Carrie Northey aka Caro Roma (1866-1937): Operatic Diva and Prolific Song Writer

Plot 2, Lot 1

Carrie Northey—known to the musical world as Caro Roma—was among the most accomplished American women composers and performers of her generation. Born in East Oakland, California, in 1866, she was the daughter of a local blacksmith. From these humble beginnings, she rose to become a prima donna who sang before royalty and a composer whose melodies echoed from music halls to parlor pianos across the United States.

Northey’s prodigious talent appeared early. At just three years old, she made her first public appearance at Platt’s Hall in San Francisco, performing one of her own compositions. Her family later sent her east to study at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston, where she developed into both a pianist and vocalist of remarkable ability.

She began her stage career under her own name, but by the 1890s she adopted the gender-neutral pseudonym Caro Roma, likely inspired by Verdi’s celebrated aria “Caro nome” (“Dear Name”) from Rigoletto. The name conveyed both affection and continental sophistication, qualities that matched her growing international reputation.

As Caro Roma, she became a prima donna with the Castle Square Opera Company in Boston and later performed at the Tivoli Opera House in San Francisco. Her voice carried her to the concert stages of Europe and North America, and she was even honored with a command performance before Queen Victoria—a rare distinction for an American singer of the era.

Her career soon expanded beyond the stage. Roma composed songs that merged Victorian sentiment with the melodic accessibility of the Tin Pan Alley era, working with such noted collaborators as Ernest R. Ball, Jules Eckert Goodman, and William H. Gardner. Her best-known work, “Can’t You Hear Me Calling, Caroline,” became an enduring favorite. Other popular titles included “Ave Maria,” “Garden of My Heart,” “Resignation,” and “Lullaby.”

Her compositions were admired for their memorable tunes and emotional appeal, though some—particularly “Can’t Yo’ Heah Me Calling”—reflected the racial caricatures of their time. Like many songs of the early 1900s, it employed exaggerated dialects and stereotypes that audiences of the day found amusing but which are now recognized as demeaning and racist. Such works reveal the contradictory nature of the Tin Pan Alley period, when the same culture that nurtured female composers like Roma also trafficked in racially offensive tropes.

In addition to popular music, Roma wrote sacred and poetic works, including “Some Idle Moments” (1900) and “I Come to Thee,” a devotional song set to words by George Graff Jr. She frequently set her own verse to music, bridging the worlds of parlor song and art song.

Returning to her native Oakland in her later years, she remained admired for her artistry and quiet dignity. She died there on September 23, 1937, at the age of 72, leaving what the Oakland Tribune called “a legacy of everlasting beauty.”

Though some of her music bears the prejudices of its time, her accomplishments as a woman composer and performer helped shape the early sound of American popular song.

Sources: The Oakland Tribune (Sep. 23, 1937); The New York Times (Sep. 24, 1937); Wikipedia; California State Library; University of Toronto Music Archives; Find a Grave

James Madison “Old Pard” Bassett (1830–1903): Battled the "Big 4" Railroad Monopolies

Bassett family gravestone and headshot

Plot 12 Lot 38 (headstone reads "Ella: Wife of JM Bassett)

James “Old Pard” Bassett was one of the most colorful and combative figures in early Oakland politics, remembered for his bitter feud with railroad magnate Collis P. Huntington and his role in the long-running battles over control of the city’s waterfront. A former Oakland City Council member, entrepreneur, and prolific letter writer, Bassett spent decades railing against the influence of the railroads and the corruption he believed they brought to California’s civic life.

The nickname “Old Pard”—short for “Old Partner”—was a common term of camaraderie among pioneers and soldiers in the West. To be someone’s “pard” was to be their trusted comrade. Bassett adopted it as both a badge of familiarity and a populist calling card, signing his many published diatribes against political and corporate power as “Old Pard.” His letters, filled with humor, sarcasm, and righteous indignation, appeared regularly in Bay Area newspapers, attacking monopolies and celebrating the common man.

At the center of Bassett’s crusades stood Collis Potter Huntington, one of California’s “Big Four” railroad barons, along with Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, and Charles Crocker. These men built the Central Pacific Railroad and controlled much of the West’s transportation infrastructure. To Bassett, Huntington represented everything wrong with unchecked corporate power—political manipulation, land grabs, and disregard for public rights. Their feud, waged in both courtrooms and newspapers, became legendary.

Oyster Beds on Oakland/San Leandro waterfront

The dispute centered on valuable property at First and Webster Streets on Oakland’s waterfront, where the Southern Pacific Railroad sought to monopolize shipping and ferry access. The land had been first occupied by James M. Dameron, a squatter who, along with Willard C. Doane, fought to protect it against railroad-backed interests. Dameron and Doane, joined at times by Bassett and former Mayor John L. Davie, even armed themselves to defend the property. The litigation over the site dragged on for nearly twenty years, with dozens of competing claims filed. When the courts finally settled the matter, the title went to San Francisco businessman Charles H. Holbrook Jr., ending one of the Bay Area’s most tangled property disputes.

Bassett relished every moment of his opposition to Huntington. In one widely circulated letter headlined “Bassett Even on Huntington,” he declared victory over his “ancient enemy” after a favorable court ruling, proclaiming that “this decision is more on the side of the people than I anticipated.” To Bassett, the fight was always about more than land—it was about the people’s right to resist monopoly and corruption. His fiery language and tireless agitation made him both admired and despised, a gadfly whose words echoed the populist sentiment of the age.

Beyond his waterfront battles, Bassett served a single term on the Oakland City Council, where his plainspoken style and independent streak set him apart. He clashed frequently with colleagues and business interests, championing causes that others found impractical but which he believed served the public good. Even after leaving office, he continued to insert himself into civic debates, often through letters published under his “Old Pard” signature.

San Francisco Call obituary

By the turn of the century, Bassett’s health and fortunes had declined, but his pen remained sharp. His last years were spent largely in Oakland, where he was remembered as a familiar figure—eccentric, outspoken, and unbowed. When he died in 1903 at the age of 73, the San Francisco Call wrote that he had been “for many years prominent in the public affairs of Oakland” and that “his fearless pen and ready tongue made him both friends and enemies.” Other papers noted that, for all his bluster, his crusades against corporate greed had earned him a certain grudging respect, even among his opponents.

