The B. K. Stone Building, Newport Beach

View from the Dory Fish Market, circa 1930.

Someone recently asked me about the history of the building at 2100 W Oceanfront at McFadden Place, near the Newport Beach Pier. While researching it, I was shocked to discover how little information about this iconic building is in circulation. Moreover, much of the information that is in circulation is wrong. I won't get into the nitty-gritty of the property records here, but will share some of the basics.

Architect's concept Sketch (From Santa Ana Register, Jan. 1, 1927)

The lot was purchased by Bagasar K. Stone of Pasadena on Aug. 29, 1908. Either there was already a building on the lot or Stone soon built one there. 

But on March 2, 1927, Stone contracted with builder William Rohrbacher to build a newer, larger building on the site. The architect for the project was Frank Lansdown, who also designed the Bowers Museum (which Rohrbacher also built) and the beautiful Santora Building in Santa Ana.

Ocean Front and McFadden Place, circa 1940s.

Several tenants in the old building temporarily moved their businesses into tents on the sand across the boardwalk while the new building was under construction. The plan was initially for the upstairs space to be offices, but that space was ultimately used as part of a hotel/rooming house. The side facing McFadden Place has a slight curve to it, aligning with the railroad right-of-way that once allowed cargo trains access to the old McFadden Wharf (Newport Beach Pier).

Early photos of the building show the first floor occupied by such tenants as [Eddie I.] Moore's Confectionery, a lunchroom, and a bait shop. By the 1930s, Moore's remained and was joined by other businesses that came and went, including Clair G. Martin's Good Food (and drugstore), Mac's Malt Shop, and Charles O. Artz Fishing Tackle. Upstairs, the Newport Hotel remained a fixture for decades.

View from McFadden Square, circa late 1930s

At the height of the Great Depression, in 1934, the First Trust & Savings Bank of Pasadena foreclosed on the building. It wasn't until 1940 that they resold it to Bryant B. Casey who owned it until his death, almost a decade later. The building was then inherited by Haldis S. Hertzog in Nov. 1950. It still housed the Newport Hotel upstairs, with the Pacific Shell Store, the Seaside Malt Shop, and Newport Villa restaurant downstairs.

On Dec. 5, 1972, Richard Lee Lawrence and Jerry Allen Overland leased the building from Haldis and Francis C. Hertzog for a period of 98 years. Overland signed over his interest in the lease to Lawrence in 1975. Sometime thereafter, Lawrence transferred the lease to the family which currently holds the remainder of the 98-year lease. 

Today, the B. K. Stone building is the attractive centerpiece of what remains of Newport Beach's historic downtown. 

The Knotts in Twentynine Palms

Knott's Sky Ranch Motel, circa 1949

In 1939, Russell Knott -- son of Knott's Berry Farm founders Walter and Cordelia Knott (and a general partner in the "Farm" in his own right) -- bought a second home for himself and is wife Mildred on forty acres in the Twentynine Palms area, purportedly for health reasons. He planted twenty-nine palm trees on this land in 1947 and over the next two years he added five motel units and an airstrip for small planes. The construction work on the motel was done by local pioneer builder Walter Berg.

Russell loved the desert and is purported to be the one who talked his father into buying and restoring the old Mojave mining town of Calico. 

Former Knott's Berry Farm employees John and Mabel VanAlstine were hired as on-site managers for Sky Ranch, although Russell Knott flew in and out periodically from Buena Park to oversee his property. 

Mildred (center) and Russell Knott (right) at their Twentynine Palms home, circa 1940

The motel closed in 1958, John VanAlstine died in 1961, and Mabel VanAlstine left in 1962. 

Russell Knott gifted the land to the Twenty-Nine Palms County Water District on Jan. 1, 1962, which in turn leased the property to the Twentynine Palms Parks & Recreation Department. A ceremony on 1962 dedicated the land as Knott Sky Park. The motel buildings were often used for special events and offices for various county services. For a time, an equestrian arena and an RV park with space for fifty RVs were added. 

Mabel Von Alstine in the Los Angeles Times, Apr. 14, 1952

Today, Knott Sky Park is just a typical community park with baseball diamonds, a playground, trees, and covered picnic shelters. It is located just north of Joshua Tree National Park at 6701-6899 El Sol Avenue, in Twentynine Palms.

The Fairway Country Club, Villa Park

Fairway Country Club clubhouse, 1926 (Arrowhead Magazine photo)

Among the many Orange County endeavors lost to time was The Fairway Country Club. It was located on Lot 36 of Cerro Villa Heights -- a tract laid out in the foothills by the Jotham Bixby Co. in 1920 and now a part of Villa Park. In modern terms, the Club grounds were roughly bounded by Mesa Drive on the north, Cannon Street on the east, and the line of Sycamore Street (if it continued northward) on the west. I extended to the south about as far as the current site of 9852 Leatrice Dr.

