As September begins, I find myself reflecting inevitably on the upcoming 19th anniversary of 9/11. No matter what else is happening in the world, the events on that day and in the

ongoing aftermath changed us all in ways that future generations of historians will reflect on and parse in an effort to make sense of what happened and why.

In the midst of the chaos, it felt like the simple word “hero” experienced a widespread rebirth with stories of valiant firefighters and other first responders, ordinary citizens who were suddenly put in positions of saving a colleague from a collapsing building or volunteering to search through the rubble for anyone missing and trapped, medical personnel who began measuring their shifts in terms of days and weeks, not hours, and, of course, the brave souls who tried to prevent any additional harm by diverting an incoming missile away from the heart of our government and into a field.

In the years that followed, so many of our sons and daughters willingly put themselves on the front lines in countries some of us couldn’t identify on a map…until that day. And, thankfully, most came home. We honor these heroes openly and with great emotion as few of us alive today had ever had our homeland targeted in such a brutal and horrific way. Our television screens became an unending nightmare we couldn’t bear to look away from. Like Pearl Harbor in 1941, September 11, 2001 will be indelibly etched in our national psyche and remains an open wound.

Over the centuries, the term “hero” generally has been ascribed to those who, when called upon by circumstance, acted in a selfless way, even when the ultimate sacrifice was the result. These are our Historical Heroes, judged by the ages for their deeds – a moving target through the lens of historical perspective as we are certainly witnessing this year. But being a hero is not always tied to war, although it is often tied to a battle. Blood marrow donors who combat cancer by their caring, parents who work as long as it takes to make certain their children have their needs met, and, increasingly, adult children who become the primary caregiver for a proud yet aging parent who reluctantly must relinquish their independence – examples of our Everyday Heroes who are often unsung but make a difference by their words, deeds and actions. And, we can’t forget the essential workers, educators and tech folks who are pulling out all the stops to ensure instruction for kids continues at home and beyond! I, for one, am glad my little ones are now grown and not online at my kitchen table…and I greatly admire the creativity that is going into distance learning.

In this time of COVID-19, our heroes abound. And, though they may not seek the spotlight, their efforts are being recognized. Just drive around town and see signage on senior living centers and hospitals that proudly proclaim, “Heroes Work Here!” The pandemic has, for the first time in 102 years, unleashed a global medical emergency of what may be epic proportions – the jury is still out on the scope and effect in comparison to the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918. There is no doubt, however, that our world has been immeasurably altered for the past six months and 2020 will be remembered not too fondly by most.

In the meantime, in this thought-provoking month, I personally wanted to say thank you to all the heroes from across the ages who have made our country, our communities and our families better because of their existence. Take a moment to think of your own personal heroes – if you can, let them know how they have made a difference for YOU. Most true heroes don’t seek glory or recognition – but it never hurts to hear how much they are appreciated.

Warm Regards,

Elizabeth Laval, President

Fresno County Historical Society

Photo Credit: Top image courtesy of the Pop Laval Foundation. Bottom image from Community Medical Centers via Facebook.

Kearney Avenue was by no means the end of the world for my grandmother Danks, for she never allowed it to be. The "side road" was merely the spot where she paused and gathered strength before she piloted the high black Studebaker out between the palms into the stream of nonexistent traffic every morning to drive Grandpa down to the "Shop." Grandpa understood all about automobiles and bought a very good one the moment he considered them safe and practical, but he didn't care much about driving, especially after the hand throttle was eliminated. He was a big man, standing handsome and tall and erect at 6'4" and he disliked being cramped behind the wheel of a car with his long legs and feet obliged to accomplish "things a man's hands ought to be doing" as he put it. And although he was a great personal admirer of Henry Ford and quoted him on

every possible occasion, he never forgave him for inventing the complicated system of footwork necessary for driving Kearney Boulevard in early 1900s. (FCCHS Archives) the early model T, and flatly refused even to consider buying one. Besides all this, my grandmother liked to drive and was always needing to deliver a loaf of bread or some fresh jam or pickles somewhere clear across town to some friend or relative. She never complained about living "way out there in the wilderness" as her friends on Glenn Avenue used to say, and perhaps it was because the Studebaker with its shiny black cushions, square headlamps and rasping Claxon horn made her extremely mobile.

My grandmother Danks was among the few of her feminine contemporaries to drive a car, and she was greatly admired for it, particularly by -y grandfather, whose loyalty and caution led him to conceal rather effectively all evidence of the one blemish on her traffic record. Fifty years after the incident occurred, I came across a sheet of paper, locked in an ancient strongbox, that bore the signed release from a gentleman who had suffered minor injuries in a collision between his bicycle and my grandmother's automobile. This happened in 1913 at the corner of Fresno and J (Fulton) Streets, and it must have been more or less my grandmother's fault, since my grandfather promptly paid the man $25 to cease and desist from embarrassing her by mentioning the affair further. I suspect this was rather early in her driving career, or anyone else's for that matter; she soon acquired skill and confidence to such degree that in the early twenties when the Studebaker began to get a big shaky, my grandfather bought her a brand new Oakland Touring car, which raced along at thirty or so... in the country, of course. He drew the line at the new Sedan models, however, and never owned one, declaring it was too stuffy being shut up inside one of those "boxes" and downright unsafe, riding around with all that glass on every hand.