James “Old Pard” Bassett’s life reflected the restless, defiant character of early Oakland—a city torn between rapid industrialization and its frontier spirit. His feud with Huntington was more than a personal vendetta; it symbolized the struggle between public access and private control, between the small reformer and the industrial titan. In an age dominated by the Big Four and their iron rails, Old Pard Bassett stood on the shore at Oakland, railing back at empire.

Sources: San Francisco Call (Apr. 25, 1903, p.4); The Searchlight (Redding, Apr. 25, 1903, p.1); San Francisco Call (Aug. 4, 1903); San Francisco Call (Sept. 17, 1890s, “Bassett Even on Huntington”); San Francisco Report (“Old Pard Bassett”); California State Library Newspaper Archive; San Leandro Historical Society; Ancestry.com; Find a Grave

Captain Edgar “Ned” Wakeman (1812 – 1886) The Sea Captain Who Inspired Mark Twain

Wakeman grave marker (photo Michael Colbruno) and Headshot

Plot 1, Lot 25, Grave 3

Captain Edgar “Ned” Wakeman was one of those larger-than-life 19th-century mariners whose exploits blurred the line between truth and legend. Described by Mark Twain as “a great, burly, handsome, weather-beaten, symmetrically built and powerful creature, with coal-black hair and whiskers and the kind of eye which men obey without talking back,” Wakeman’s tales of the sea thrilled and influenced one of America’s greatest writers.

Wakeman’s career was filled with escapades that Twain later immortalized in fiction. One of the most famous stories—likely told to Twain firsthand—involved the steamboat New World, which Wakeman “borrowed” from authorities after it was impounded for debt. Pretending to “warm up” the ship’s engines, Wakeman invited the sheriff and his deputies below deck for refreshments, only to raise full steam and cast off into the open sea. When confronted at gunpoint, Wakeman coolly declared, “I’m sorry, but we’re at sea now, and I am the law.” He eventually set his captives ashore unharmed and went on to live out a pirate’s adventure that took him to Brazil, Trinidad, and beyond. 

Wakeman with wife and advertisement for adventure

His resourcefulness was legendary. When he arrived in Rio de Janeiro without papers to prove command of the New World, he staged a theatrical “accident,” toppling into the harbor with a tin box supposedly containing his documents. The sympathetic American consul quickly provided replacements—allowing Wakeman to sail on to Peru and Panama, always one step ahead of the law. 

Mark Twain met Captain Wakeman in 1866 aboard the steamship America, sailing from San Francisco to New York. The two formed a deep, if unlikely, friendship. Twain was captivated by the captain’s mix of bluster, humor, and humanity, and he later drew on Wakeman for several of his most memorable sea-going characters—Captain Blakely in Roughing It, Captain Hurricane Jones in Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion, and most notably, Captain Stormfield in Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven. Through these portraits, Twain preserved the spirit of his old shipmate: part philosopher, part pirate, and entirely unforgettable.  

Books about and inspired by Captain Wakeman

Wakeman’s later years were less romantic. By the early 1870s, he was paralyzed and living in poverty near San Francisco. Twain, then living in Hartford, Connecticut, learned of his old friend’s condition and wrote an impassioned open letter, “Appeal for Capt. Ned Wakeman,” published in the Alta California. He urged San Franciscans to come to the captain’s aid:

“I have made voyages with the old man when fortune was a friend to him... and now that twenty years of rough toil on the watery highways of the far West find him wrecked and in distress, I am sure that the splendid generosity which has made the name of California to be honored in all lands will come to him in such a shape that he shall confess that the seeds sowed in better days did not fall upon unfruitful soil.”

The letter is among the most tender and human of Twain’s public writings, a reminder that behind the humorist’s wit was deep loyalty and compassion. According to the blog "Books Tell You Why," it appears that Wakeman received little help from the appeal. 

Both Twain and Wakeman were drawn to San Francisco, then the rough-and-ready gateway to the Pacific. Twain had come west as a journalist during the 1860s, finding work at the Morning Call and later the Alta California, where he honed his distinctive voice. Wakeman, for his part, made the port city his home base after decades of global voyages. The two men—one a restless sailor, the other a restless writer—found in San Francisco a community of dreamers, schemers, and storytellers who thrived at the edge of the known world.  

Oakland home of Capt. Wakeman (Oakland Tribune)

Captain Edgar “Ned” Wakeman died in 1886 and was buried in Plot 1 with many of Oakland's early pioneers. Unfortunately, he did not live to see the publication of his memoir. "Log of an Ancient Mariner," which was published three years after he passed away.

His epitaph might well have been borrowed from Twain’s Captain Stormfield: “He never meant any harm, but he was built for adventure.” Through Twain’s pen, Wakeman’s boldness, wit, and humanity have sailed on far longer than any of his ships.

Sources: Look and Learn (May 24, 2013); Alta California (Dec. 14, 1872); Mark Twain’s Appeal for Capt. Ned Wakeman; Library of Congress; California State Library; Find a Grave.com (link); Oakland Tribune; ebay.com; Bancroft Library

Louise Eddy Taber (1884–1946): Chronicler of California’s Past

Louise Taber (California State Library)

Plot 14B, Lot 116, Grave 4

Louise Eddy Taber was born in Oakland in 1884, the daughter of famed photographer Isaiah West Taber and Annie Taber. Her father’s San Francisco studio was among the most renowned on the West Coast in the late 19th century, producing some of the finest portraits and landscape images of early California. (You can read more about her father on the Lives of the Dead blog here.)

While Isaiah captured California through the camera lens, Louise chronicled it through words and voice. Beginning in 1915, she worked as a writer for the San Francisco Examiner and later the San Francisco Chronicle, where she produced vivid sketches and nostalgic essays about early San Francisco life. Her pieces combined careful historical detail with the warmth of personal memory, preserving a vanishing city that had been forever changed by the 1906 earthquake and fire.

The Taber Family

By the 1930s, Taber had brought her gift for storytelling to the airwaves. She began producing and hosting a popular series of radio programs, including California Memories and Gold Rush Days, which aired throughout Northern California. These programs brought listeners back to the pioneer era, reanimating the voices and adventures of California’s early settlers. Her skillful blend of historical narrative and dramatization made her one of the few women of her time to find success as both a historian and a broadcaster.