The Club had its origins in 1922, but the first mentions in local newspapers -- mainly ads for afternoon golf lessons -- didn't begin to appear until Summer 1923. In October, the C. B. Berger Co. -- sales agent for the Bixby holdings in the Cerro Villa area -- also began running ads touting the Club as one of the advantages of buying land nearby. 

Scene from Fairway's golf course, 1926 (Arrowhead Magazine photo)

However, the Club’s nine-hole golf course didn’t actually open until Feb. 22, 1924. A grand opening tournament was held that day for the William A. Dolan Cup (named for the Club's president). The other highlight of the day was a match game between Anaheim Mayor William Stark and Orange Mayor Gunther. 

The course was designed by Anaheim golf pro Joe Szarfinski who soon after was hired as the golf pro for the Orange County Country Club. He had also designed the municipal golf course in San Diego's Balboa Park. 

Inside the Fairway Clubhouse, 1926 (Arrowhead Magazine photo)

The Fairway Country Club's clubhouse wasn't built yet when the course opened, and early Club events like board meetings and dances were usually held at the Elks' Lodge in Anaheim.

By May 1925 the former home of George B. Bixby had been converted into a clubhouse and the Club began to have events with entertainment there. Jack Armstrong served as the resident “golf pro.”

The Fairway Land Co. was the holding company for the Club and its board was largely composed of community and business leaders from nearby cities.

(Map courtesy Lisa Baldwin)

In the July 1926 edition of the Union Pacific Railroad's Arrowhead Magazine, Anaheim Parks Superintendent Warren Ashleigh wrote, 

"This club, located seven and one-half miles east of the City [of Anaheim] in the foothills, on 250 acres . . . is one of the finest recreational spots in Southern California. Its membership is made up of 125 leading business men and women from the cities of Anaheim and Orange. The Clubhouse, surrounded by beautiful flowers and trees, equipped with splendid furnishings, giving a homey appearance, is used largely for the social functions of the club and its members. 

"The Manager of the grounds is at the Professional House at all times. Under his excellent supervision, the nine-hole golf course is kept in splendid condition and many business men spend the afternoons at this beautiful spot. 

"An expansion program is being worked out which will give the nine holes 3,000 yards, and plenty of land for home sites., and another nine-hole course. The club grounds, located as they are on these beautiful hills, have a view of the surrounding country that is unsurpassed. On a clear day one is able to see the ocean and Catalina Island, seventy-five miles in the distance."

On Feb. 1, 1927, Club president S. J. Flour announced plans for major improvements, including extending the course by 3,000 yards, increasing the par for the course to 35, installation of a sprinkler system (accomplished a few months later), and added capacity to accommodate more players.

One of the greens at Fairway, 1926 (Arrowhead Magazine photo)

By early March 1927, there was talk that a big financial firm from Los Angeles was angling to buy the Club. The unidentified firm supposedly wanted to add swimming pools, lawn tennis, polo fields, a riding academy, a new clubhouse, and an expansion of the golf course to a full eighteen holes. 

Indeed, in July 1927, the Fairway Country Club was sold for $95,000 to a syndicate of Los Angeles men, headed by T. C. Brady and F. G. Hoffine. Their initial goals were to build a lavish new clubhouse and to expand the course to eighteen holes under the guidance of golfer and course expert Norman McBeth and golf course architects William Bell and Max Baer.

The caretaker's house at Fairway, 1926 (Arrowhead Magazine photo)

The new owners renamed the place the Valencia Vista Country Club. The board of the Valencia Vista Co. – the new holding company for the Club -- was again a "who's who" of central Orange County, including Willard Smith, Osmun & M.C. Pixley, Nels Edwards, Keller Watson, W. O. Hart, J. S. Flour, etc. 

But for some reason the Club soon faded away – even before the 1929 stock market crash and economic depression that likely would have scuttled it anyway. 

Fairway Country Club clubhouse, 1926 (Santa Ana Register photo)

(Thanks to Lisa Ackerman Baldwin for asking about this place and to Roger Fitschen for continuing to dig for more on this subject. Thanks also to Steve Faessel for pointing out the Arrowhead blurb which I had in my personal library, but which I'd overlooked for two years!)

Bunk and facts about Orange County's name

1889 map of the newly formed Orange County. (Courtesy Library of Congress)

How did Orange County get its name? There are many colorful, popular lies (myths?) in circulation that purport to answer that question. In fact, historian Phil Brigandi placed those myths at the very top of his list of the “six most common mistakes” made regarding Orange County history.

