Fritz Smythe Attacks the Courthouse

John S. Smythe (ca 1890) and the Orange County Courthouse (ca 1903)

Who was the first nut to vandalize County property? It's hard to be sure, but we have a strong contender.

In the early hours of Saturday, July 9th, 1903, once-prominent Anaheim pioneer, 79-year-old John Sydney “Fritz” Smythe, mounted a dramatic one-man assault on the Orange County Courthouse. Fritz was the husband of Maria Antonia Josefa Yorba de Smythe of the locally famed Yorba family, and was the father of both Mrs. Fred Rimpau of Anaheim and of the first Orange County Assessor, Frederick C. Smythe. 

Fritz had been hanging around the then-newish Orange County Courthouse for a couple days, requesting admittance to Orange County Hospital. But the County Hospital was a service reserved for the indigent. Fritz was told he didn’t qualify because his family was well-off and had explicitly told the county that they were willing and able to care for him themselves. In any case, it seems Fritz’ problems were largely in his brain, which isn’t something a hospital could do much about in 1903. 

A quick aside about the hospital: Two years earlier, the County began renting a “hotel” building on Second St. in Santa Ana to use as the County Hospital. Prior to that, the building had been operated by madam Mary “Glass-eyed Mollie” Wright. By 1903, however, the only remaining unorthodox aspect of the place was that Wright’s father, “Mysterious Bill,” was still living in a shack on the property. 

In any case, Fritz was furious about being turned away. In fact, he didn’t seem to care which County agency institutionalized him. The makeshift hospital and the jail were similarly appealing to him.

"An honest man has no chance in this county," Fritz complained to bystanders. "A man has to be a criminal before getting anything to do in this county," he said, gesturing toward a chain-gang of vagrants on maintenance detail on the Courthouse grounds.

Prisoners used as labor on the Courthouse grounds many years later -- cleaning up after the 1933 earthquake.

At 4:15 a.m. that Saturday, Fritz performed what the Anaheim Gazette called a “ghost dance” on the front lawn of the red sandstone courthouse and then proceeded to throw large, carefully selected rocks through ten of the big, expensive windows on the front (south side) of the building. One wonders if the stones were taken from the cobble curbing still found along sections of the Courthouse Block. Casualties included windows in the offices of the Assessor, Tax Collector, and Board of Supervisors.

Stone curbing on the Courthouse Block, 2025.

The sound of breaking glass awakened Courthouse janitor George Benedict, who lived in an apartment near the south door on the ground floor. He initially assumed that the building’s large skylight had been broken. But then crash after crash after crash indicated that the whole building was under attack.

Detail of basement (ground floor) plans for Orange County Courthouse, circa1900.

Benedict threw on some clothes, dashed to a good vantage point, saw what appeared to be a mad man hurling rocks at the building. He went back for his gun. By the time he got outside with his gun, Fritz Smythe was done with his tantrum and was sauntering off the Courthouse grounds. 

Benedict went to awaken Sheriff Lacy, whose apartment in the County Jail, which – being behind the courthouse – may have been out of earshot from the breaking glass. 

The County Jail (a.k.a. "Lacy's Hotel"), behind the Courthouse.

Lacy caught up with Smythe little more than a block from the Courthouse, in front of the Fashion Livery (419 N. Sycamore), where the Ramona Building now stands. There, Fritz freely admitted to his vandalism spree. He was arrested and examined on a charge of insanity. There was talk of sending him to an asylum. According to the Los Angeles Times, he appeared "unexcited and rational" but also "peculiar, and his manner suggestive of a restrained irrationality."

Looking down Sycamore from the Courthouse cupola, early 1900s. Fashion Livery, where Smythe was apprehended, highlighted in green.

The Los Angeles Evening Express wrote that Fritz Smyth “long has been known as a very quarrelsome old man” and opined that earlier similar attacks by Smythe against his “perceived enemies” were proof that he was not insane. 

On Easter morning, 1899, Fritz had lobbed several rocks through the plate glass windows of Samuel S. Federman’s dry goods store in Anaheim, which had apparently offended him in some way. In that instance, his friends and family ponied up the money to pay for the damage and charges were dropped. How the Express drew the conclusion that this incident was proof of Smythe’s sanity is a mystery.

Federman's Store is on the right, behind the white horse. View is Center St., looking west from Claudina, Anaheim, circa 1901.

Fritz was tried for malicious mischief on July 11th for his early-morning Courthouse escapade. Again, some of his friends came forward in court, offering to smooth things over by paying for the windows. But this time, when they found out what the windows would cost (at least $140), they rescinded their offers and left Fritz to the tender mercies of the law. Perhaps they also hoped a little punishment might discourage yet more window-breaking escapades.

Fritz was sentenced to six months in County Jail, which must have pleased him. Due to his advanced age, he was not put on the chain-gang as he’d pined for. But he proved a “good prisoner” and requested only one meal (breakfast) each day. 

