from the north side of the dancing pavilion. He looked out and saw the fire. He also saw two men moving quickly toward cars parked just east of the site. Sneed didn’t get the license plate numbers of the vehicles.

“A.H. Sneed, negro night watchman… declared he heard two automobiles start up and drive off, one toward Newport Beach and one toward Huntington Beach,” reported the Times. “‘I thought she’d burn up, but I thought they’d start her with a bomb,’ Sneed said. ‘A bomb is what I’ve been expecting.’” 

The fire spread rapidly, destroying the clubhouse, bathhouse, and dancing pavilion. Part of a railway bridge to the east of the complex was also scorched. Fire trucks arrived, but with no water lines yet running, the firemen could only watch the buildings burn. Only a small tool shed remained unscathed. 

A photo of the “smoking pilings and twisted steel girders” of the Club appeared in the Register the morning of the fire. In its day, this was a rare example of timely local news photography. 

Even before the steel frame of the dance hall was cool, workmen were clearing away the debris. Many club members drove slowly past to see their dream reduced to smoking ruins. The California Eagle called the burning “one of the most dastardly and cowardly crimes ever committed,” and opined: 

“The Pacific Beach Club, the last stand for our group to have a place on the sea for their very own, they have resorted to the torch and in the inky darkness of midnight have applied the same to the rising hopes and fondest calculations of those who sought that this group should have a real place of amusement worthwhile upon the sea…. Justice should assert itself in all of its fullness to the end that all peoples should enjoy the liberty and pursuit of happiness guaranteed to them under the constitution.” 

An investigation to identify the arsonists began immediately. Clark claimed they would be arrested within twenty four hours, and that Sneed knew the identity of one of the criminals. This man, the Times reported, “had been hanging around the Club for some time, and was evidently familiar with the protective arrangements, the fire having been started at the one time during the twenty-four hours when there was no watchman in the place.” However, it appears that no arrests were ever made. 

Little is known about Sneed or the reliability of his testimony. When he left the Pacific Beach Club, he took a job in Los Angeles as a cook. For a while he was known for catering enormous picnics and was known as the “Pie King” and “Barbeque Shark.” In the 1930s, he moved to Salt Lake City, where he ran a pool hall.

For his part, Hal Clark had long expected arson. He said threats had been made that the Club would never open. Rumors of plans to burn the Club had been brought to his attention by carpenters on the project and by others visiting the site.

Among the most obvious suspects were those in the local community who had loudly fought the Club’s development from the beginning: the business and community leaders of the neighboring cities. 

Another group that could have played a role was the Ku Klux Klan, which was strong in Orange County, and indeed throughout the South, Midwest, and West, in the 1920s. Available Orange County 1924-1925 Klan rosters show only a handful of members in Huntington Beach and Newport Beach. However, the “Invisible Empire,” as they called themselves, operated more by word of mouth than through written records. 

Click to enlarge this panorama of an early 1920s KKK gathering at Huntington Beach (Anaheim Public Library)

The veracity of the Orange County Klan membership lists is still debated, and they are, at the very least, incomplete. Certainly there were more Klan members in coastal Orange County than the surviving rosters identify.

Huntington Beach, in particular, had strong Klan connections. Not only did the KKK march in the town’s parades, raise funds for local church projects, take out ads in the newspapers, and hold large local events, but they even painted "K.I.G.Y." ("Klansman, I Greet You") on streets leading into town. When it was revealed that the Klan held a majority on the Huntington Beach City Council, voters put them out of office in the next election. (Unlike Anaheim, where outraged anti-Klan newspapers spurred the immediate recall of a Klan-dominated council in 1924.)

On the other hand, the Klan of the 1920s was not quite the same violent vigilante group as the original Klan of the Reconstruction era or the overtly violent Klan that arose after World War II. Orange County’s Klan, in the 1920s, saw itself mainly as a Protestant civic organization, promoting the progress and “moral” development of communities, with an emphasis on prohibition. As Christopher Cocoltchos pointed out in his thesis on the Klan in Orange County, the KKK's identity as white Protestant racists hardly seemed to separate them from the rest of society in a region where white Protestants dominated and at a time when racism was, nationally, an institutionalized norm. Still, the Klan in Orange County harrassed Catholics, burned crosses, and drove at least one vocal critic of the group to build his Anaheim home with a bomb-proof first floor. 

