Reliving those long-ago days at Possum Corner
Reliving those long-ago days at Possum Corner
By: Bill Mead
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Posted by editor Tue Nov 30, 1999 00:00:00 PST
Viewed 532 times
0 responses 0 comments If you haven't traveled Highway 99 up the San Joaquin Valley recently, believe me when I say it's a bummer. Once the major north-south highway through California, before Interstate 5, Highway 99 is now obsolete and overcrowded. Listen to your uncle and take some other route if you can.
A few weeks ago we had to drive 99 because we were going to a family reunion in Calaveras County but we got off on secondary roads as soon as we could. We turned off at Merced and took highway 59, an absolutely delightful byway through the Sierra foothills.
The best part of this route is that it took us through Possum Corner and right past my old hog ranch northeast of Merced. When I was slopping pigs there 50 years ago the neighborhood wasn't what you would call shoddy. It was even worse. Now it's next to the brand-new University of California at Merced and boasts dozens of upscale homes.
Possum Corner is nearby on Yosemite Highway which is State Route 140. There is only one house and a truck maintenance center there now but when I was marshal of Possum Corner it had a dozen or so shacks which my drinking buddy George rented to farm workers. My appointment as marshal was made by George, who said my only duty was to collect rent from his unreliable tenants.
I bore no resemblance to Wyatt Earp as I strutted about Possum Corner. Instead of depending on a steely gaze and quick draw to enforce my will, I relied on my store of big words. A typical exchange would have me confiding to a delinquent that unless the rent was forthcoming by noon the next day I would have to go to the courthouse in Merced to get a writ of mandamus which I would then take to the sheriff for execution. I think they misunderstood what “execution” meant in that context and no doubt had visions of a rope around their necks if they didn't pony up the rent.
I still don't know what a writ of mandamus is. As far as the sheriff collecting rent for George, that was outrageous moonshine. Strangely, such tactics almost always worked and nobody beat me senseless.
My reward for peddling this kind of dangerous nonsense was the right to share in George's endless supply of cheap red wine, a noxious potion that would have worked equally well as paint remover. It's a wonder I'm still alive. Well, sort of.
Across SR 140 from Possum Corner is a gigantic monument which an area farmer built many decades ago to honor himself. I always thought it looked neat and for a while I dreamed of moving it to my hog farm. When I think of all the hours I spent wading through mud to feed ungrateful porkers I feel I'm as deserving of honor as the guy who built the thing.
But if there ever was a chance to do that, it's gone. Now there's an expensive country estate sitting right where my pig pens were. I don't think the owners would care to have 500 tons of concrete stacked in their front yard.
Maybe I'll ask anyway. The worst they can do is hit me with a writ of mandamus.
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