Two Louise Taber books

A 1936 Oakland Tribune profile described her as a “historian of California who brings the old days vividly before her audiences,” noting that she often drew from her own family’s deep roots in the state and her father’s visual archive to enrich her storytelling. She also appeared at civic clubs and museums, where she lectured on Gold Rush lore and the evolution of San Francisco’s cultural scene.

Louise Eddy Taber’s work bridged eras and mediums, linking California’s frontier past to its modern identity through the power of story. She died in 1946, leaving behind a body of work that helped preserve the memory of early San Francisco for generations who would never know it firsthand.

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Sources: Oakland Tribune, November 28, 1911, p. 4; Oakland Tribune, January 20, 1936, p. 16; Berkeley Daily Gazette, September 22, 1941, p. 4; California State Library archives; Bancroft Library

Harvey Christensen (1893–1947): Journeyman Baseball Player in U.S. and Canada

Harvey Christensen

Main Mausoleum, Section Six, Crypt 590, Tier 5

Harvey Christensen belonged to a generation of California ballplayers who helped define early 20th-century baseball, when local industrial teams, town clubs, and professional leagues all blurred together into a single, thriving ecosystem. Born in 1893, Christensen grew up in San Leandro, where baseball quickly became both his passion and his livelihood.

Oakland Tribune teasing abridged honeymoon

By his early twenties, he was already making a name for himself around the Bay. The Oakland Tribune described the young infielder as a “well-built youngster who cavorts around the second station,” when he joined the Oakland Oaks during spring training at Boyes Springs in Sonoma County in 1914. Under manager Del Howard, Christensen proved to be a sure-handed second baseman with quick reflexes and a dependable bat. That same year, the papers noted another milestone in his life — his marriage to Ruth Enos of Stonhurst — teasing that the newlywed’s honeymoon had been cut short when team management called him back to camp: “Even a baseball idol must eat,” the Tribune joked.

Over the next several years, Christensen became a fixture of Northern California’s baseball scene. He played in the Alameda County Midwinter League and for clubs such as the Oakland Commission Merchants and the Halton-Didlers, often sharing the field with future Pacific Coast League professionals. During World War I, he anchored second base for the Alameda Bethlehem Shipbuilders, one of the powerhouse industrial teams representing the Bay Area’s wartime workforce. The Tribune named him the best second baseman in the Shipbuilders’ League of 1918, praising his remarkable .975 fielding average and his reliability in playing “every game of the season.”

After the war, Christensen continued to pursue opportunities beyond local play, joining professional clubs in the South and West. He signed briefly with the Nashville Volunteers of the Southern Association and later moved to the Wilson Bugs in the Virginia League after becoming a free agent when, as one newspaper put it, “the Travelers cut his salary 100 iron men.” Like many journeyman ballplayers of the era, he traveled constantly in search of the next roster spot and steady paycheck.

Harvey Christensen, 1920 Calgary Bronchos (top row, 4th from left)

One of the most distinctive chapters of Christensen’s career came in 1920, when he ventured north to Canada to join the Calgary Bronchos of the Western Canada League (WCL). The WCL, then a Class B professional circuit, featured teams from cities such as Calgary, Regina, Edmonton, Moose Jaw, Saskatoon, and Winnipeg. It offered strong regional competition and a level of play comparable to America’s Class B minor leagues.

That year, the Calgary Bronchos were a dominant force, winning the league championship after a dramatic best-of-nine playoff series against the Regina Senators. Christensen was among the players listed on the Bronchos’ 1920 roster, appearing in the team’s lineup during its most successful season. For him, the Calgary stint represented both an adventure and a professional high point, a chance to play at an elevated level far from his Bay Area roots and to experience baseball’s growing international reach.

Western Canada League schedule

The Western Canada League itself was short-lived — folding after the 1921 season — but its brief existence marked an important phase in the spread of organized baseball into the Canadian Prairies. For players like Christensen, it was a proving ground and an opportunity to extend a career that might otherwise have been confined to the industrial leagues at home.

After his professional years, little is recorded of Christensen’s later life, though he eventually returned to California. He died in 1947, remembered among the ranks of those unsung ballplayers who bridged the gap between baseball’s rough-and-ready regional past and the modern, organized sport that emerged after World War I. 

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Sources:
Oakland Tribune, Ogden Standard, Ruthven Free Press, At the Plate: Western Canada League Archives, Alberta Dugout Stories, Find a Grave, Ancestry records

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Bill “Duke” Kenworthy (1886–1950): Major League Baseball Player Who Drowned at Sea

Duke Kenworthy and Mausoleum Vault

Main Mausoleum, Section 7, Crypt 783, Tier 5

William Jennings “Duke” Kenworthy was born on July 4, 1886, on a small Ohio farm near Hopewell in Guernsey County. His parents, Benjamin Franklin Kenworthy and Jennie Lowry Kenworthy, named him after the populist firebrand William Jennings Bryan, a symbolic touch for someone who would later earn a populist following in America’s rough-and-ready minor leagues.

Kenworthy graduated from Muskingum College with a teaching degree and began his professional baseball career in 1907 while still working winters as a schoolteacher. He was a small man by ballplayer standards — just 5-foot-7 — but compensated with ingenuity and determination. Fellow player Chuck Dressen once said Kenworthy was the first man he ever saw who put lead shot in the fingers of his glove to help his small hands close around the ball.

Kenworthy began as a pitcher, winning 20 or more games in back-to-back seasons for Zanesville in 1909 and 1910. But his bat soon became as valuable as his arm. Drafted briefly by the Boston Red Sox, he ended up with the Denver Grizzlies, where he batted .315 and was known for his massive 42-inch “war club,” fashioned from a hickory tree on his Ohio farm and seasoned behind the family stove. He treated that bat as a companion — the first of many that became part of his lore.

Seattle teammates Duke Kenworthy & Brick Eldred

One of Kenworthy’s quirks was his devotion to his bats, which he named and polished obsessively. His favorite, “Betty,” was polished to such a shine with tobacco juice, resin, and a piece of pop bottle that he could “see his face in it.” Between games he would “talk” to Betty, running his fingers along the handle until it squeaked.

“Well, how you feelin’ today, Betty?” he’d ask.
“Skeek!” came the reply as his fingers rubbed the smooth handle.
“Gonna get me some hits today, Betty?”
“Skeek!”
“Atta baby. A triple, maybe?”
“Skeek!”

