Category: Coastside History

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The Man Who Called Himself “Kid Zug”: Part I

(Note: The true story of “Kid Zugâ€? was stitched together, using old newspapers to pick out a description here, another there—until I gathered enough pieces for a word picture).

“Kid Zugâ€?: Part I

In 1918 workmen hurriedly erected an outdoor prize fight ring on the saloon-fronted San Gregorio Street in Pescadero—and everybody buzzed about the upcoming boxing match between the newly arrived “Kid Zugâ€? and his local opponent, “Happyâ€? Frey.

In California boxing was illegal—so was gambling—and had it been any place other than Pescadero, the authorities would have clamped down. But this was Pescadero—west of the magnificent redwood forest on San Mateo County’s remote South Coast—and outsiders didn’t care (or know) what was going on there.

The village of Pescadero was about 70 years old in 1918—but it was local lore that you could tell what was fashionable by the contents of the cargo salvaged from the last shipwreck.

In the 1890s, for example, horse-and-buggy tourists were surprised to see every single house in town with a fresh coat of white paint. They learned that the Pescaderans had been the beneficiaries of a bonanza in the form of tons of paint salvaged from the shipwrecked vessel Colombia.

A quarter century later it was more likely that the villagers would be salvaging cases of illegal liquor from the unlucky bootlegging fishing trawlers that had crashed into the dark rocky reefs on moonless nights.

Newcomers to the Coastside village, particularly those with the “rightâ€? connections, quickly discovered that slot machines and card games were found in a two=story house at a curve on the lonely road leading east into the redwoods.

Even more fascinating were the rumors that certain county officials were regularly in attendance, playing the one-armed bandits.

Among the intriguing newcomers was a ruddy, scar-faced ex=pugilist who called himself “Kid Zugâ€?.

He was seen paling around with the owner of the gambling joint. Although “the Kidâ€? explained his presence in town by saying he was a house painter, he was never seen holding a paintbrush. He was much more often seen tipping back a glass of beer at one of the four saloons—and he never ceased menacing those around them.

It didn’t take long for the locals to learn the truth: Kid Zug was really in town to act as a strong-arm enforcer.

To be continued….

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The Mullen Farmhouse

When I dropped in on Tom Clyne at the historic Mullen Farmhouse in east Miramar in 1977, the 84-year-old retired bookkeeper told me he had inherited the property from Clara Mullen.

Wow, I thought. What a great property. The Mullen Farmhouse stood at the far end of a dreamy country lane, it’s white paned windows barely visible from a favorite nursery of mine specializing in apple trees.

Clara–the last surviving Coastside Mullen– died of a heart attack in 1971. Tom did the books.

Was there a romantic link between the couple? I doubt it. Clara Mullen was two decades older than Tom Clyne. But although born in San Francisco, Tom Clyne spent the latter part of his days living alone in the Mullen Farmhouse, leaving only to drive to Pacifica where he swam laps in the high school pool.

The old farmhouse was originally home to the Irishman John Mullen, his wife, and eight children, four boys and four girls.

There was Ned and Bill and Annie and Clara and Tom Clyne couldn’t remember the names of the other two boys.

I already knew the background of the property when I visited Tom in the 1970s.

A century earlier the Pacific Steamship Company had hired John Mullen to run Amesport Wharf, today known as Miramar—and Tom added that Mullen purchased the beautiful property, within walking distance of Amesport, from the famous San Franciscan, Claus Spreckels, “the sugar kingâ€?.

Busy Amesport was a power point and John Mullen so famous that nearby Medio Creek was called “Mullen’s Creekâ€? by the locals. Memories of John Mullen’s presence hadn’t faded much over the decades because I heard locals comfortably using “Mullen’s Creekâ€? in the 1970s.

In the Redwood City archives of the San Mateo County History Museum, Clara Mullen left us an anecdote about Amesport Wharf. She describes the tiny village of misfits and sea captains and deep sea divers as such a busy place that three small ships were loading and unloading supplies at the same time. Coal for heating was imported from far away England but the self-reliant Coastsiders planted fast growing eucalyptus trees and later cut them down for firewood.

