["Where is Charles Eric?" my mother asked. Everyone else called him Charlie, but my mother often used his full name. Namesake middles were there to be spoken, especially that of her beloved grandfather. Eric Hindorff was a first-generation US citizen. His parents, aunts, and uncles (biological and by marriage) had emigrated from Sweden. They made their way across the American continent from East to West taking the Emigrant Train from Council Bluffs, Iowa to Temecula, CA in 1883. Eric later moved to Fallbrook in the northern part of San Diego County.]
Working on a CNF piece. My GGP led an interesting life. He met Pancho Villa in 1912, just after he separated from his general and the other Mexican revolutionaries. He was a rattlesnake milker and wildlife wrangler for the San Diego Wildlife Commission. He was a proficient fiddler and a bee keeper.
The following poem was written by Annie Hindorff (my GGM):
The Old Honeyhouse
I wandered today to the honey house
And climbed the old wooden stair.
I drew on my imagination
And wished that you could be there.
A festoon of spider webs hung from the eaves
And webs were draped, ceiling to floor.
Gave an eerie feeling swaying there in the breeze
Undisturbed since we closed the door.
I recalled the days last summer
When we worked the whole day long
Running off golden honey
Hearing the motor's song.
Hearing the hum of the motor,
Humming bees and hissing steam,
The clip-clap of belt on the wheel
Golden honey flows out in a stream.
Balmy days of autumn,
The trees so red and gold,
Reminds us of our younger days.
What'll we be when we are old?
Will we be so blithe and breezy
And dance the whole night through,
Or will we be cross and crabby,
And there's nothing we can do?
Though long the day, tired and weary,
We made plans for the years to come,
Happy to be working together,
Sharing our trials and fun.
We thought not too far in the future
Of the time when no day's work is done,
When we have to sit back an dream
Of the years that were filled and gone.
Now it is cold and quiet,
The droning motor is still.
There is no golden honey,
No yawning tanks to fill.
It is cold and quiet now,
The mice run over the floor;
No golden honey dripping,
No bees humming 'round the door.
I thought far into the future
Wondered when our life's work is done,
Will our spirits return to this honeyhouse
Where we worked together so long?
Will someone take up our work here,
And faithfully carry the load,
Or will our dreams and promises
Be laid by the side of the road?
Who knows what the future may bring us.
Is our work here really worth while?
When we're gone, will we be forgotten,
Or be thought of and give them a smile?
Many years have passed since I wrote this,
The bees have been sold far away.
The barn is a haven for cast-offs,
That are going to be used some day.