The appeal of jail life wore thin, however. In December he formally appealed for early release for good behavior. The Board of Supervisors said they’d agree to early release if he, in turn, would agree to leave the county. But Smythe refused and served the rest of his sentence, which ended in the middle of January.

John S. “Fritz” Smythe appeared to still be in relatively good heath when he died of sudden heart failure June 22, 1906 at his home in Anaheim.

The Orange County Courthouse, including new windows, circa1904

The problem of lunatics creating headaches in and around what's now called the Old Orange County Courthouse is still with us. Having spent decades in Downtown Santa Ana, I’ve seen a LOT of crazy, heartbreaking, and destructive behavior from the homeless, the vast majority of whom suffer from serious mental illness, drug addiction, or both. I’ve seen way more than my fair share of screaming/unintelligible rants, endless wacky conspiracy theories, sidewalk poop, attempted arson, prone human forms that might or might not be dead, scattered drug paraphernalia, shockingly creative property damage, and so much more. And I’ve seen the Old Courthouse – now a beloved historical landmark and iconic symbol of our county – defaced (and repaired) many times. 

The crowd surrounding the Old Courthouse in the late 2010s and early 2020s.

In a move Smythe would have appreciated, there have even been many windows broken at the Old Courthouse and other civic buildings in recent years. At the time, I didn't recognize these incidents as historical re-enactments.

The situation is much better than it was in the late 2010s and early 2020s, but it's still part of daily reality. Just one example is a person I see frequently who's given to writing paranoid screeds on public property. She claims she lived on Mars for three years, trained Queen Elizabeth’s horses, and brought down mob kingpins for J. Edgar Hoover. Presumably not simultaneously, but who knows? 

Willard Smith of Villa Park

Orange County Supervisor Willard Smith

One of the most influential Orange County citizens of the 20^th century is barely remembered today. Willard Smith of Villa Park was a huge figure in the citrus and banking industries, water and land development, and most notably, as a County Supervisor from 1925 to 1955.

Willard Smith was born March 24, 1882 in the rural community of Mountain View (now Villa Park), in the house his father, rancher James M. Smith, built at the east end of Santiago Boulevard. (Now 18992 Santiago Blvd. at Sycamore and listed on the National Register of Historic Places.) Willard would live in the house most of his life. He attended Mountain View Elementary School and Santa Ana High School, and graduated from the Orange County Business College in Santa Ana.

VPOA's Red Dog brand of Valencia oranges, inspired by one of Smith's prized bulldogs.

As a young man, Smith tried his hand at various jobs. He left home in 1900 to work in the sawmills of Redding but soon returned to Orange County to start a citrus grove fumigation business. Next, he entered the photo engraving business, which took him to San Diego and then to Los Angeles. But the chemicals he had to work with were bad for his health. In 1906 he returned to Villa Park where he managed three citrus ranches and began raising prize-winning English bulldogs. 

Within a year, Smith was made president of the Serrano Water Co. (later called the Serrano Irrigation District), which served the Villa Park area. In that role, he was involved in the construction of the Santiago Dam and the creation of Irvine Lake in 1931. Smith served on the board of the Bixby Development Co. and was involved with the development of the Cerro Villa and Peralta Hills tracts. 

A financial whiz and already a stockholder and director of the National Bank of Orange, Smith filled in “temporarily” for an ailing cashier and soon also found himself in a lifelong banking career. When the bank merged with the First National Bank of Orange, he remained on their board for more than forty years and he served, at various times, as vice president and chairman of the board.

L to R: Willard Smith, Mr. Hasenjaeger, Willis Warner, Dick Hater, and Pat Arnold horsing around after a planning meeting with Walt Disney (right) at Disney Studios, December 1954.

Willard married Edna Lee in 1910, and the couple had two sons, Dr. George Abbott Smith (1911-2002) and Willard Irving Smith (1914-1957).

Smith was a founding member of the Villa Park Orchards Association, and served as its president from 1913 to 1959. He also served on the board of the Orange County Fruit Exchange, and was a founding member of the Orange County Farm Bureau.

Smith was active in numerous fraternal and civic organizations. He was a member of the Orange Grove Lodge #293, Free and Accepted Masons, serving as Worshipful Master in 1918. He was also active with the Orange Chapter #99, Royal Arch Masons, the Al Malikah Shrine Temple, the Orange Elks Lodge, the Orange Rotary Club, the Orange Community Chamber of Commerce, and the Native Sons of the Golden West.

L to R: Orange County Supervisors George Jeffrey and Willard Smith with the mayor of Laguna Beach at the end of Blue Lantern St. in Dana Point after a tour of the under-construction Ortega Highway, 1930.