Tom didn’t change much inside or outside the old Mullen farmhouse, constructed entirely of redwood, and held together with square hand-cut nails–but he did like modern conveniences and installed electricity and plumbing. There was an outhouse but there also were two commodes (bowls) inside cabinets in the event you didn’t make it to the outhouse in time.

Original furniture remained, chairs, a walnut bed frame and an antique secretary with hand carved handles. One entire room looked as it did 100 years earlier. I hope I get this right: throughout the house the walls were fashioned of “wood on woodâ€?. In this one room I saw an old- fashioned wallpaper pattern. Tom explained that in order for the wallpaper to stick, a layer of cheesecloth was placed between the wood and the wallpaper.

The art on the walls was that of the easily recognizable local painter Galen Wolf, watercolors of Pillar Point, Devil’s Slide and the Hatch Mill that once stood south of Half Moon Bay. Also mounted on the wall was a special dinner plate, a reminder from the ill-fated T.F. Oakes, the iron ship that ran aground at the foot of Kelly Street in 1898.

I felt lucky to see the old Mullen Farmhouse . You don’t get to do that often these days.

Before I left, Tom Clyne pointed out one more thing. Look closely at the white fence, he said. I saw a single red rose blooming. Look closer, he said, and you’ll see a bullet hole. Just above the edge of the red petals, I saw it, the bullet hole.

Not long after the Palace Miramar had replaced the Amesport Wharf, one of the Miguel’s horses trespassed on the Mullen’s property, and John Mullen’s son, Bill, aimed at the animal but we don’t know if the bullet hit its target.

But the small bullet hole in the fence, and all the possible stories you can imagine leading up to it, has fascinated me ever since.

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The Coastside’s One&Only “House of Doors”

When you used to drive west on Hwy 92—and if you knew the road well—you’d anticipate that sharp curve where the famous “House of Doorsâ€? stood against a steep rock formation.

If you were with a friend who’d never been to the Coastside before you might even point out the place, proudly, you know, like it was a secret local landmark.

And if it was late at night, and you were the only car on the highway, you might even swear you saw a ghost drifting across the road—everybody said it was Ann Howe ‘s ghost–she was the one most connected with the house which originally came from the 1915 San Francisco Panama Pacific Exposition. Saloon keeper Fred Nordholz bought it and re-assembled it on the spot where it stands. Ms. Howe, a native of Kentucky, who once owned a ranch house atop Twin Peaks in the City, was driving along Hwy 92 in 1947 when she saw the house and envisioned it as a tourist attraction, a museum filled with antiques–and she had to have it.

Most of the walls are actually doors and it is said the roof rested on the door tops for support. When Ann Howe lived there, between about 1947 and 1971 when she died, most of the single story house was crammed with silver, crystal, copper pieces, old crank telephones, 1893 calendars and a very old vacuum cleaner.

Outside stood ancient wagons and wheels of all kinds and a surrey with fringe on top–and there were cats with extra toes and a dog that climbed ladders.

Ms. Howe called it her hobby, and what a delight it must have been–but have you noticed that you can’t see the “House of Doorsâ€? from Hwy 92 these days?

If you squint really hard you can pick it out among the eucalyptus grove—but the sighting is very brief and not satisfying at all.

I fear for the “House of Doorsâ€?.

After I wrote a little post about Ann Howe who, besides being the owner of the “House of Doors” was also affiliated and honored by many Coastside organizations, I received the following email:

Ann Howe (NEWTON) – was my great aunt – her brothers also lived in Half Moon Bay/San Mateo area. She was originally from Fordsville, Kentucky. Her brothers, Edward Newton and Oscar L. Newton also lived in Half Moon Bay and all three are buried in the same cemetery. Other family member names from Edward’s family are his wife Evelyn, Gary, Dennis & Dianne (twins) and Susan.