That ritualized conversation between man and bat became part of Pacific Coast League folklore — a mix of humor and superstition that defined Kenworthy’s style.

Kenworthy reached the majors in 1912 with the Washington Senators, playing in ten games and hitting .237. Two years later he joined the Kansas City Packers of the renegade Federal League, where he became one of its brightest stars. In 1914, he hit .317, leading his team with 15 home runs and 91 RBIs — nearly topping the entire league. The next year, he led Kansas City in batting again at .298. His charisma and play earned him the nickname “The Iron Duke.”

That same year, newspapers across the country reported that Kenworthy had inherited $1 million from a wealthy uncle in London, dubbing him “His Lordship Kenworthy.” Though he delighted in the story, the money never arrived; the supposed estate was tied up in British probate and later seized by the Crown. Kenworthy kept right on playing — joking that he’d “quit the game only if I get benched.”

Portland Beavers team photo featured Kenworthy

When the Federal League collapsed, Kenworthy headed west to the Pacific Coast League, where he became a fixture for the next decade — playing and managing for the Oakland Oaks, Los Angeles Angels, and Seattle Rainiers. In 1916 he led the league in hitting with a .314 average for the Oaks. In Seattle, fans adored him for his fiery play and sharp humor. He was also known for his impeccable grooming: he carried his wife’s electric iron on road trips, pressing his own shirts in hotel rooms. As sports cartoonist Al Demaree joked in 1929, “Every ball player used to pride himself on his silk shirts — and if you were a good friend of Kenworthy’s, he’d iron yours too.”

In 1922, Kenworthy’s popularity nearly derailed his career when baseball commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis suspended him during a contract dispute with the Portland Beavers, suspecting an under-the-table agreement with team owner Bill Klepper. Though reinstated, the controversy stung. Still, Kenworthy remained one of the Coast League’s most respected figures — both as a manager and as a clubhouse wit.

By 1924, he sold his shares in the Beavers for a tidy $46,000 and left baseball to become a building contractor in Oakland, where his energy and optimism made him a success. He never strayed far from the game, however. He coached the Oakland Oaks in 1939 and later joined St. Mary’s College in Moraga as freshman baseball coach.

Kenworthy remained athletic into his sixties, winning the Northern California Senior Golf Championship in both 1941 and 1942. He loved the outdoors, spending weekends fishing or hunting with friends. That passion would prove fatal.

Oakland Tribune headline September 22, 1950

On September 21, 1950, Kenworthy set out from Eureka, California, aboard an 18-foot inboard motorboat with three companions — Fred Williams, Cecil Bilson, and E. J. Hysdal — for a salmon fishing trip on Humboldt Bay. When they failed to return, a Coast Guard search found the overturned boat and Kenworthy’s body washed ashore. The others were never found. The Oakland Tribune reported that the men had likely been caught by a strong tide at dusk and overturned by rough surf. There were no life jackets aboard.

Kenworthy was 64 years old.

Kenworthy’s funeral became something of a reunion for the West Coast baseball fraternity. Among his pallbearers were several men who had left their mark on the baseball diamond. Johnny Vergez, a former New York Giants third baseman and Kenworthy’s coaching colleague at St. Mary’s College, helped lead the procession, joined by Sammy Bohne, who had patrolled infields for the Cincinnati Reds and Brooklyn Robins. Bud Richards and Wally Lynn, both fixtures of Pacific Coast League carried their old teammate one last time. Another pallbearer, Bernie DeViveiros, had himself played for the Chicago White Sox and spent years as a respected PCL shortstop before turning to coaching. DeViveiros, fittingly, now rests not far from Kenworthy at Mountain View Cemetery in Oakland [Read about him HERE].

Sportswriter Emmons Byrne described Kenworthy as “a hustling, fighting ballplayer” who played for love of the game and never lost his humor or kindness. Even in his final years, Byrne noted, “The Duke was as generous as ever, coaching kids for free or helping a neighbor build his house.”

Another former big leaguer, Nubs Kleinke, who pitched briefly for the St. Louis Browns in the 1930s, also drowned in a boating accident off the California coast and is also buried at Mountain View Cemetery [read about him HERE].

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Sources:
Bill Nowlin, “Duke Kenworthy,” Society for American Baseball Research; Oakland Tribune (Sept. 22 & 25, 1950); San Mateo Times (Sept. 22, 1950); Lawrence Daily Journal-World (Aug. 10, 1929); Salt Lake Tribune (Mar. 6, 1928); Portland Sunday Oregonian (Apr. 16, 1922); Baseball-Reference; Retrosheet; Find a Grave; Wikipedia

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Jim “Truck” Cullom (1922–1995): Cal Hall of Fame Athlete Whose Last Words Were "GO BEARS!"

Truck Cullom and Grave

Plot 9

Jim “Truck” Cullom was one of those rare figures who seemed to embody the spirit of the University of California—tough, loyal, and never short on humor. A standout lineman and kicker for the Golden Bears, Cullom was named a first-team All-Coast tackle in 1949 and earned the nickname “The Toe” for his remarkable kicking ability. Between 1947 and 1949, he set a Cal record by scoring in 25 consecutive games and successfully converting 103 point-after-touchdown attempts. During his three varsity seasons, the Bears compiled an extraordinary 29–3 record and made back-to-back Rose Bowl appearances under legendary coach Pappy Waldorf.

Cullom’s path to Berkeley came after serving in the U.S. Marine Corps during World War II. His gridiron power and personality made him one of the team’s most recognizable figures. Teammates recalled his booming voice in the huddle, his knack for breaking tension with a perfectly timed wisecrack, and his natural leadership. He was once remembered telling a nervous substitute during the 1949 Rose Bowl, “Jeez, Brunk’s here—we’re going to have to block now.”

Truck Cullom

After graduating, Cullom briefly played professional football for the New York Yankees of the All-American Football Conference before being recalled to military duty for the Korean War, where he was wounded and carried shrapnel in his hip for the rest of his life. Friends said he never once complained about it.

Cullom’s professional stint came with the New York Yankees football team—not to be confused with the famous baseball club of the same name. The gridiron Yankees were part of the short-lived All-America Football Conference (AAFC), a rival league to the NFL that operated from 1946 to 1949. Based at Yankee Stadium, the team fielded many future NFL stars, including Spec Sanders and Buddy Young, and faced off against the powerhouse Cleveland Browns. When the AAFC folded, the football Yankees briefly joined the NFL for the 1950 season before disbanding. 

