Patton Lumber

   The living room was furnished with outdoor furniture. I’m not sure why. They were rubber-strapped chairs, white in color and I would weave my fingers through the thin, white straps. My mom had a green thumb and plants were strewn throughout. The plants liked her and flourished with the generous bright sunshine beaming through the southern-facing windows. These windows bore the view of the beautiful lake- which I took for granted, thinking all children could take sixty steps and be at the beach.

   Our little house was right next to the lumberyard my parents owned, called Patton Lumber. Built sometime in the 1930s, the main building was two stories. The upstairs were apartments, four of them- with amazing views. We lived there during the 70s and the tenants were mostly hippies. Downstairs was the store with tools, hardware, and paint. The floor was made of wide wood planks. They were uneven and you noticed it when you walked over them, especially with child-sized feet. There were open boxes on shelves in rows containing screws, nails, nuts, and bolts. It was in this area the coffee maker was stationed- the tall cylinder wrapped in aluminum with a black toggle that released the coffee into the Styrofoam cup, along with powdered creamer and red stir-sticks off to the side. The coffee was available to any and all. Being a toddler, I didn’t like coffee and every so often, I would walk by to see if maybe there were hot chocolate pouches there instead. Contractors preferred coffee over hot chocolate, it seemed.

   The counter was just across from the hardware section. It held a cash register that pinged a bell when the drawer opened and an old-fashioned mustard yellow calculator that weighed thirty-five pounds. Two people could comfortably fit behind the counter area. Off to the side of the counter was a bathroom with a ceramic toilet and a tiny ceramic sink. The ceramic was chipped and worn off in parts, with metal shining through. The bowl of the sink was turning orange with rust near the drain. The faucet had two separate handles, one for hot and one for cold. The lid and seat on the toilet were always up, used predominantly by males who, it seemed, only ever had to go number one. While the bathroom was religiously cleaned, overall, the fixtures were the kind of dirty that warranted replacement. Precious, in the same way used Levi 501 jeans are precious, I wish I still had that ceramic-cracked, rusty-bowled sink.

   The paint and stain section of the store had stacks of gallon cans, neatly organized with a paint shaker that would make the floor and nearby shelves shake when operated- of which intrigued a three-year-old. Near the paint section was the small office. It housed a messy desk with old Wall Street Journals casually strewn about, unopened envelopes of mail, and sealed invoices awaiting postage. A stack of Playboy magazines lined the top shelves – safely kept – in the event someone wished to reread the articles, I suppose.

   The rear of the store was for employees only. There it stored overstock and a white fridge containing only apples, oranges, and yogurt, which my dad ate daily for lunch. The back wall had a roll-up door and a dock to which trucks could back up. On warmer sunny days, with the door rolled up, my dad would sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling off, eating his apple, orange and yogurt while enjoying the warm sunshine and the glassed-over lake view.

   Next to the main building there was a huge storage shed that held all the lumber. It was three-sided with a flat roof. There was no door closure or fence of any kind. It just lay bare. I was troubled by this – all this unlocked wood- wouldn’t it get stolen? Nearby the Hyster was parked. Red and rusty. We never called it a forklift- it was always referred to as “the Hyster.”

An old flatbed truck, a 196X Dodge Hemi, was also parked there, used for deliveries.

   Altogether, the cabin-house, main building, and storage shed sat on a third or so, acres. It was right next to a boat marina, the Sierra Boat Company, in Carnelian Bay. It was called Carnelian Bay because every so often, amongst the smooth and flattened rocks on the beach, you’d find a Carnelian gemstone. We lived there for a year and a half. We moved in when I was two and a half and moved to a bigger house right after my fourth birthday. I didn’t know why we had to move to a bigger house. It was just the right size for me. But then, that was my world.

   Several memories stand out when I think about my almost two years living at this property, all of them with strong emotion.

   The first being fear.

   Because the property was located near the marina, there was a hive of activity in the summer months with watercraft. Several buoys were sprinkled along the edge of the docks, with boats of all varieties attached: motorboats, Chris-Crafts, sailboats, catamarans, and occasionally a pontoon or houseboat. 

   One late spring evening, a houseboat attached to a buoy caught fire. The occupants jumped overboard and were rescued by people in the houseboat nearby. I remember a rumor that the occupant dropped a live hair blow-dryer in a sink full of water, which sparked an electric fire. We know it was started by an electrical fire, but the nature of how it began remains unknown. Nonetheless, this has always stayed with me, and I still get a little freaked out whenever I see a plugged-in blow dryer near a sink, even though this is quite a normal thing. I still don’t know where that fictional story came from. Fake news from a three-year-old.

   I recall a pitch-black sky, with a houseboat fully engulfed in flames. A huge orange ball of fire reflected off the glassy lake, making the blaze seem even grander. We went and sat on the beach to watch the fire. There was nothing to be done about it. It was secured to a buoy; no boats were nearby and it was empty of people. No “fire boats” existed on the lake at that time- I don’t even think the Coast Guard came out. It was left to burn, and we just sat there and watched. Seeing the orange, hearing the crackle of the flames, and smelling the smoke, I was wide-eyed and full of questions. The next morning a bare skeleton of blackened wood remained, gently floating on the soft waves periodically tugging on the buoy. Sort of helpless and lonely.

   Another memory, this one of frustration.

   It was a Sunday morning, and we were getting ready for church, or should I say I had to get ready for church. I didn’t want to go. Sitting on the stool at the counter in the bathroom, I took the double-sided hand mirror and slammed it on the counter. The mirrors didn’t break, surprisingly. But after that, they were forever loose and jiggled around in the hand-held frame. My intention came more from not wanting to go anywhere on a Sunday morning. I just wanted to be home for a relaxing Sunday morning with jammies on, licking my sticky, syrupy fingers. And I didn’t want to be bothered with church- which church should never be a “bother” or obligation. Not much has changed about my feeling about church on Sunday mornings, but I am no longer slamming handheld mirrors on countertops. 

   We spent a lot of time on that beach in the summers. Swimming, picnics, barbeques. How could you not? Lake Tahoe is such a beautiful lake. So we’d sit on the beach behind the main building and the tenants on the second floor would walk around the deck. Naked. Yep, naked tenants. Naked hippy-tenants. Mostly males with long hair and mustaches. It was the 70s, after all. I was three, so I had never seen male parts before and wondered why they had hair down there. 

   Equal parts intrigue and disgust.

   My last memory of living in the little house by the lake was when my paternal grandparents came to visit. They had a cabin of their own on the south shore of the lake. My grandma Trudi was a girly girl with painted nails and pretty jewelry. She wore a gold charm bracelet that jangled. She had two boys (my dad and Uncle Fred). Then two grandsons followed. I was the first female, and she was delighted. Whenever she visited, she brought gifts. On this visit, Trudi brought me a little box of treasures: vintage bracelets and a purse, a few empty perfume bottles, a doily, and pink jammies with white polka dots. It was all so dainty and delicate. I felt like a princess.

Joy and delight. 

   Much as the ski runs etched in the mountains, burning houseboats, Sunday tantrums, naked hippies, and a box of treasures etched in my memory.

   Appreciating the location and value of conservation, the Tahoe Conservancy purchased the property, tore down the buildings, and it was restored to its natural habitat. While I was a bit saddened to see the buildings go, it seemed the right thing to do, and the beach remains public and open. I can stop by anytime I visit to rub one of those smooth-flattened rocks. Now called Patton Landing- Waterman’s Landing it’s known for its paddle boarding. The website mentions it has a gourmet coffee house.

         I wonder if they sell hot dogs?

Jennifer Elliott

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