As a prominent and capable community leader, Willard Smith was an obvious choice when, in 1925, it came time for the governor to appoint a replacement for Orange County Supervisor Leon Whittsel, who had been appointed to the State Railroad Commission. 

Once on the board, Smith’s talents, experience, penchant for research, and community connections made him a force to be reckoned with. He was “the sparkplug of the county’s executive board,” wrote the Orange Daily News. “There is little of the sensational about Willard Smith, he is instead a quiet, level-headed executive who takes every responsibility in dead earnest and never makes a play for publicity.” 

Smith would not have run for re-election, but a contingent of friends and supporters arm-twisted him into it. He would end up being the longest-serving Supervisor in the history of Orange County.

Representing the Fourth District, he saw the county through some of its most turbulent and transformative times, including prohibition; the dedication of the Orange County Airport; the building of the Ortega, Imperial and Coast Highways; the Great Depression; the 1933 Long Beach Earthquake; the development of Newport Harbor; the 1938 flood, the construction of Prado Dam and other flood control infrastructure; World War II, the shift away from an agricultural economy, the planning of Disneyland, and the beginnings of Orange County’s post-war population boom. No other individual was more responsible for guiding and shaping Orange County during its greatest era of development. During his time in office, he served several terms as chairman of the board.

Willard Smith's home and orange groves, Villa Park.

Although involved in steering the County through a vast array of critical issues, Smith was best known as an expert on county finances, water, flood control and agriculture. He also took a strong roll in forestry issues, fire prevention, and the growing population’s need for good roads.  

Politically, he was a proponent of keeping taxes low and spending revenue locally rather than turning to state and federal government for local needs. That said, he was more than willing to travel to Sacramento or Washington, D.C., when an advocate for Orange County was needed in the halls of power.

Despite his career and his impressive resume of public service, Willard Smith always regarded himself primarily as a farmer. His other interests were, he said, “incidental.”

Upon his retirement, Los Angeles Airways named their new heliport between Orange and Santa Ana in honor of Smith. After several years of poor health, he died in Orange on May 20, 1969. 

So much of what he created or laid the groundwork for is still part of Orange County today.

Anaheim’s “Missing” Jewish Cemetery

Anaheim in 1876. (Courtesy Anaheim Heritage Center)

There was almost a real cemetery in what became Disneyland’s backyard. But like some of the Haunted Mansion’s 999 ghosts, it failed to fully materialize.

Anaheim was planned and settled beginning in the late 1850s by the Los Angeles Vineyard Society, which was composed primarily of Germans and other Europeans who’d been living in San Francisco. It’s less well-known that some of Anaheim’s pioneers were Jewish – beginning with vintner, merchant and philanthropist Benjamin Dreyfus, who arrived in 1857. 

Jewish communities often prioritize acquiring land for a cemetery even before establishing a synagogue or school. The cemeteries are generally established by a local Jewish burial society – a tradition that began in Prague in the 16th Century. In keeping with religious law and tradition, these cemeteries are generally established outside of town. 

Gustav Davis, a founder of the Anaheim Hebrew Cemetery Assoc., joined his brother Phil in Anaheim in 1870. They opened a grocery and hardware store in 1878. (Courtesy Anaheim Heritage Center)

Indeed, as Anaheim’s Jewish community grew, the Anaheim Hebrew Cemetery Association was formed around 1876 and filed incorporation papers in January 1877. The first directors were Louis Wartenberg, Gustav Davis, Joseph Fisher, Morris A. Mendelson and H. Cohn. 

Henry Kroeger Building, south side of 100 block of Center St, (now Lincoln Ave.), Anaheim,1895. Early meeting place of the Anaheim Hebrew Cemetery Assoc. (Courtesy Anaheim Heritage Center)

The Association finally selected and purchased (from the Robinson Trust) two and a half acres south of town on July 8, 1882 for $125. 

In modern terms, the land is occupied by both the northbound and southbound lanes of Disneyland Drive, just south of Ball Road. 

Site of cemetery land highlighted in green.

Prior to the development of Disneyland Drive, the parcel was on the southeast corner of Ball and West Streets. (For you surveyor-types: The NE 1/4 of NW 1/4 of NW 1/4 of NW 1/4, of Section 22, Township 4 South, Range 10 West, San Bernardino Base & Meridian.) This spot was well known to locals into the early 1900s.

“However,” writes historian Dalia Taft, in JLife magazine, “no place of burial ended up being created and most Jews were interred in either Los Angeles or San Francisco." 

Site of proposed Anaheim Hebrew Cemetery as it appeared in 2024.

The fact that the land was never consecrated or used as intended was “perhaps because of the greater convenience of using the cemetery of the Hebrew Benevolent Society of Los Angeles located in Chavez Ravine,” writes Norton B. Stern in Western States Jewish History (Vol. 17, 1984). The reason was NOT – as one later history buff suggested – because God kept Anaheim’s Jews too healthy to ever need a cemetery.