When he returned to Berkeley, Cullom threw himself back into Cal athletics, serving as an assistant coach in both football and rugby from 1964 to 1971 under head coach Ray Willsey. He was particularly beloved as freshman football coach—a role that perfectly fit his mix of discipline, humor, and compassion.

Truck Cullom Memorial Bench at Cal

Cullom was also an outstanding rugby player and remained devoted to the sport throughout his life, helping coach the Cal team alongside the legendary Doc Hudson. A bench at Witter Rugby Field was later dedicated in his honor, a permanent reminder of his devotion to the university he loved. Even after leaving coaching, Cullom stayed close to Cal through his travel agency, which organized fan trips so supporters could follow the Bears on the road.

In 1995, Cullom was inducted into the Cal Athletics Hall of Fame, cementing his legacy as one of the university’s most cherished athletes and coaches. His friends and teammates described him as “the kind of man who knew everyone” and who carried a quiet dignity even in the face of pain.

Cullom’s humor, which had sustained him through decades of triumphs and battles, never left him—not even at the end. During his final days battling cancer, a group of close friends gathered at his hospital bedside. At one point, they were asked to leave the room so he could receive an enema. When they returned, one friend asked gently how he was feeling. Though drifting in and out of consciousness, Cullom opened his eyes, smiled faintly, and said, “We have met the enema—and the enema is us.” Laughter and tears filled the room.

On his final night, the Cal rugby team visited and serenaded him with the raucous Cal drinking song. Cullom, seemingly unconscious, lifted his head as they turned to leave and managed to murmur two words that summed up his life and his love for his alma mater:
“Go Bears.”

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Sources: San Francisco Chronicle/SFGate obituary “Cal Bids Farewell to Truck Cullom”; Cal Athletics Hall of Fame biography; University of California archives; All-America Football Conference historical records; Wikipedia; Find a Grave

Samuel Adam Shields (1828–1912): Bodyguard to President Abraham Lincoln

Samuel Adam Shields

Plot 45, Lot 120

Samuel Adam Shields served as a bodyguard to President Abraham Lincoln during the Civil War years. 

Born in Pennsylvania in 1828, Shields enlisted early in the Civil War and served with distinction in the Union Army.

Following the war, Shields moved west, settling first in Placerville, where he became well known as a civic-minded man and orator. A 1909 article in the Placerville Mountain Democrat celebrated his 81st birthday, calling him a “living link to Lincoln” and a figure of great local pride. That same year, the San Francisco Call profiled him as one of the few surviving members of Lincoln’s protective detail, describing him as still vigorous and fond of recounting his memories of the martyred President.

In his later years, Shields relocated to Oakland, where he became a familiar figure around town, easily recognized by his military bearing and white beard. In 1912, newspapers across Northern California reported his death at the age of 84. The Oakland Enquirer noted that he had married a much younger woman, who survived him, and that he was “a man of sterling character, whose recollections of Lincoln were as vivid as though they had occurred yesterday”.

Though no official documentation places Shields at Ford’s Theatre on April 14, 1865, contemporary reports indicate that he was on duty with the President’s guard detail earlier that evening, and was likely relieved before the fatal shooting — a common rotation practice among the Washington guards. His later references to having been “near the theater that night” support this interpretation.

Samuel Adam Shields was buried with military honors in Mountain View Cemetery.

Sources:
Placerville Mountain Democrat, Aug. 7, 1909; San Francisco Call, July 29, 1909; Oakland Enquirer, Mar. 9, 1912; Oakland Tribune, Mar. 9, 1912; Find a Grave Memorial #239347771.

Samuel Newsom (1848–1908): Architect of Notable City Halls, Churches and Homes

Burial area for Samuel Newsom

Plot 30 Lot 236

Samuel Newsom was one of the most prolific architects of late-nineteenth-century California, a designer whose work defined the look of civic pride and domestic grace across the state. Born in 1848 in Canada, he came to Oakland as a child and remained a Bay Area resident for the rest of his life. Along with his brother J. Cather Newsom, he founded the architectural firm Newsom & Newsom, responsible for hundreds of notable public buildings and ornate residences from San Diego to Eureka. [Cather Newsom is buried in the Main Mausoleum]

Architecture was truly the Newsom family trade. Samuel and his brother J. Cather worked closely for decades before Samuel later partnered with his sons Sidney and Noble, who became the next generation of architects in the firm. J. Cather also served on the California State Board of Architects, extending the family’s influence statewide. Their San Francisco office in the Humboldt Bank Building became a hub for civic commissions, courthouse designs, and high-profile residences. 

Old Oakland City Hall & Old Gilroy City Hall

The firm also designed the Oakland City Hall, which stood from 1879–1913, a striking Second Empire structure crowned with a mansard roof and classical detailing. The design typified the exuberant confidence of post-Gold Rush Oakland.

Their City Hall commissions extended throughout the state:

• Berkeley City Hall (since demolished 1904) 
• Gilroy City Hall (1905), an enduring example of the Newsoms’ mature style 
• Healdsburg City Hall, a distinctive civic landmark still admired today

Together, these buildings symbolized the architectural optimism of turn-of-the-century California, fusing ornamentation with function.

Bradbury Mansion in Los Angeles

Samuel Newsom’s architectural reach extended far beyond government halls. Among his best-known projects were:

• The Hall of Agriculture, a monumental exhibition building that established the firm’s early reputation. 
• The Napa Opera House, an elegant blend of Victorian and Italianate design that remains a cultural icon. 
• The Bradbury Mansion in Los Angeles, a Gilded Age showpiece of carved ornament and towering presence. 
• The Boyd House in Eureka and Vollmer House in San Francisco—both rich examples of Queen Anne craftsmanship. 
• The Magnin House in San Francisco, reflecting the firm’s sophisticated residential design for the city’s elite.

Design for St. Luke’s Episcopal Church

The Newsoms were also noted for their ecclesiastical work, including an ambitious Gothic Revival design for St. Luke’s Episcopal Church at Van Ness Avenue and Clay Street in San Francisco—an unbuilt but widely praised concept estimated at $50,000. And in Piedmont, Samuel’s own Newsom Cottage was celebrated in the press as “one of the prettiest homes in that section,” showcasing his talent for domestic design.