Oscar was my paternal grandfather. I have been trying to contact some of the descendants of the NEWTON clan and haven’t had much luck. I made a trip to Half Moon Bay in 1997 just to look at the “House of Doors” one more time. The last time I was there; before 1997, I was 15 yrs. old and that was about 39 years ago. I couldn’t see very much of it but from what I did see, it appeared to be a lot smaller that I remembered.

Ann was a part of the San Franciscan history and I wished I could have known her better. I often wonder how she and her brothers ended up in California in 1928 and am envious of their apparent enthusiasm and desire for adventure.

My name is Patricia Nichols (NEWTON) and I live in Brownsburg, Indiana and will be retiring to Marrowbone, Kentucky in July. Just wanted to share a memory.

In case anyone from my family would like to contact me:

Patricia Nichols
10192 N. Co. Rd. 800 E.
Brownsburg, IN 46112

This address will change sometime this year probably around end of July ’06 and then it will be:

100 Nichols Rd.
Marrowbone, KY 42759

Email: Patricia Nichols: [email protected]

(Photos, courtesy Patricia Nichols)

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In Defense of Old Houses: More from Greg Faris

639 Santiago, across from El Granada School.

Here’s What Greg Tells Us:
The meeting is tomorrow at the Sheriff’s North Coast Sub-Station, 500
California Avenue, Moss Beach beginning at 3:00. Discussion of this
house is scheduled for 5:30.
The home is pictured on page 134 of Barbara VenderWerf’s book,
Granada, A Synonym for Paradise with the caption “House on Santiago
Ave. built in 1910 for Thomas Stephenson family… The house is also in
the 1910 photon on page 106” (as reported by Sara Bassler, Chair, MCC
Planning and Zoning Committee).
Rose Tognetti lived in the house from 1937 until last year.

(There is also a petition circulating. For more info, please email Greg at: [email protected])

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In Defense of Old Houses

Greg Faris of El Granada tells me that this house (639 Santiago) will be torn down and replaced with a new house.

I know this house well because I lived around the corner and it was on my walking route. This was a house that caught my attention, taking me back to early El Granada.

Greg tells me the house was built in 1910 and the quaint water tower served the family and other neighbors.

I told Greg that I feel certain I interviewed the family who lived there, and I’ll have to root around in my old notes to find what I’m looking for.

Look at the photo and you’ll see the “story poles” are up–not much time remains for this house. Tomorrow, Greg says, there will be a hearing about the proposed new project tomorrow. Where and when will that be, Greg?

Here’s the house again:

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How could you forget….

Dan’s Motor Court……………. where, when the days of Moss Beach’s drive-in motel were numbered –(the land overlooking the ocean was worth more as residential property)– the art on the walls consisted of photographs snipped out from magazines and taped to the walls. Gone now, I miss seeing Dan’s when I drive through Moss Beach. All we have is this photographic memory.

Front, Back….and Sideways….and, yes, I once slept there…


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What Henry Told Me

When I met Henry Debenedetti in the 1970s, the colorful history of Miramar Beach was tugging at my curiosity strings.

I already knew about Maymie, the red-haired madam—who ruled not only the prohibition era roadhouse that her lover-carpenter built for her—but her powers (political-financial) seemed to extend southward into the little town of Half Moon Bay.

My evidence: I have had reliable reports from those close to the action that Maymie was often seen in the company of the town’s banker and his wife and friends—a strictly spreadsheet type of relationship.

Miramar was at the center of everything. It had even been chosen as the best spot for a tiny port, the first one on the Coastside, despite the unpredictable winds that finally closed it down.

There was one mystery I hadn’t solved—a name locals attached to Miramar, a name I wasn’t getting right.

“Peach Chiano,â€? that’s what I thought I heard locals call him—but I knew that couldn’t be someone’s name. Maybe a nickname?

So—when I encountered Henry in the library after the Thanksgiving of 1976, Miramar and “Peach Chianoâ€? were on my mind.

