In trying to recapture so many impressions of childhood - and such a green, healthy world it was - there is a parade of characters before my eyes - figures that would bring a smile to some today - so far out of tune they would be with the modern age. But I recall them tenderly, for, were they not a colorful part of Sonora's yesterday? Some were strange, some comic, some a wee bit queer, but even they awaken tender memories.

 

The three Mocomber brothers - would I were a Dickens to bring them to you in picture as I remember them - real characters , such as you rarely meet in a lifetime - elegant, cultured, aristocratic, the three brothers lived together in a little vine-covered cottage nestled in their orchard in north Sonora. There was a white picket fence around the whole place and a gate that clicked - a little dirt path leading around to the back door.

Here were beautiful shade trees and a grapevine arbor where hung luscious bunches of black grapes in the Fall - a squeaky pump that brought up sparkling cold water. Scattered around the grounds were cider mills, pickle works, packing houses, warehouses, etc., and here were turned out the fine Macomber products - a champagne cider famous throughout the West - sweet cider - vinegar - pickles, such as no one has ever been able to make since; I am sure if anyone had the recipe today his fortune would be made. 

Here, under this shady arbor, Fred Macomber (he was the social greeter of the firm) dispensed sweet champagne cider and pickles to thousands - and much of it FREE, with that generosity of the old pioneers, they literally gave away fortunes.

Children came in droves for pickles and sweet cider, and were never turned away. I lived not very far away and with other little girls we often stopped in on our way from school - there was always a kindly smile and never an impatient look or word.

Fred always asked us to sing and we sat on the long bench and swung our feet, singing at the tops of our childish voices. Meanwhile we filled out "tummies" with pickles, apples, crackers and cider - we had not studied the vitamins or balanced diet in those days - anyway we were never any the worse for the mixture.

When guest appeared, Fred would bring out a white pottery pitcher filled with pickles and another filled with sweet cider; when there were groups of older people or out-of-town guests, he would bring up form his cellar bottles of his famous champagne cider. It was a delicious product and many connoisseurs could not tell it from the real champagne.

The Macomber pickles were put up in five gallon wooden kegs and were shipped all over the West - many local families would buy a keg in the fall for their Winter's use. There were put up in pure vinegar - crisp and delicious.

George was the eldest of the three brothers - tall and dignified - he wore a bushy black wig that fluffed out all around from under his tall silk hat - a black price Albert suit - stiff white shirt and collar and black bow tie - and carrying a gold-headed cane - an aristocratic figure as he walked into town.

Fred was equally elegant in dress and manners - his bow was almost a real curtsy when he met a lady- truly, a gentleman to the manner born. The third brother, Henry, was not quite so elegant or aristocratic and in manner was different - it never occurred to us who did the hard work- perhaps Henry.

They were all old men (or seemed old) when I first knew them, and I have often thought in later years that I would give anything to know of their early history. It was said they came here from New York and that they were descendants of Lafayette.

It was said that Fred was very handsome in his younger days - a real Adonis; he had jet black hair, with a moustache and sideburns; these he dyed when I knew him - and very often the dye was not deftly applied - leaving streaks here and there - but these were minor things and only noticed, perhaps, by "giggly" little girls.

Everybody loved the Macombers - everybody went "out to Macombers" - and when one by one they passed on, we missed them. We used to go out to see Fred in his last illness and his wan, white face would light up when we mentioned his fine cider and pickles.

I love to think of the Macomber place as one of the beauty spots of my childhood - the deep lush blue grass in the orchard - the little, low white house that nestled so cozily among the trees. I love to think of the glad mornings when I tripped by on my way to school - the grass sparkling with dew and the air fragrant with mint that grew along the fence. And best of all - I am glad I knew such staunch, fine characters as the Macomber brothers - the memory is sweet.