Despite his many achievements, Newsom’s life was marked by misfortune. In December 1899, while overseeing a residence in San Rafael, he was thrown from a runaway buggy alongside contractor Thomas O’Connor. The accident left him with multiple broken ribs and serious bruises. Though he recovered, the injuries compounded a lifelong struggle with heart trouble.

Nearly a decade later, on September 1, 1908, Newsom collapsed and died suddenly aboard a Key Route ferry as he returned to his Oakland home after lunching with his son Sidney in San Francisco.  Doctors attributed his death to heart disease, from which he had long suffered.

Today, the name Newsom & Newsom endures as a hallmark of Victorian California architecture. Whether through the grand civic monuments that once anchored city centers or the richly detailed homes that still grace Bay Area hillsides, Samuel Newsom’s designs remain an enduring expression of an era when craftsmanship and ambition defined the California skyline.

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Sources:
San Francisco Call, Jan. 16 1898; San Francisco Call, Dec. 6 1899; San Francisco Call, Sept. 2 1908; Oakland Tribune, Dec. 15 1907; Wikipedia: Samuel Newsom; Find a Grave; Wikipedia; Homestead Museum blog

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Arthur Lee "Floyd" Kranson (1913-1967): Negro Leagues Baseball Player on Championship Teams

Floyd Kranson and Grave Marker

Plot 71 

Arthur Lee “Floyd” Kranson’s life traces a subtle arc of baseball talent, complex heritage, and the everyday realities of mid-20th century America. Born July 24, 1913 in Natchitoches, Louisiana, he would rise to become a pitcher in the Negro Leagues, later moving west to Northern California.

Kranson was born in a small Louisiana parish, the son of a father described in genealogical sources as “white” and a mother recorded as “Negro,” reflecting the layered racial caste of his era. This parentage placed him at a crossroads of identity long before the civil rights struggles of the 1950s and ’60s. Growing up in the Jim Crow South, Kranson’s mixed heritage would have shaped — implicitly or explicitly — the circles he moved in, the opportunities afforded to him, and the social boundaries he encountered.  

Kranson and a 1939 Monarchs team photo

By his early 20s, Kranson had carved out a place in the competitive world of Black baseball. Listed at 6′1″ and about 180 lbs, he batted and threw right-handed. In 1935 he joined one of the premier clubs of the Negro Leagues, the Kansas City Monarchs, and he also spent time with the Chicago American Giants during his career. Kranson played during a golden era of Negro Leagues baseball that featured legends such as Satchel Paige, Cool Papa Bell, Josh Gibson, Buck Leonard, and Monte Irvin—an extraordinary generation of athletes whose talent and legacy are only now receiving their full due.

Kranson's playing years fall within a pivotal era: before integration of Major League Baseball (MLB), when Black players competed at a high level but under segregated conditions - long bus trips, unpredictable pay, barnstorming, and less-complete record keeping. 

Across the recorded seasons, Kranson posted a pitching line of 14 wins and 11 losses with a 3.84 ERA in approximately 225 innings pitched.  While many of the game logs and statistics from the era are fragmentary, resources such as the Seamheads Negro Leagues Database and Retrosheet show his name among the roster of the Kansas City Monarchs from 1937-1940, Memphis Red Sox in 1937 and Chicago American Giants in 1937. Kranson was part of the Kansas City Monarchs team that dominated during those years, finishing first in the Negro American League in all four of his seasons and winning the championship in three of those years.

J.L. Wilkerson

The Monarchs were owned by J.L. Wilkerson, a white businessman who pioneered black baseball as the founder and owner of the team. Wilkinson was widely regarded as one of the most fair-minded and progressive owners in Negro Leagues baseball. He was known for his unusual respect toward players during an era when exploitation was common. He paid players on time, honored contracts and even provided meal allowances and lodging when travel segregation made accommodations difficult. Monte Irvin, Buck O’Neil, and other Monarchs alumni later called him “the best owner in Negro League history.” He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2006.  

Following his playing days, Kranson’s life brought him to the San Francisco Bay Area, where he worked at the Naval Supply Center in Oakland for 25 years. His move to California reflects a pattern: many Negro League players, once their baseball careers ended, settled in northern cities or the West Coast, seeking work outside sporting fields. 

Kranson died in Alameda, California in 1967 at age 54.

Sources: Seamheads Negro Leagues Database; Baseball-Reference; Retrosheet; Wikipedia; Geni.com; Ancestry.com; Find a Grave; MLB.com; J.M. Wilkerson Construction Co. website. 

William Leland “Kelly” Wales (1901-1945): Professional Baseball Player & Petty Criminal

Kelly Wales and Family Gravemarker

Plot 51

William Leland “Kelly” Wales was a gifted baseball player of the 1920s whose promise on the diamond was eclipsed by personal misfortune and legal troubles during the Great Depression.

Born in 1901, Wales first gained attention as a standout athlete at Saint Mary’s College of California, where he patrolled left field and led the team with a .351 batting average during the 1922 season. His speed, determination, and hitting ability earned him a reputation as one of the college’s most reliable players.

Wales launched his professional career as a catcher with the Lincoln Links of the Western League in 1925, appearing in 99 games and recording 82 hits for a .254 average. A steady backstop and dependable contact hitter, he was traded the following year to Wichita in exchange for outfielder Eddie Moore, who would later join the Pittsburgh Pirates. Over the next several seasons, Wales appeared for clubs including the San Francisco Missions of the Pacific Coast League, part of the era’s lively semi-major circuit that produced some of the West Coast’s most colorful athletes.

Battery Mates with the Lincoln Links of Western League

By the mid-1930s, Wales had settled in the Bay Area, maintaining ties to the local baseball community. He was among the many former players and civic leaders who attended the 1935 Lake Merritt Hotel banquet welcoming Oscar “Ossie” Vitt as manager of the Oakland Oaks—a fitting connection, as both men now rest in Mountain View Cemetery along with numerous other notable baseball players. [Read about Ossie Vitt HERE]

Away from the field, however, Wales’s life grew increasingly turbulent. Despite reports that his father had served as a county sheriff, he fell repeatedly into financial and legal trouble. In 1933, he was convicted of grand theft in a Contra Costa County school-fund case, serving five months in jail and a year on probation. Six years later, he faced four counts of passing fictitious checks, totaling $160, in Alameda County taverns. Found guilty after a twenty-eight-minute trial, Wales was sentenced to two years in county jail. He told the court he was supporting his wife and two children and had been living on relief work through the WPA while bartending to make ends meet.