Henry ticked off a list of things he remembered about Miramar. The one that grabbed my attention most was “Pete Gianni. He had a wild temper….â€? And he was involved in a horrendous crime that shocked the community after WWII.

Henry cleared it all up. Pete Gianni was my man.

I took a quantum leap forward in my quest when Spanishtown Historical Society member “Patsyâ€? Dutra gave me a significant set of clues. Her then 89-year-old father, Mac, sometimes called “Dukeâ€?, had owned the town’s funeral parlor.

Patsy furthered my investigation by giving me the funeral home’s report on Pete Gianni, then long deceased.

Gianni was well known on the Coastside, the owner of a grocery store in Miramar—where local Italians gathered to dance on weekends. Some described him as kind and quiet, others as easily incited. As long as his business prospered, the widower seemed content.

But after WWII ended, and the soldiers stationed on the Coastside—many of whom frequented Gianni’s store scattered to begin new lives elsewhere– Pete Gianni’s grocery business slipped sharply and he considered taking on a partner.

The 72-year old Gianni knew and respected the Shaw family of El Granada, 36-year-old Lincoln, his 33-year-old wife Agnes, and teenage daughter Carolyn. Lincoln had attended schools in San Mateo County, including the junior college and Agnes’s father was a respected Burlingame contractor.

During the war fish oil was in high demand and Lincoln made a good living working as a commercial fisherman at Princeton. When the war ended, so did the demand for fish oil and Shaw looked for new opportunities. To save money, the Shaws moved in with their Burlingame relatives.

Pete Gianni and Lincoln Shaw cut a deal as Lincoln paid the grocery owner $1000 for an interest in the business. The Shaws would continue to live and commute to Miramar from Burlingame. Under the new proprietors, the grocery store thrived and prospered.

Instead of feeling proud, Gianni seethed, feeling he had been cheated in some way.

After the first of the year in 1947, neighbors heard the angry voice of Pete Gianni at the grocery store. The old man was armed with a shotgun, yelling at Lincoln Shaw, angry about the rent, saying he wasn’t being paid enough.

Shots rang out. Lincoln was mortally wounded. Gianni spun around, pointed the weapon at Agnes and her daughter, Carolyn, threatening them but he didn’t shoot. Running out of the store, he drove away in his car, the destination his longtime friend and veteran Redwood City criminal attorney Joseph Bullock, also known as the “verbal volcanoâ€?.

But in the end there wasn’t a trial. Pete Gianni pleaded guilty to murder and was sentenced to prison, passing away at the Vacaville Medical Facility in 1955.

Pete Gianni’s horrific crime stunned the Coastside community, and 20 years after his death, everyone who lived in Half Moon Bay remembered his name.

(Photos, Spanishtown Historical Society, Patsy Dutra)
Note: the second photo is of the Gilles Grocery Store in Miramar, last time I saw it it was a private residence and in the hands of the Gilles family.

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And then along came Sam Mazza…to save Pacifica’s Castle: Part III

And then along came Sam Mazza to save Pacifica’s mysterious castle– a full time, extremely successful San Francisco painting contractor and equally successful, part time modern “Knight in Shining Armor”.

It was 1957, when, according to Sam’s brother, Angelo, who can often be found puttering in the castle’s gardens, “Sam was driving down to Nick’s Rockaway Restaurant, and he had a few fizzes and he spotted this concrete structure engulfed in weeds about six inches high. After inspecting it, he bought it for about $29,000 and flew a flag from the roof that said, ‘Sam’s White Elephant’.”

But it really wasn’t a “white elephant”. Sam saved Pacifica’s castle and the castle was good for him.

(Sadly, Mr. Sam Mazza passed away at age 94 in 2002 and the castle became a part of his estate).

It was inevitable that the painting contractor would become fascinated with the “castle’s infamous history, the edgy stories and the myths of the Prohibition years,” estate trustee Jeannette Cool said. She recalled Sam as “a real character. He had his own ways about everything, his own opinions. He was frugal but had pockets of generosity.” It all added up to what she remembered most about her charitable friend: “Sam was a charming eccentric.”