The Klan’s history, reputation, racial and religious intolerance, and ongoing use of fear tactics indeed justified it being it a prime suspect in the Pacific Beach Club arson. Newport News publisher Samuel Meyer remembered, “In some quarters it was hinted the Ku Klux Klan had a dark and deep knowledge of the [arson] affair, because in those days the Klan was quite active in the Southland and on several occasions had set up a fiery cross on the hills overlooking Newport Harbor. It was also whispered that the destruction was spearheaded by the prominent citizens from several towns in the vicinity.”

Klansmen promoting a lecture in Anaheim, 1924.

Another argument for the Klan as the arsonists comes from Professor Dan Cady, who points out that fire was a signature of the Klan. Although true, fire is also the most expedient way for any unsavory character(s) to remove an unwanted building.

While unlikely, the arsonists could also have simply been individuals, unaffiliated with any organization, who wanted to discourage a black “colony” in their midst. In addition to true locals, the oil boom meant that Huntington Beach was also full-to-overflowing with transient oil field “roughnecks” from places like Oklahoma and Texas. 

Certainly the theory that the Pacific Beach Club was burned out by racists is the standard and most likely theory. But in order to examine all the possibilities, it's worth noting that at least one other person had much to gain from the fire: Hal R. Clark. 

Sales of Pacific Beach Club memberships were still much too low to pay the construction costs. And if the Club fell apart, there would be no way to repay the investors. Clark was between a rock and a hard place.

But when the fire destroyed the Club, all but $20,000 of the $150,000 loss was covered by insurance. In some press interviews, Clark even said that all the losses were covered. In any case, whoever set the fire effectively hit the “reset” button for Clark. 

On the other hand, historian Robert A. Johnson opined: 

“Within a few weeks the club would have been completed, and many more members would likely have joined. Even if he wanted the insurance money, why would Clark burn it that early?”

In any case, the arsonists picked the most opportune time for their purposes: Before water lines were operational and before many people were around.

Immediately after the fire, Clark announced that the Club would “rise Phoenix-like, greater and grander than ever… as a challenge to the skulking cowards who have sought to stop still its march of progress.”

Initially, he said the opening of the Club would be delayed by no more than three months. But he also said that the fire insurance would have to be adjusted, an investigation made by insurance company detectives, and the insurance money duly collected before progress could resume.

The new Club would use the same design as the original, he said, but would be built of non-flammable materials like brick and concrete. In fact, the plans were becoming increasingly fortress-like. The first structure built was to be the large stucco fence around the property – all the way down to the high tide line – with high-power lights at intervals. Several watchmen would guard the site at all hours.

Many in the black community continued to stand by Clark. The California Eagle, whose editor sat on the Club’s board, wrote, “If our genial and big-hearted promoter, Hal R. Clark, who has made it possible thus far, can possibly bring this thing to pass, we believe he surely will. For until the contrary has been proved we believe him sincere and have had for him the greatest admiration as a promoter who delivers.”

Throughout most of 1926, there was little progress on the site, as the contractors refused to move ahead with construction. But those opposing the Club remained active. Within twenty four hours of the fire, a renewed effort was launched to have the Board of Supervisors condemn the Club’s property and repurpose it as a public beach. Club opponents pointed out “the removal of the buildings has made condemnation cheaper.” Even after the “threat” of the Pacific Beach Club was long gone, this push for a public beach between Huntington and Newport never died out. Ultimately, it led to the creation of today’s Huntington State Beach.

View looking west from the Pacific Beach Club site, 2006.

Meanwhile, as opponents looked for new angles, and while the Club’s board continued its watchful waiting, Clark looked for various ways to refinance and proceed with the project.

By November 1926, the Club was still foundering financially, no rebuilding had begun, and Clark was forced to mortgage the property. He asked the members to sell memberships to their friends and families. And, in a last ditch effort, he convinced the Club to launch a nationwide membership campaign to raise $25,000. The money would be used to pay off the mortgage and taxes. 

A coast-to-coast marketing push began, and stories ran in black newspapers throughout the nation. For example, both the Black Dispatch of Oklahoma City, and the Pittsburgh Courier carried long stories about the Pacific Beach Club. The national attention gave the Club a higher profile locally as well – both for good and for ill.

Almost immediately, a group of Huntington Beach residents responded to the campaign by forming an organization to oppose the rebuilding of the Club. But it was already increasingly clear that the Pacific Beach Club wasn’t coming back anyway. The Eagle wrote, “Despite the iron clad lease which lays in escrow for a title in ten years time, one must come to the conclusion that a beach at this spot is far fetched indeed.”