His wife, Marcella Wales, whom he had married in Wichita in 1925, filed for divorce during his incarceration. The decree, granted in April 1940, awarded her custody of their two children, Marilyn and Samuel, and $40 per month in support. The divorce and his convictions drew local newspaper attention, turning Wales’s private decline into public spectacle.

After his release, Wales lived quietly in or near Pleasanton, taking temporary work and renting a room behind a tavern on Main Street. On January 22, 1945, he was found dead in his bed at the age of 42. Authorities suspected a heart attack but made no formal determination.

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Sources:
Baseball-Reference.com (Player Register: William “Kelly” Wales); Oakland Tribune (Feb. 20 1935; Dec. 27 1939; Mar. 24 1940; Jan. 23 1945); Hayward Daily Review (Apr. 26 1940); Lincoln State Journal (Jan. 15 1926); Find a Grave Memorial #116382931.

Emily Browne Powell (1847-1938): Poet & Champion of California Women Writers

Emily Browne Powell & Crypt

Main Mausoleum

Emily Browne Powell was one of early California’s most active literary figures—a poet, essayist, journalist, and tireless advocate for women in the arts. Born Emily Browne in Massachusetts, she moved west with her husband, Henry Powell, eventually settling in Alameda, California. From this base she became a key voice in the state’s late-nineteenth-century literary culture, working at the intersection of journalism, poetry, and women’s rights.

Powell first gained recognition for her poems and reflective essays that appeared in West Coast periodicals, but she also achieved distinction as an author of historical sketches. Among her best-known works was “A Modern Knight: Reminiscences of General M. G. Vallejo,” published in 1890. The essay offered a rare, sympathetic portrait of the Californio general Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo, exploring his role in the state’s transformation from Mexican province to American statehood. Writing at a time when Anglo-American narratives often dismissed or caricatured Mexican-Californian figures, Powell’s portrayal of Vallejo was both personal and restorative, blending historical research with moral reflection. Her tone—admiring but unsentimental—demonstrated her sensitivity to the complexities of California’s layered identity.

"Songs Along the Way" by Emily Browne Powell

Powell also published several collections of verse, including “Driftwood,” “Sea Drift and Shore Songs,” and “Poems.” Her poems tended toward lyric meditations on nature, spirituality, and domestic life, often tinged with a sense of loss and perseverance. While she never achieved the national fame of contemporaries like Ina Coolbrith, Powell’s poetry circulated widely in California newspapers and magazines, earning her a reputation as one of the region’s most consistent literary contributors.

Yet her literary career was not without controversy. In 1891, Powell was at the center of a small but telling scandal that exposed the vulnerability of women writers in the era’s publishing world. According to a widely reported account, she had submitted an article titled “Hints to Art Students” to the Ladies’ Home Journal. The editors rejected it but returned the manuscript with detailed comments showing they had read it closely. Soon afterward, an article strikingly similar—titled “Useful Hints for Drawing”—appeared in the Home Journal, mirroring Powell’s phrasing and ideas. The San Francisco Morning Call and other papers accused Eastern editors of literary theft, noting that “it looks as if Mrs. Powell’s article had been deliberately copied while in the possession of the editor who rejected it.” Though no formal redress came, the episode underscored a broader injustice faced by women writers whose unpaid submissions were vulnerable to plagiarism and appropriation. Powell’s case became a cautionary tale in West Coast literary circles, highlighting both her professionalism and her principled sense of fairness.

Pacific Coast Women's Press Association menu cover

Her indignation over such treatment dovetailed with her leadership in the women’s press movement. Powell served as president of the Pacific Coast Women’s Press Association (PCWPA), an organization founded in San Francisco in 1890 to support women journalists, authors, and editors. The PCWPA sought to “unite women engaged in literary pursuits” and to promote their professional and financial independence in a male-dominated field. It organized lectures, mutual aid networks, and press syndication efforts to elevate women’s voices in Western journalism. Under Powell’s guidance, the association cultivated a collegial atmosphere that encouraged collaboration over competition—a philosophy she articulated in speeches emphasizing the moral dimension of authorship. The PCWPA’s membership included notable California writers such as Charlotte Perkins Stetson (later Gilman), Nellie Blessing Eyster, and Sarah B. Cooper, and it played a key role in legitimizing women’s professional authorship on the Pacific Coast.

Powell’s advocacy for women in journalism reflected her own lived experience. She understood the economic precarity of freelance writers and often spoke about the need for copyright protections and ethical publishing practices. Her essays championed the idea that women’s literary work was not merely ornamental but civic—that good writing could shape public morals, educate readers, and dignify the emerging California identity.

Throughout her long career, Emily Browne Powell remained devoted to the cause of integrity in authorship and the advancement of women in letters. Though the literary marketplace of her day offered little reward, her influence resonated through the networks she built and the young writers she mentored. She died in 1918, leaving behind a body of verse and prose that captured the intellectual restlessness and reformist energy of her adopted state.

Today, Powell’s story stands as both inspiration and warning—a testament to creative perseverance in the face of plagiarism, gender bias, and editorial gatekeeping. Through her poetry, her historical writing on figures like Vallejo, and her leadership of the Pacific Coast Women’s Press Association, she helped carve out a place for women’s voices in the literary life of the American West.

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Sources:
Wikipedia: “Emily Browne Powell”; San Francisco Morning Call, June 11 1891 p. 3; San Francisco Chronicle archives; Pacific Coast Women’s Press Association records (Bancroft Library); Wisconsin Historical Society; Find a Grave

Maida Castelhun Darnton (1872-1940): Translator, Editor, and Cultural Impresario

Maida Castelhun Darnton

Plot 5, Lot 127, W 1/2

Maida Castelhun Darnton was an American translator, editor, and cultural impresario who moved easily between San Francisco, New York, and Paris in the early 20th century. She was the daughter of Dr. F. C. Castelhun of San Francisco, a physician and lecturer, who published occasional verse and essays. 