Early Los Angeles map (detail) shows the Jewish cemetery on Reservoir St. in Chavez Ravine (Courtesy Huntington Library)

After being delinquent on taxes on their cemetery property since 1903, the Anaheim Hebrew Cemetery Association lost the property to the State of California on July 9, 1909. 

In a curious footnote to history, had Anaheim’s Jewish Cemetery been established it would have meant that Disneyland would have ended up elsewhere. Walt Disney made it clear to those helping him select a site, that he did not want his “Happiest Place on Earth” near a cemetery. 

Thanks to Jane Newell and Cynthia Ward for their help with this article.

Orange County’s Swamps & Marshes: A Historical Thumbnail Sketch

Bolsa Chica Ecological Preserve, 2012 (Photo by author)

You’ll never hear it from the Chamber of Commerce, but much of Orange County – from Irvine to Seal Beach to Westminster – was once covered in swamps and marshes. In a few places, segments of these swamps can still be found. But more often, over a century of elaborate drainage efforts have obliterated most signs of the wetlands. Let’s look at a few lowland highlights:

The area southeast of Garden Grove was known as “the Willows” for the dense swampy thickets that trapped wandering cattle and hid fugitive criminals. Even after the dense tangle of willows was carved away, simply driving a pipe into the ground a short distance would send a geyser of water into the air. Fountain Valley took its name from this phenomenon. 

Marshy willow thickets below the Newland House, Huntington Beach, 2007.

The miles-wide, willow-clogged river delta between the Huntington Beach mesa and Costa Mesa was occasionally described as being part of “the Willows,” but was also known by other names, including Talbert Gap. This swampland providing bait for fishermen, and seclusion for moonshiners and hermits. It included numerous lagoons including the large “Bitter Water Lake.”

The Talbert dredger, dredging a drainage canal near today's Atlanta and Magnolia Streets, in what's now Huntington Beach, 1898.

Westminster and north Huntington Beach were known as “the Peatlands” in the 1890s and early 1900s. Attempts were made to harvest peat from the bogs for fuel, and horses had to wear wide “peat shoes” to keep from sinking into the squishy ground. And the Cypress area was once called “Waterville” for its many artesian wells.

Peat shoes kept horses from sinking into the bog.

Gospel Swamp was the name given to the marshy land south of Santa Ana, below today’s McFadden Avenue and extending down into the northern edge of Costa Mesa. Many of the area’s settlers in the late 1800s were rural, religious folks from the South, who were jokingly called “Swamp Angels” by their city slicker neighbors in Santa Ana. The Greenville Country Church (1877) still stands at Greenville St. and MacArthur, near the heart of Gospel Swamp. A small remnant of the swamp itself can be seen behind the Heritage Museum of Orange County near Centennial Park. Some have surmised that the “Gospel Swamp” name stretched as far west as parts of Fountain Valley, although details about that particular boundary are hazy.

Upper Newport Bay, 2012 (Photo by author)

From the top of Upper Newport Bay to the foothills above Tustin and Irvine, the wetlands were almost impassable during the rainy season. When California was under Spanish and Mexican rule, the place was called la Cienega de las Ranas – the Swamp of the Frogs. Millions of tiny frogs could be heard “singing” for miles around each night, making it a landmark for travelers on El Camino Real. Today’s San Joaquin Marsh was part of the cienega. 

Blue heron at Bolsa Chica, 2013. (Photo by author)

The Bolsa Chica wetlands in Huntington Beach are named for the Mexican rancho they were once part of. It’s still an amazing repository of wildlife and is a critical spot for many species of birds during their migration up and down the coast. But it also has a rich human history. One can still find evidence of its Indian village sites, the exclusive Bolsa Chica Gun Club, the oil boom, the (now missing) Freeman River, World War II shore defenses and the modern battle between environmentalists and developers.

The "last peat bog in Fountain Valley," circa 1950s. Was west of Brookhurst St, on Garfield Ave.

For much of our history, the soggy parts of Orange County were both an annoyance and a boon. While it made the land useless for some purposes, the soil was rich with nutrients and damp enough to create booming industries in sugar beets, celery, lima beans, and other crops that benefit from constant moisture. The wetlands also served as a home for dozens of gun clubs or duck clubs, making Orange County a hunter’s paradise from Bolsa Chica to San Joaquin Marsh.

San Joaquin Marsh, Irvine (Courtesy Andreas Lombana/VvVAmobile)

Today, we recognize the value of wetlands and the many ways they provide a healthier environment for plants, animals and people. Instead of draining and paving them, there are efforts to preserve and even restore the marshlands that survive. 

Swamps: More proof that Orange County is more than Disneyland, and that all our local ducks don’t all wear sailor suits or hockey masks.

Talbert Marsh, near the mouth of the Santa Ana River, 1990.