City of Sunnyvale

When I was a young girl growing up, the way to Los Altos from San Jose was to go El Camino toward San Francisco, going straight instead of veering right at Fremont Road. There were lots of large houses in orchards in those days, my Keesling grandparents lived in such a house in Campbell. So when we passed the Butcher house on our way to Los Altos, I didn’t pay any more attention to it than to the Halford and Bennett houses at Miliken Corners a mile east.

The whole valley was almost like one vast orchard. You had to know property lines to know one ranch from another. On November 27, 1948 I was married to Robert Butcher, grandson of Rolla Butcher. Rolla Butcher had settled the area known as “Butcher’s Corner” in 1881. We built a house just west of Butcher’s corner where we lived, and still do today.

Rolla Butcher came west from present day West Virginia in 1857, following General Albert Sidney Johnston’s expedition to Salt Lake City to control the Mormons. This enormous expedition included federal judges and a new territorial governor. In fact, there were so many people in the party that the train of travelers stretched for miles. The size of the contingent meant that though the leaders at the front started off each day early in the morning, those at the end couldn’t move until evening. Rolla Butcher, traveling with his group at the end of the line, started each journey at night, sleeping during the daytime hours.

Reaching Butte County California, Mr. Butcher kept the Magalia stage stop, mined gold and later married Emma Smith Moise. Emma and all their children were born in Butte County. The family traveled through Idaho and to Montana, mining and engaging in commercial pursuits. In Butte Rolla Butcher discovered, among other lodes, the Alece Mine, which he sold to Marcus Daly. His health failing, they came to California in 1881, buying a quarter section at what is now Fremont Avenue and Wolfe Road. At that time it was Boynter Road and El Camino Real.

Up until the early 1960s, there were nothing but orchards and farm houses from our house to Highway 9, later called Sunnyvale-Saratoga Road. Wolfe road was a narrow potholed road that barely made it to Homestead. The land on the other side of Fremont Road was also all orchards all the way to Highway 9, except for two small subdivisions.

Starting in January, or even November, there was the careful work of pruning the trees for optimum fruit production. Blossom time was a spectacular time of year. I looked forward to living in a blossoming orchard that first year our house was finished, 1950, but at that time we grew Nectar and Shanghai peaches, shy bloomers, so there was no fantastic drama of billows of blossoms and intoxicating aromas.

Next came irrigation, which at that time we did with dirt ridges or “checks” made by the tractor. We dunked our baby daughter in the cold stream from our well to introduce her to orchard life. Irrigation wading was a favorite delight whenever there was water in the orchard for our three children. There was lots of mud to squish in with no complaints about messiness. A hose serving for clean up.

Then the harvest time came with lots of fruit to eat ripe off the tree, the only really good way. With harvest time came the county fair representative Mrs. Vennum to collect fruit for the County Fair. My husband did a lot of grafting to try out new varieties; so he had more to put on display than just our commercial varieties. My father in law believed in growing a succession of fruits: cherries, peaches, plums, pears, and prunes. This kept his crew small and efficient over a long season. All the different fruits and varieties meant my husband won lots of ribbons and sweepstakes awards at the County Fair, a high point of our year.

Prunes were the last fruit to be picked. Then it was back to school for the children. Each morning I would take them across the street to where the school bus picked them up on Fremont Road. In the afternoon, I’d venture back across the street and meet them when they were dropped off. Every year the road got busier and busier.

In those years both families’ mailboxes were out on Wolfe Road. Our mail was delivered by the carrier from Santa Clara. A bird had delivered us a Live Oak at the corner of the drive next to the mailbox. In those days before the incursion of all the rapacious foreign squirrels, I picked up acorns and stuck them in the dirt at the side of the drive. Now, some forty years later, those oaks have grown to a respectable size and have to be trimmed back so the garbage truck can get through. They provide a favored spot for Sunnyvale Public Safety Officers to catch red light runners.

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