She married the critic and Broadway columnist Charles Darnton and eventually settled for stretches in Paris, where her bilingual skill turned into a career translating and shaping European literature for U.S. audiences. Publishing under “Maida C. Darnton” or “M. C. Darnton,” she brought continental books to English readers and worked as an editor on cross-Atlantic literary projects that helped introduce “the new spirit” in European writing to American newspaper and magazine audiences. Contemporary notices in 1932 place her in precisely that world of anthologies, translations, and publishing collaborations, identifying her professionally as an editor and literary translator. 

Cartoon of Maida Darnton

Darnton also turned up in American feature pages in the early 1930s, reflecting the period’s appetite for European letters and for interpreters who could bridge languages and scenes. Those same pages show her credited for editorial and translation work that circulated widely beyond New York—evidence that her name (often as M. C. Darnton) had become familiar to general readers well outside the publishing capitals.

She came from a remarkable California family. Her sister, Ella Castelhun, was among the first women licensed as architects in California, an early professional pioneer at a time when few women held technical credentials. [Read about her HERE] The Castelhun brothers were notable as well. Paul Castelhun drew headlines as a standout football player at the University of California, Berkeley, appearing in the Bay Area sports pages during the program’s ascendant years. And in a grim episode that made national briefs during the First World War era, another brother died in a brewery accident—drowning in a vat of beer—a family tragedy recorded in contemporaneous press accounts. 

Darnton’s cosmopolitan marriage, Paris years, and steady work as a translator gave her a vantage point onto both American mass media and European literary modernism. Reviews of the day single out her translations and editorial hand for making continental literature legible to U.S. readers, and notices across the country show the breadth of her reach.

Unfortunately, she is remembered today only on her memorial page and in scattered newspaper articles.

David B. Neagle (1847–1925): Shooting Led to Landmark Supreme Court Ruling

David Butler Neagle lived a life that mirrored the turbulence of the American frontier—by turns heroic, controversial, and deeply human. A man who once shaped national law through his defense of a Supreme Court Justice would later find himself mired in scandal, feuds, and bitterness. His story embodies the uneasy transition between the Wild West’s code of personal honor and the formal rule of federal authority.

Born in Boston to Irish immigrants, Neagle grew up in a period of restless expansion. He ventured west as a young man, finding work in California’s mining camps and learning the rough-edged self-reliance that would define him. By the 1880s, he had become a deputy U.S. marshal in the District of California, known for his courage and quick temper. That temper—at times a mark of bravery, at others a flaw—would shape both his greatest and darkest moments.

Neagle came to national attention in 1889 when he was assigned to protect Supreme Court Justice Stephen J. Field, who was then hearing cases on circuit in California. The threat to Field was not imaginary. His former colleague, ex–Chief Justice David S. Terry, had once drawn a Bowie knife in court after Field held his wife, Sarah Althea Hill, in contempt during the sensational Sharon v. Hill proceedings. Terry, who decades earlier had killed Senator David C. Broderick in the infamous 1859 duel near Lake Merced, was an imposing figure of both intellect and violence. [Read about the San Francisco mayor who refused to stop the duel HERE].

By 1889, Terry and his wife openly threatened Field’s life. When Field was scheduled to ride circuit in northern California, Attorney General William H. Miller directed the U.S. Marshals Service to ensure his protection. Neagle—already known for his resolve—was assigned as his bodyguard.

On August 14, 1889, as Field and Neagle stopped for breakfast at the Lathrop railroad station, Terry approached from behind and struck Field across the face. Fearing another attack and believing Terry was reaching for his knife, Neagle drew his revolver and fired two shots, killing Terry instantly. The killing triggered an immediate clash between state and federal authorities. California officials arrested Neagle for murder, but the federal government argued that he had acted in the line of duty. The case, In re Neagle (1890), became a constitutional milestone: the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that federal officers could not be prosecuted under state law for actions taken in the execution of their federal responsibilities.

Though vindicated in law, Neagle’s later life was anything but peaceful. The notoriety of the Lathrop incident followed him for years, alternately praised as a hero and reviled as a killer. His post-marshal years found him working as a private investigator and security man, often skirting the edge of the law. His reputation for volatility and self-importance drew both admiration and enemies.

By the mid-1890s, newspaper accounts depict Neagle as a man embroiled in quarrels with journalists and rivals. In August 1896, The San Francisco Call reported that he had been arrested for assaulting a reporter who had written critically about him, accusing the journalist of libel and threatening him with violence. Days later, the paper ran further accounts describing Neagle’s legal troubles and his growing sense of persecution, claiming he had become “a man soured by the world” who still carried the swagger of his badge long after losing his post.

Perhaps most startling was his public feud with Wyatt Earp, another lawman of national fame. In 1896, newspapers reported that Earp had threatened to kill Neagle during a dispute in San Francisco’s Palace Hotel. The quarrel—apparently sparked by accusations of betrayal and conflicting loyalties within the city’s underworld—revealed the combustible pride of two men accustomed to frontier justice. Neagle, though aging and past his prime, still faced his rivals with defiance, insisting that no man would intimidate him.

These later episodes painted a picture of a complex, aging lawman haunted by his past. Neagle’s sense of honor remained acute, but his ability to navigate a changing world diminished. The swagger that once served him in dusty saloons or tense railroad depots had become self-destructive in the era of modern courts and newspapers.

Neagle's modest death announcment

When Neagle died in Oakland on November 28, 1925, his obituary noted his role in one of the most important constitutional cases in American history but said little of his final decades. His funeral was modest; his name had largely faded from public memory, overshadowed by the mythic reputations of other lawmen like Earp. Yet the decision in In re Neagle endures as a cornerstone of federal supremacy and judicial protection, invoked whenever state law threatens to encroach upon federal duty.

David B. Neagle remains a paradox: a man of immense personal courage and equally formidable flaws, whose single act of duty reshaped American constitutional law but who spent much of his later life at odds with the very civil order he helped defend. His story captures the uneasy frontier between violence and justice, pride and duty, heroism and hubris.

Sources: San Francisco Call, August 5, 8 & 13, 1896; Oakland Tribune, November 30, 1925; Daily Californian, August 11, 1896; HistoryNet; Federal Judicial Center; U.S. Marshals Service; Wikipedia; Find a Grave; The Tombstone Epitaph