Right from the beginning, driving was a joy and necessity for Grandma. Other ladies who lived on O and R Streets might hail the Chinese vegetable man who came by in his wagon, hop on the streetcar or walk down to Einstein's or Kutner-Goldstein's or Graff's-or even telephone for an order to be sent out. But on Kearney Avenue nobody delivered anything at all, except the Watkins man with his supply of vanilla, lemon extract and linament. For everything else of a commercial nature Grandma went to town. Sometimes she drove directly from the "Shop" on H Street where she deposited my grandfather at 7:45 to the Free Market alongside the courthouse park' There she would pick up the few items of produce she didn't already have in good supply; after exchanging a friendly word of greeting with the stall keepers, many of whom were near neighbors, she proceeded to her favorite butcher shop to select the good cuts of meat which invariably graced her table.

For her "dry goods" shopping in the afternoon Grandma usually found a good parking place on Tulare Street, close to Radin and Kamp's and other stores that sold stamped pillowcases and embroidery thread for her "fancy work." It took a lot of thread and pillowcases to keep her going through sessions of the Madison Club and the Tokay Embroidery Club. Being a talented as well as an industrious woman, my grandmother through her years of membership managed to turn out enough monogrammed, flower bedecked and crochet-edged pillowcases to bruise the cheeks of several generations.

Next to embroidery, these groups were dedicated to the consumption of chicken salad, Grandma's hot "light rolls" and feathery white coconut layer cake with boiled frosting, Along with a few side attractions such as pomegranate jelly, home cured olives, cucumber pickles , watermelon preserves and home grown almonds salted and served in little crocheted nut baskets, these edibles made up a repast that the good ladies consumed at 4 p.m., after they had embroidered their fingers to the bone all afternoon. No matter how pressing were her duties as a hostess or how desperately she needed another skein of pale green thread, Grandma always dropped her bricks in time to get the Studebaker or the Oakland over to H Street to be in her customary spot to greet my grandfather when he emerged from the Valley Foundry at 5:05 or a bit later. I was brought up to believe that the world would fall apart if Grandma were not outside the shop a few minutes ahead of time, waiting for Grandpa. And so it did --his world at any rate-- one sad June day in 1927 when I was about 12 and my sister 7, when my grandmother made her last trip home from the shop with Grandpa and quietly died less than an hour later.

Born January 8, 1926, Rebecca “Becky” Avila Ruiz was a native of Fresno, California. Unfortunately, her oral history recording is not available, but we have her memories transcribed along with the photographs she shared. Ruiz spent much of her oral history talking about her father, Moses Calderon Avila. His story is similar to many Mexicans who migrated in the early 20^th century.

At age 5, Ruiz’s father came with his parents to the United States through Eagle Pass, Texas on July 4, 1887. He attended school in San Antonio, Texas where he learned English. When he was 19 and she was 13, Ruiz’s father married Eglantine Barron Diaz in San Marcos, Texas on August 2, 1901. They would have eight children, two boys and six girls. Ruiz remembered that her father always had two jobs. He worked in the Post Office, did farm work, carpentry, and offered taxi service in his car. When asked about discrimination, Ruiz said, “I remember him talking about Mexican people having to step off the sidewalk and let an Anglo go by, that was discrimination.”

Ruiz’ grandfather was the first to come to California where he purchased a walnut ranch in Firebaugh and later had a ranch in Atwater. Ruiz’s father followed with his young family, but soon moved to Fresno for better work prospects and educational opportunities for his children. In 1924, Ruiz’s father started working as a laborer and then an oiler at the Santa Fe Railroad yard in Calwa, “and retired 24½ years later." This photograph shows Ruiz’s father at the Calwa railroad yard, he is standing on the far right with the shovel. Ruiz’s father became an American citizen on May 9, 1933. Ruiz’s father was active with the Sociadad Morelos Mutualista and served as president several times. He also enjoyed working with the California Youth Authority providing entertainment to teens incarcerated at a camp in Coarsegold, and served as a trustee on the school board when Ruiz was attending Edison High School where she was a majorette. This photograph shows Ruiz with her younger siblings and her father in her high school years.

For more details about Rebecca Avila Ruiz’ life, check out the transcript of her oral history.

Photo Credit: Moses Avila with children Becky, Alicia, and Larry in Fresno, circa 1940

You can now support the Fresno County Historical Society with a small on-going monthly donation thought our new History Hero program. History Hero members ensure that, as history is made each day, the Fresno County Historical Society is ready and able to collect and preserve these treasures for future generations to learn from and enjoy. They will receive the member benefits package that most closely matches what would be their total contribution amount over 12 months.

Monthly donors have a membership that is always active and never need to receive renewal letters. This allows us to put more of your investment to work saving our history and less into administrative costs. Members are able to change or stop their on-going donation at anytime by contacting the Fresno County Historical Society.

Won't you consider being a Hero to us today?

Volunteer from the comfort and safety of your home with the goal of making the amazing life stories in our Ethnic Oral History Collection more widely accessible. We are seeking fluent Spanish speakers to work with the oral histories that were recorded and transcribed in Spanish. Volunteers will evaluate the existing transcripts and ensure they are a complete and accurate documentation of the oral histories. Volunteers will then translate the updated transcripts into English. All that’s needed is a computer or tablet that can produce Microsoft Word documents and access to the internet. Email Archivist Katy Hogue at archives@valleyhistory.org if you would like to help improve use of these important historical resources.