In just the past couple months, yet another wrong tale has been making the rounds: Someone suggested that “Orange” was a reference to the Orange Order of Ireland and thus was chosen as a message to Catholics that they were unwelcome here. 

Even if we didn’t already know the real story behind the origins of county’s name, (and I'll get to that momentarily), this newly-constructed myth would be ridiculous on its face. The name “Orange County” was proposed in 1872 and put into use in 1889. Many, many Catholics already lived here. In fact, the first “outposts of civilization” here – San Juan Capistrano and Bernardo Yorba’s ranch headquarters – were anchored by Catholic places of worship and their population was almost exclusively Catholic. 

Bernardo Yorba established the San Antonio de Padua chapel in 1834. In this photo the adobe ruins of the 1860 version of the chapel can be seen alongside its 1880 replacement. (Photo courtesy the Huntington Library)

In fact, all the rancho families (who’d owned most of region for generations) were Catholic and they still made up a sizable portion of the population by the 1870s. Even the first “gringo” town established here, Anaheim, had a significant Catholic population. So too would other new towns. Any misguided effort to “keep out the Catholics” would have been both laughable and at least a century too late.

So why and how did Orange County get its colorful name? Was it because of our many orange groves? 

Nope. But that's certainly the most popular wrong answer. 

No, the real story began in late 1869, when Anaheim mayor Max Strobel proposed a new “Anaheim County.” The effort failed, but it was only the first of many attempts to form a new county from the southern part of Los Angeles County. 

The name “Orange County” was first proposed at an 1872 meeting of county secession proponents in what’s now Downey. At that time, southern Los Angeles County only had a few experimental orange trees and no citrus industry. Agriculture drove our economy, but the big money was in sheep, pigs and grapes. (Be glad we don’t live in Swine County.) As historian Jim Sleeper noted, the name Orange County was proposed “four years before our first Valencias went in the ground” and “two years before the village of Richland was renamed Orange.” 

So, again, why Orange County?

California citrus promotional items from the David Boulé collection. (Author's photo)

The late 1800s and early 1900s were a period of “boosterism” in Southern California. We believed that the best way to improve our region and economy was to constantly trumpet our many positive traits and to encourage people to move here and do business here. A common theme in this cheerleading or “boosting” was that our rich soil and idyllic “semi-tropical” Mediterranean climate allowed nearly any crop to flourish here.

To Americans, oranges were still an exotic luxury. It was something special if Santa Claus left an orange in your stocking at Christmas. You might not see another one all year.

And in the minds of most Americans, this prized fruit was a symbol of warm, coastal, Mediterranean climes – especially sunny Spain. And hints of Spain, of course, were reminiscent of California’s colorful Rancho Era – a heavily sentimentalized and marketed chapter of our history. Romantic tales of Spanish and Mexican (and yes, as it happens, Catholic) California were a beloved part of the popular culture. 

 Old Mission Brand orange crate label from Fullerton, 1920s

Thus, the name “Orange County” conveyed both obvious and subtle positive connotations to prospective new residents. “The orange,” said California journalist/ethnographer/folklorist Charles Fletcher Lummis, “is not a fruit, but a romance.”

At one point during our nearly twenty-year struggle to separate from Los Angeles, the name "Santa Ana County" was also proposed. But we returned again and again to the moniker “Orange County,” which is what stuck when we finally succeeded (and seceded) in 1889.

J. M. Guinn (1834-1918) of the Historical Society of Southern California wrote that the name “Orange” was selected, “for the sordid purpose of real estate” in the hopes that “Eastern people would be attracted by the name, and would rush to that county to buy orange ranches…” 

Santa Ana lawyer Victor Montgomery, who drafted the bill which ultimately allowed for the creation of Orange County, wrote that our new county’s name, would “have more effect in drawing the tide of emigrants to this section than all the pamphlets, agents and other endeavors which have hitherto proved so futile.”

A 1940s Union Pacific Railroad postcard depicts the California dream. 

Indeed, the new county with the sunny, romantic name would draw many thousands (and eventually millions) of new residents from elsewhere. And by happenstance it turned out that our climate and soil actually were perfect for growing citrus – especially the Valencia orange. In fact, the orange would become the mainstay of our whole economy for more than half a century. But the dream – and our romantic name – preceded that very real success.

A glimpse of Register history with Jim Sleeper

James Doren Sleeper in his office with a few old newspapers.

