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..."

A recent place name mystery: J G Island

J G Island outlined in red.

Does anyone know what the "J G" means in the placename "J G Island Beach?" The name refers to the "island" (really a peninsula) that was created next to the Santa Ana River's mouth in Huntington Beach around 1990 when the Talbert Channel outlet was rerouted. Most of the "island" is taken up by a Least Tern Preserve. This may be recent enough that someone out there will have a firsthand account of how it got the name "J G Island." 

For what it's worth, earlier names for the beach just north of the current river outlet (near Brookhurst) include Santiago, Celery, and my favorite: Nago. The beach there was particularly popular with local Japanese families in the early 20th Century.

Update, 4/21/2023: Drew Griffiths suggests that "JG" may stand for "Junior Guards," as in the popular Huntington State Beach Junior Lifeguards program. He was part of that program in the 1990s and says that area of the beach is "where we were based until [we] moved near the Newland station. If I remember correctly the area was called JG Island back then, and to get us kids' attention the instructors would yell things like 'JG’s line up!'" 

So that's one distinct possibility! I'm still awaiting some kind of official documentation, but it's the best clue we have so far.

A Lost Place Name: Cañada del Rodeo

Detail from a sligtly wonky 1912 oil map. (Courtesy Paul Spitzzeri)

Cañada del Rodeo (a.k.a. Rodeo Canyon) was an early name for a portion of or offshoot of Brea Canyon in the Puente Hills, bridging Orange and Los Angeles counties. The name Cañada del Rodeo appears on assorted mining maps and in surface water reports beginning at least as early as 1898 until at least 1917. The anglicized Rodeo Canyon name continued in use until at least 1946. This area was generally considered part of the Fullerton oil fields.  

"At the head of Rodeo Canyon, close to the divide, are several large granite boulders, which have weathered out of the sandstone," wrote Walter A. English, in Geology and Oil Resources of the Puente Hills Region, Southern California -- a 1926 USGS bulletin. "One of them is 10 feet in diameter. There are perhaps half a dozen bolders, all told. No small boulders or pebbles are clustered around the few large blocks, and the sandstone close to the boulders is not noticably different from the fine yellow sandstone elsewhere in the formation."

Map filed with Los Angeles County (DM6298-96)

In Parks, Playgrounds and Beaches for the Los Angeles Region (1930) the famed Olmstead Brothers and Harland Bartholomew & Assoc. describe "the head of Rodeo Canyon" being "two miles east of Brea Canyon Road, where the route turns north, a rugged and picturesque gorge is encountered that will involve heavy construction."

There was both a Rodeo Oil Co. and a Rodeo Land & Water Co. operating in the Los Angeles area during the early years of the 20th century, which might suggest a couple possible sources for the canyon's name. But no direct connections have yet been made. 

Historian Paul Spitzzeri offers another educated guess: "“Rodeo” [also] means “detour,” so a sharp change in the topography of a canyon may be our best clue [to the source of  the canyon's name].  As the canyon and creek make the abrupt westward turn toward where Birch had his rich oil property, it could well be how this feature got its moniker." 

If you know anything definitive about the source of this old place name (or even have a good clue or lead), please drop me a line.

Holy Jim: The Canyon and the Man

Jim (right) with two fellow G.A.R. members, circa 1900.

A lot of flatlanders were left scratching their heads when fire authorities dubbed a 2018 wildfire in the Santa Ana Mountains "the Holy Fire." And four years later -- when "the Jim Fire" was in the news -- the new fire's name sounded almost as odd. But there was a good reason for the curious monikers. Both of these fires burned through a branch of Trabuco Canyon called Holy Jim Canyon. The question, of course, is "Who was Holy Jim and how did he get a canyon named after him?"

In 1888, decidedly unsaintly Union veteran James T. Smith (1841-1934) bought land in a remote canyon between Santiago Peak and Trabuco Creek. There he raised bees and lived with his wife, Hat. Although reasonably even-tempered, Smith swore frequently, loudly, longwindedly, creatively, and without regard for the company he was in. Smith, wrote historian Jim Sleeper, could “cuss the devil into a bottle and screw on the cap.”

Smith usually sported a hat with an upturned brim, a walrus moustache, a jacket with a big plug of tobacco in the pocket, and no shirt. He earned the nicknames "Greasy Jim" and, naturally, "Cussin' Jim." In 1900, government cartographers named the canyon for its best-known resident, but some prissy bureaucrat in Washington undoubtedly changed “Cussin’” to “Holy.” 

Somewhat surprisingly, Smith had an interest in marine biology. He was an early supporter of Pomona College's Laguna Marine Laboratory, appearantly providing space for them on property he owned in Laguna Beach. (Thanks to Annlia Paganini-Hill for making this connection.) 

The Laguna Marine Laboratory team, Summer 1911. Back: Miss C. K. Rice and John Guernsey. Front (L to R): Prof. C. F. Baker, Harry V. M. Hall, F. R. Cole, Charles W. Metz, Leon Gardner, Miss Baker, Blanche E. Stafford, Vinnie R. Stout, Mabel Guernsey and a gussied-up Jim Smith. 

Around 1908, Smith retired to Santa Ana. As an old man, he’d get lost downtown and sheriff's deputies would give him a lift. Jim swore all the way home.

Smith died in Santa Ana at age 91 on January 4, 1934.

For more on Smith, see the article, On the Trail of Holy Jim Smith: The Man Behind the Legend, by the late great historian (and longtime Holy Jim Canyon resident) Jim Sleeper. It was published in the Orange County Genealogical Society Quarterly, v. 5, no. 1, March 1968. It likely also appeared in the Rancho San Joaquin Gazette around the same time.