Foreclosure proceedings began in mid-November 1926. A majority of the members demanded their initial investment back, forming what they called “The Money Back Club.” 

In response to this outcry, the Board of Directors called a meeting for Nov. 22, where they took comments from members before considering the Club’s fate. President Ceruti, who leaned toward rebuilding, asked that the Money Back Club be barred from participating in the meeting. The Eagle editorialized that this was a poorly considered move on Ceruti's part: 

“Bearing in mind the fate of past venture, they [the members] are satisfied that they will indeed do well to get their money back at all. They have not forgotten Peaceful Valley [Country Club], Castiac [Country Club], Long Paugh, and Hokoo Lillie, cabin sites, Country Homes, etc. Also, they bask in the recollection of Santa Monica Beach frontage as well as other beaches and are in no frame of mind to be trifled with…”  

Finally, Clark offered to give back not only the money paid by members, but an additional ten percent interest, with all claims to be paid within a month. 

Board members Smith, Robinson, and Orffut opposed this move, still hanging on to their dream of a coastal resort. But the other members prevailed, citing low morale, lack of money, and the potential for endless litigation. 

On December 4, 1926, the Board of Directors accepted the offer, and Clark released the Club from its contract to rent the property from him. It seemed to be the end of the line for the Pacific Beach Club.

Within a month, a group of white Angelenos entered into an agreement with Clark to use the land for a new white beach club, called the South Coast Club. The new club claimed it would be larger, more opulent, and feature a Norman rather than an Egyptian architectural motif. Construction was to begin in April 1927. The Club was supposedly completely financed and was not dependent on membership sales to pay for its development. 

The Balboa Times cheered:

“Progressive Orange County citizens realizing the urgent need of restricting the beach front to the white race have acquired the ocean front property... The news of the proposed development was hailed by Newport Beach residents with pleasure...” 

Balboa, viewed from the pier, 1920s

However, most of the South Coast Club's purported “Board of Governors” turned out never to have heard of the organization they nominally led, and the Club’s actual ownership was shrouded in mystery. Potential members and investors were almost certainly skeptical. Soon, the whole plan fell apart, and in July 1927 the land was sold for delinquent taxes. (Clark had still not paid the property tax from 1925.) The land’s previous owner, Col. S.H. Finley, then re-purchased the property at auction.

Simultaneously, there was a sea change on the issue of segregated beaches in Southern California. Spurred by the closing of Bruce’s Beach in Manhattan Beach, the Los Angeles chapter of the NAACP had been fighting for desegregated beaches. In August 1927, their efforts, including the chapter’s first uses of civil disobedience (a “swim-in”), bore fruit. Manhattan Beach desegregated. The move was lauded by many, including the Los Angeles Times editorial board, and soon most of Southern California’s beaches followed suit.   

Still, in December 1927, a new incarnation of the never-say-die Pacific Beach Club was trying to buy back their old property for a new clubhouse. By the following month, surveyors were again at work on the property. Exactly how far these plans advanced is unclear. 

However, on Sunday, September 1, 1929, hundreds of black Angelenos gathered at a makeshift version of the Pacific Beach Club on the site where the first version had burned three years before. They erected a large tent on the old property as a recreation room, with a number of smaller tents nearby. There were hopes of doing more, and eventually adding small beach cottages all around. 

A month later, however, the stock market crashed. And like so many other development plans during the Great Depression, the revival of the Pacific Beach Club came to a permanent halt. 

Huntington State Beach, circa 1952.

Hal Clark died in Los Angeles on Aug. 28, 1962, just two years before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 finally outlawed much of the remaining racial segregation throughout the country. The identity of those who burned the Pacific Beach Club remains a mystery.

Today, the Pacific Beach Club’s old property is enjoyed by people of all colors and creeds, and it looks like any other stretch of Huntington State Beach. No sign of the Club remains. In fact, the only features that stand out are the many concrete fire rings scattered across the sand – each stamped with the warning, “Caution: Hot Ashes.”

