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I was born in the Revere Hotel, First and E Streets, in the year 1894. (It was demolished in 1964.) It was an exciting life. Each day brought forth a new chapter. The memorable old-country hotel has gone out of existence. Although I could write chapter after chapter, I will only relate those which stand out most potently.

My grandfather, George Kramer, came to Eureka from the Mother Lode country with his wife and three sons. He took active part in the management of the Revere House at the age of 16, When he became 24 he brought home a bride from San Francisco. They were welcomed at the dock with friends and a brass band. Shortly after, my grandparents retired and my father took over.

At the turn of the century a new addition was added and another story built on for the sum of $10,000. I was thrilled with our new quarters, which consisted of a large living room with a bay window, two bedrooms and bathroom.

The hotel was the center for great activity. Information was obtained for trains, buses and steamers. Phone “Central” and she would give you the number — Main 44. The clerk would respond to the best of his ability.

When the steamer, which arrived once a week from San Francisco, was sighted, the whole town came to life. Everybody who had special interest dashed to the dock. I had a front seat in the bus and relished the confusion.

Along with the guests came the transfer men. An especially nice one, Mr. Yuill, used to put a heavy trunk on his back and carry it up the stairs for the sum of 50 cents or $1.00.

The guests were a multifarious lot — from the honest country folk, the businessman, called the drummer, and the ever-present charlatan.

The downstairs and saloon were strictly for men. The saloon was more of a social club where games were in progress. The few gambling tables and slot machines were not unlike the pinball machines now in use. Many residents came in for a few hours in the evening to participate. If anyone got out of line, the bouncer would throw them out bodily into the street.

The upstairs parlor was for women. It was for weddings, social gatherings and card games. My ears were always open to hear all the gossip. Once in a while Civil War veterans would gather and relate their experiences. I was fascinated! Evenings were social affairs. Anyone who had a talent, such as card tricks or such could display skill. Sometimes I was allowed to recite or sing a song.

The king of all charlatans came to the hotel. He posed as a professor of phrenology, fortune-teller and reader of the mind. His credentials reached a mile of nonexisting institutes of learning. Crowds came. To prove his skill, he set a day for demonstration. A flag was planted in the pocket of one of our prominent citizens. He would recover it by mental telepathy. In front of an audience he left the entrance blindfolded into an open carriage. He seized the reins, standing up all the time, and galloping the horses through the streets. After a few detours, he stopped at City Hall, found his target and went back to the carriage again. Upon alighting, waving the flag all the way, he feigned the most realistic faint into the arms of his conspirators, due to his mental strain. Chicanery runs its course, and our friend took off as mysteriously as he arrived.

Fourth of July was a big event. The fire companies turned out in competition as to who would get there first at a fake fire. They always took to the hotel because it had three stories. I was petrified when I saw them descend the ladders as it was too realistic. A few years before Eureka had a volunteer fire department. An ungainly blast from the mill would sound off and each fireman would go to the post. One blast meant nearby, and two or three, the location of the fire. If it occurred at night, I put my head under the covers with fright. My father always got up to see if there were any visible flames.

There were many a shipwreck in those days. They brought the survivors to the hotel, some with blankets for coverage. One in particular was a gruesome sight. I sat on the steps watching the procedure as they were assigned rooms. I followed them up to the door and sometimes went in so as to not miss a thing.

We always welcomed the return of interesting sea captains. One was Captain McClellan of the P. A. Kilburn. His ship ran between Eureka and San Francisco. Sometimes he overstepped his time in the bar saying his farewell. The vessel would blow and blow the whistle. He would shake his fist and in no uncertain terms declare that he would come when he was good and ready.

When World War I broke out many of our men were drafted. The one-day train left early. I was awakened when I heard the band playing, “Over There” as they escorted them to the train.

There was the Albany Restaurant in connection with the hotel. They had booths with doors, called boxes. We saw many a secret date sneak in and out. We knew all the hidden life of the citizens. I sat in the bay window most of the time and knew what was going on.

We survived the big shake in 1906. The hotel, I swear, hit the sidewalk and bounced back. At breakfast time the cook began his duties just the same, feeding large logs into the wood range, never check out as to the safety of the chimney. No fire occurred. In fact, we never had a major fire and hadn’t any preventions. In earlier days there were kerosene lamps in the rooms, then came gas, and finally it was electrified.

After the Armistice, my father sold out and went to live in Southern Humboldt.

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After the previous article in the September issue about the Revere Hotel, I received several requests to write more. I will now recall more of these impressionable events.

Since most of these are centered around my father, Edwin George Kramer, I hereby dedicate this article to him.

He had the most outstanding personality — radiating such warmth and friendship, which made him a most popular hotelman. He always was full of jokes and his ready wit carried him along to all who were fortunate to have known him.

When the guests arrived from the steamers, he was at the door to greet them with a handshake, calling them by name. Rarely was he mistaken. He was endowed with this gift. In those days everyone wanted to meet the proprietor. It was a friendly hotel. The guests who came from the mountains to transact business were considered members of the family. Meals were 25 cents, or two-bits as it was then called; chicken dinner with wine on the table for Sunday. Later the dining area was taken over by the Albany restaurant.

A large safe occupied a space next to the main office desk. It was only closed at the end of the day. My father would go in there to make change. It contained only gold coin and silver dollars. Paper money was looked upon with disdain. Holdups were unheard of. Everyone trusted one another.

Then there was the invincible alley where all disputes and much argumentation took place. It was behind the store on Second Street and the end of the hotel on E Street. Also it was directly below the family living quarters. My father always had a bucket of water handy if the arguments were too prolonged. It always brought results.

The afternoon nap was customary in the life of Edwin George. One early afternoon there wasCLOSE TO the passenger ship docks, the Revere Hotei at First and E Streets, under the ownership of the Kramer famiiy, for many years was a popuiar stopping piace for inbound and out- bound travelers, Demoiished in 1964, the site is now a city parking iot, much commotion and hilarity occurring outside. A swarthy-looking man with a black bear on a rope came down E Street, and immediately set up shop right under my father’s window, waking him up. Out came the water bucket. It made a direct hit and drenched the bear. The infuriated man shook his fist and exclaimed, “Wherefore you wet my Mary!” A few more expressions were added and the crowd dispersed to another more suitable location. Then Edwin George resumed his nap.

My father was very fond of children so I often brought home a group to tour the hotel. He would take them to the top of the cupolas (which were later removed) for a view. Then we would slide down all the banisters on the way out.

When nature blessed us with a nice sunny morning, we were awakened with whistling and singing. A trip to Samoa Beach was in the making. We got together a hasty picnic lunch, boarded the launch to the mill, and then walked the rest of the way to the ocean. The happiest days were spent there on Samoa Beach.

It was customary for the men to carry the women out into the deep breakers, deaf to their shrill cries and pleadings. My father was past master at this kind of episode and my mother a victim. One could only go in wading because of the heavy and dangerous surf. We always came home with a case of sunburn which lasted a week, even though we kept our hats on.

I will conclude my article by referring to the words of William Shakespeare, “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.”

I think that we all have played our part and played it well. Since this year has faded out, there are only the treasured memories that are with us to the end of time.