Brother Angelo filled in the family history noting that Sam was not a high school graduate but his painting business boomed in San Francisco. He had famous commissions including the reburbishing of the glamorous Fox Theater on Market Street where gold leaf columns and cherubs were painted on the high ceilings.

“It was one of the most beautiful theaters in San Francisco,” Angelo confirmed.

Most interesting–when the Mazza family arrived from Sicily in the early 20th century, they made their home on Hearst Avenue in San Francisco–and that certainly conjures up memories of William Randolph–and his super famous castle at San Simeon.

Was Sam Mazza fulfilling a matching dream by purchasing his own castle in Pacifica?

Like Hearst, Sam filled his Pacifica castle with his favorite antiques and memorabilia collected through the years–some of them from old Hollywood movie sets.

Trustee Jeannette Cool describes the main living room, which has unparalleled views of the Pacific Ocean, with its unusual antiques. “There’s a French Armoire with inlaid mother of pearl,” she said, “a piece of German porcelain and several antique desks and dressers.” The one piece of furniture that catches the eye of the visitor is “the kitschy ‘throne’ that Sam used for his own whimsy.”

Yes, it’s a real throne and Sam had fun asking guests to sit in the throne with a crown on their head.

Sam Mazza relished the work of restoring Pacifica’s castle to its original splendor and was happy to share that with then Congressman “Pete” McCloskey, whose grandfather had built the castle.

(Photos below: Inside the castle. courtesy Sam Mazza Estate)


(Photos, courtesy Sam Mazza Estate)

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“The Hen”

I hope I’m not being disrespectful calling him “the Henâ€?– but that was shorthand for a native of Half Moon Bay’s Great Uncle Henry Debenedetti,

Henry Debenedetti must have been in his early 80s when I met him in the 1970s in the Half Moon Bay library— his voice in the lower registers, reminding me that faraway Italy was tucked away in his soul– he told me that we were standing in a former apricot orchard and that the fruit had been packed on the very spot where we were talking in hushed tones.

Henry would know these things. He was born in Half Moon Bay, as was his gregarious sister, Irene who wed Judge Manuel Bettencourt, and their father, Joseph, was a respected member of the community, a businessman, a county supervisor, and the developer of the Main and Kelly Street corner building Cunha’s Country Store now occupies.

That was in 1901—and it was such a momentous addition to the rustic country village– that Sunset Magazine sent a photographer to take a picture of the new building.

(Photo at right: Courtesy Sunset Magazine)

The Debendetti family owned much of the block stretching from Cunha’s north to the building on the opposite corner, across from the San Benito House. It’s easily identified today because it’s marked as the “Debenedetti Blockâ€?.

From the second floor balcony, the Debenedettis dressed in their finest, stood and watched the spectacle of the 4th of July parades– and horse racing that took place when Main Street was just a dirt road.

Henry’s love of horse racing led to the lifelong habit of driving his old car, the color of dull green, to Bay Meadows Race Track in San Mateo where he spent most of the day. In the 1970s it was easy to identify Henry’s car because there wasn’t much traffic moving up and down Main Street. I quickly became aware of him, wearing his rumpled clothes and brown hat. One time I was at Bay Meadows and so was he, and we cordially exchanged greetings.

When I met Henry, he still lived by himself in the old Debendetti Building, on the second floor. I recall walking up the dark staircase to the upper floor where he showed me his books and many albums filled with fading family photos.

(Photo at left: “The Hen” lived on the second floor of the “Debenedetti Block” building, in the foreground).

His biggest regret was that dreams of a college education were crushed when he fell ill with tuberculosis and was shipped off to a special hospital to recover. He was away from Half Moon Bay for a long time and when he returned things were never the same for “the Henâ€?.

Almost every night Henry Debenedetti went to the library to read and to remember where the sweet apricot orchard once stood.