Local newspapers were one of the many significant interests of the late great Orange County historian Jim Sleeper. Old newspapers are, of course, among the most useful tools of the historian, but Jim took it even farther. He ran and indexed his own massive clipping files from every old Southern California newspaper he could get his hands on. Perhaps his greatest book, Turn the Rascals Out, was about an early local newspaper editor. Jim even published a few of his own little community newspapers from time to time, like the Canyon Wren. He also corresponded frequently with modern local journalists and editors – correcting their frequent historical errors and/or suggesting sources for future articles. 

And it turns out he was also a fan of the early Sunday color “funny papers.” This last point became clear to me when I helped clean out the Sleepers’ garage and found box after box of early full-color comic strip sections. Later, when we brought the remaining bits of his research library to the County Archives, even more old-time comic strips turned up -- tucked into books, boxes, etc.

And so it was with a smile of recognition that I came across a related item from Sleeper while I was processing a recently acquired collection: A fax sent by Jim to the Register’s Ombudsman, Dennis Foley, on Dec. 2, 1999:

Dear Dennis:

Last Sunday, the Millennium Moment [historical column], which hovers above your column each week like some foreboding seer, contained another historical clinker. As Ombudsman, I know you’re dying to correct the oversight.

The “Moment” in question concerned the first appearance of the Register’s Sunday edition and color comics wrap-around. The assertion was that “The Santa Ana Register was born in 1905, but didn’t publish on Sundays until 50 years ago, on Nov. 27, 1949."

The painful truth is that the first Sunday Register (also with wrap-around color comics) appeared twenty-two years before on Dec. 18, 1927! (See your paper’s microfilm.)

This roaring-twenties supplement was precipitated by the Register’s sale earlier in ’27 to its third owner, J. Frank Burke, a devout Democrat. Shortly after purchase, Burke optimistically installed a Sextuple Hoe Press capable of cranking out 24 pages an hour – sufficient to produce 48 pages for 36,000 subscribers. At the time, a 32-pager was a fat paper and the Register was hard pressed to muster 12,000 readers. 

Unhappily, Burke’s “Sunday sandbag” (as such editions came to be called) was short-lived. It expired on its 13th Sunday, a demise attributed to Orange County’s “churchiness,” an inadequate ad base and the dime-a-month increase it cost to cover the supplement.

When Burke sold to the Hoiles family in ’35 the county was little changed, but by 1949 the economic climate had brightened sufficiently to justify a lasting foray into Sunday journalism.

The citation of Jordana Milbauer’s “A Libertarian Dynasty: 1935-1987” as a bibliographic source for all this has no relevance whatsoever to “putting out the Sunday paper.” Her thesis was confined to the Hoiles’ editorial stance.

Excluding all copies of the paper’s missing first year (11-27-05 to 10-31-06), it’s microfilm runs are still the Register’s own best biographical resource. If the paper really wants to preserve local history, it might well begin by rereading and recovering some if its own!

Jim Sleeper

Tustin

Phil Brigandi stumbling across a Sunday comics clipping among Sleeper's newspaper collections in 2012 (Author's photo)

A personal milestone

You can now nominate me, if you so choose, for the National Register of Historic Places. And unless I get plastic surgery (which is unlikely), I’m also eligible for the Mills Act. 

Yes, I turn fifty this week. 

I tried to refer to myself as middle-aged, but Steph quickly pointed out, “Only if you live to 100.”

Thanks to everyone who's been along on this ride with me so far.

Thanksgiving, Anaheim, 1874

Thanksgiving dinner in the 1870s (F. G. Weller stereoview card)

The following item appeared in the Anaheim Gazette, Nov. 28, 1874:

"The early rains, the farming successes of the past year, the near approach of the railroad communication with Los Angeles and San Francisco, and the general indications of future prosperity in the Santa Ana valley have predisposed everyone to be literally and truly thankful. And Thanksgiving Day of the present year of our Lord was therefore kept in the good old New England style. Church in the morning, turkeys and cranberry-sauce at dinner, and the general relaxation from the cares of business, indulged in by the entire community, proved quite a change, and a pleasant one at that, from the evil days of the previous years of the present decade, when all, who thought fit to observe the day, did so with the lips and not with the heart."  

Although the roots of Thanksgiving go back to the 1600s, it was celebrated on various dates in different states. Around the early 1800s the last Thursday in November became customary. But it wasn't until 1863 -- the middle of the Civil War -- that President Lincoln made the last Thursday official. In his proclamation, he also implored "the interposition of the Almighty hand to heal the wounds of the nation." 