BIBLIOGRAPHY

• “Arson Arrests Expected,” Los Angeles Times, January 23, 1926.
• “Arsonists Burn Negro Beach Club,” Santa Ana Register, January 21, 1926.
• “Business Men Talk City Affairs.” Huntington Beach News, March 20, 1925.
• “Business Men to Oppose Colony.” Huntington Beach News, April 3, 1925.
• Cady, Daniel, “Whiteness on the Edge of Town: Regional Transformations & Residential Preferences.” Unpublished manuscript (2004), courtesy the author.
• “Chamber of Commerce.” Huntington Beach News, April 10, 1925.
• “Change Complexion of Proposed Club,” Los Angeles Times, December 19, 1926.
• Cocoltchos, Christopher, The Invisible Government and the Viable Communities: The Ku Klux Klan in Orange County, California During the 1920s. University of California, Los Angeles, Ph.D. 1979.
• “Colored People’s Resort Meets With Opposition,” Los Angeles Times, June 27, 1912.
• “Double Crossed,” California Eagle, June 18, 1926.
• Emmons, Steve, “Anaheim Regime: Once It Was the Klan,” Los Angeles Times, September 6, 1970.
• “Finish Work on Frame of Beach Dance Palace,” Los Angeles Times, November 29, 1925.
• Flamming, Douglas. Bound For Freedom: Black Los Angeles in Jim Crow America. (University of California Press, 2005)
• “Four Arrested on Charges of Oil Mail Fraud,” Los Angeles Times, November 6, 1931.
• “Garden Grove Negro Colony Is Proposed,” Santa Ana Register, November 2, 1925.
• “Great Day, Dese Heah Colo’d Folk Suh Do Put On Some Bathing Parade,” Santa Ana Register, September 8, 1925.
• “Inquiry Begun In Club Blaze,” Los Angeles Times, January 22, 1926.
• Johnson, Robert A. - Interviewed July 5, 2011. 
• Johnson, Robert A. - Notes on the Pacific Beach Club. Unpublished. 
• “Lady Luck Is Not At Home To Negro Club,” Santa Ana Register, December 16, 1925.
• Leonard, Kevin. “Ceruti, E. Burton (1875-1927),” BlackPast.org. Retrieved from http://www.blackpast.org/?q=aaw/ceruti-e-burton-1875-1927
• “Local Attorney Suspended,” Los Angeles Times, January 17, 1931.
• “The Low Down on Pacific Beach,” California Eagle, November 26, 1926.
• Meyer, Samuel A., Fifty Golden Years: The Story of Newport Beach (Newport Harbor Publishing Co., 1957).
• “Negro Club Is Refused Permit,” Santa Ana Register, December 12, 1925. See also Orange County Book of Deeds, Book 626, p 330.
• “Negro Beach Club Site in New Hands,” Balboa Times, January 27, 1927.
• “Negroes Appeal for Funds to Buy Tidelands,” Los Angeles Times, November 18, 1926.
• Oftelie, Stan -- Email to author, July 10, 2011.
• Old Fulton New York Post Cards Support Forum, www.fultonhistory.com
• Orange County Book of Deeds, Book 559, p 135. Orange County Archives.
• “The Pacific Beach,” California Eagle, March 27, 1925.
• “The Pacific Beach,” California Eagle, January 29, 1926.
• “Pacific Beach Bone of Contention,” California Eagle, November 19, 1926.
• “The Pacific Beach Club,” California Eagle, July 16, 1926.
• Pacific Beach Club advertisement, California Eagle, March 27, 1925.
• Pacific Beach Club advertisement, California Eagle, April 3, 1925
• “Pacific Beach Club Announces Grand Opening & Ground Breaking,” California Eagle, March 20, 1925.
• “The Pacific Beach Fire,” California Eagle, January 22, 1926.
• “Pacific Beach Money Backers Win Out,” California Eagle, December 10, 1926.
• “Rush Work on Buildings for Negro Society,” Santa Ana Register, September 18, 1925.
• “Seek Man Seen Running From Beach Club Fire; Start Clearing Ground,” Santa Ana Register, January 22, 1926.
• “Settlement of Negroes is Opposed,” Los Angeles Times, July 30, 1922. 
• “South Coast Club Will Revert To Negro Group; New Clubhouse Proposed,” Santa Ana Register, December 16, 1927.
• “Three Projects Slated,” Los Angeles Times, February 13, 1927.
• “To Oppose Proposed Negro Club,” Los Angeles Times, November 22, 1926.
• “Women’s Political League,” Los Angeles Times, pg. B20, July 31, 1932.
• “Work At Negro Colony Halted,” Santa Ana Register, December 9, 1925.

Special thanks to Phil Brigandi, Stan Oftelie, Susan Jepsen, Stephanie George, and Bob Johnson.