In 1870, President Ulysses S. Grant made Thanksgiving an official federal holiday. It was only after this -- in the early 1870s -- that Thanksgiving became a truly nationwide celebration and firmly ensconced in the public mind. Even then, many Southerners refused to celebrate it because they felt it was politicized and that celebrating it was a show of fealty to the federal government. The fact that both Lincoln and Grant had been key in enshrining Thanksgiving no doubt played a role in this sentiment.

The 200 block of W. Center St., Anaheim, looking east, 1870s. (Courtesy Anaheim Public Library)

Anaheim had a mix of northerners and southerners living amongst its immigrants from Germany and other nations around the world. Moreover, California had only been on the fringes during the Civil War. As such, Thanksgiving seems to have been largely welcomed locally without much fuss. 

And indeed, as the Gazette indicated, Anaheim had much to be thankful for in 1874. Their town was growing, their grapes were growing, and the weather (a constant concern of the farmer) was treating them well compared to the "evil days" of devestating drought in the 1860s. 

But the comment about the impending arrival of a rail line to Anaheim is particularly noteworthy. The Southern Pacific would begin regular service to Anaheim in January of 1875, providing a way for Anaheim vintners and farmers to sell their goods to a dramatically larger market. Later, the arrival of the Santa Fe Railroad would provide competition and push down shipping prices, allowing the local agricultural industry to truly come into its own and bring wealth and political clout to the region. On Thanksgiving 1874, Anaheim residents could see track being laid, saw their future, and were even more thankful than usual.

The Blinking Owl, Santa Ana

The building that housed the Blinking Owl bar is now Cafe Cito. (Author's photo)

Over the years -- even before the name was borrowed for Santa Ana's Blinking Owl Distillery -- I've received questions about The Blinking Owl, which was a bar at 312 N. Birch St, in Downtown Santa Ana. Rumor has it that a it featured "a mechanical sign of an owl with a moving eyelid that went up and down." But I've never found a photo of the place (or the sign) from the years The Blinking Owl existed: 1971 to about 1976.

Those nondescript doors in the yellow building (right) would become the entrance to The Blinking Owl about a decade after this photo was taken. (Courtesy SAPL)

The best we can do, so far, is a photo like the one above, which was shot circa the 1960s, nearly a decade before The Blinking Owl moved in. This view is from the middle of 4th St, looking south down Birch. You can see the corner of the beautiful West End Theatre on the left, the lush foliage of Birch Park in the background, and the yellow building (with two doors) that would eventually house The Blinking Owl.

The building itself (which has been made to look like it's part of the larger building facing 4th St.) had a second story added to it in 1910. Beginning with King's Coffee Cup in 1930, it served as a number of cafes throughout the Great Depression. From at least 1939 through at least 1967 it was a bar called The Marquis Club. And in late 1970 it was Chick & Whiteys, owned by Chick Stober and Hollis J. Stober. Very little is known about The Blinking Owl bar that moved in after Chick and Whitey moved out.

Same view today. The building's a similar color, but partly obscured by a tree.

Therese Galvan, who grew up in Santa Ana, recalls visiting the Owl after a wedding reception at the adjacent Veterans' Hall: "It was a trip. Every corner and shelf was covered with hundreds of ceramic owls lit up with lights or candles in them. As you were drinking it felt like the eyes were following you. The bartender was a cool crusty old dude wearing a vest and a carnival-type straw hat with a lace garter around his arm."

Flash forward: The new Blinking Owl Distillery (no direct relation to the bar) opened not far from the Santa Ana municipal water tower and Barrio Logan in 2016. According to the distillery's website, "Brian and Robin Christenson, longtime Santa Ana residents, had heard stories of the midcentury (sic) 'Blinking Owl Bar' on the corner of Birch and Third Streets, known for an iconic owl sign that would blink. Inspired by the craft cocktail movement, the farm-to-table food movement, and current thriving craft distilleries, the husband and wife team saw an opportunity to bring a local distillery to the neighborhood, paying homage to the history of Santa Ana."

Naturally, the success of the distillery has only added to the public's interest in knowing something more about its namesake.  If you have memories, stories, photos, etc, relating to The Blinking Owl of the 1970s, please drop me a line.

UPDATE:

The Blinking Owl Distillery closed in 2023. According to a November 2023 article by Susannah Skiver Barton in Distiller Magazine, the Blinking Owl "saw its best sales period during COVID, thanks to hand sanitizer that it was able to sell nationally. 'That lasted about a year and a half and then that all, obviously, dried up very quickly,' says co-founder Robin Christenson. But, she adds, the distillery invested the additional revenue into opening an on-site restaurant that would allow it to sell spirits during the state’s prolonged shutdown period. The challenges of running that business alongside a production distillery, plus a partnership that fell through, forced Blinking Owl to shutter..."