Saratoga News

Saratoga Stereopticon

Willys Peck

When a tape recorder would have been handy

Office colloquies preserved by this means were a key factor in the downfall of one president, and as of this writing, tape-recorded telephone conversations threaten to bring another to the brink of resignation.

Tape recorders have assumed a rather sinister aspect in recent years. But tape recordings are an invaluable asset in preserving oral history, and looking back, I'd give almost anything to have been able to use such a device 60-plus years ago when a friend and I went to interview Luther Cunningham about early Saratoga. I was 11 or 12 years old at the time, and I can't recall what inspired this particular visit. It could have been a school assignment of some sort, but it was more likely just plain curiosity; this town and its background have always fascinated me.

There couldn't have been a better subject for an interview. Luther Cunningham, member of a pioneer family here, was the uncle of Saratoga historian Florence Cunningham. Also, it probably could be said that he was among the founders of the present FMC Corp. That's because, as a young man, he invented and manufactured an improved prune-dipper, necessary in the processing of the fresh fruit before it was set out in trays to dry in the sun. Prunes were dipped in a lye solution to aid in their curing and preservation, and Cunningham's invention speeded the process. He became a principal in the firm of Cunningham & Barngrover and sold his interest to his partner in 1901. Later permutations involved Anderson-Barngrover Manufacturing Co. and the Bean Spray Pump Co. From these came Food Machinery Corp. in 1928 and, ultimately, FMC Corp. Luther Cunningham was in on the ground floor.

In Saratoga, his name is enshrined in Lutheria Way, which runs from La Paloma Avenue to Saratoga Avenue, through his real estate development known as Cunningham Acres. Lutheria Way probably was named for his daughter, Lutheria, who was Saratoga postmaster in the 1930s, until early 1943. This was before the political correctness era, when women in office didn't mind being addressed as "madam chairman."

Cunningham Acres actually was a walnut grove, from which the owner sold building lots. For years, a billboard on Saratoga Avenue proclaimed: "Cunningham Acres--lots $500 and up."

In the mid-1920s, Luther Cunningham built the stone dwelling on Saratoga Avenue that sometimes is referred to as the "gingerbread house." Its stone facing is said to include rocks from all of California's counties, 43 states and 15 foreign countries.

I remember Luther Cunningham when he held forth in his real estate office in the old Peninsular Railway streetcar station, located on the present site of the Village post office. That's where my friend and I went to listen to his stories. One in particular sticks in my memory, although sadly lacking in detail. That's where a tape recorder would have been welcome.

It seems that Saratoga at one time had what today would be called a municipal cannon, a small, muzzle-loading artillery piece that was used on such occasions as Fourth of July celebrations. Who owned it and where it was kept constitute the kind of information that would help lift legend into history, but it's too late now to find out. Anyway, the town reportedly wanted to celebrate the opening of the San Francisco & San Jose Railroad, when the steam cars arrived in the latter city. If this really was the occasion, it would have been in January 1864, while the erstwhile McCartysville was experiencing its brief identity as Bank Mills before the name officially was changed to Saratoga.

For such a momentous event, a cannon-firing definitely was in order. For some reason, though, the young bloods arranging the event saw fit to ram green hay down the barrel, on top of the powder charge. Not surprisingly, the cannon blew up into pieces. (Latter-day nit-picking: Was anyone killed or injured?) Some years later (how many years later?), a plowman was working in the orchard on Saratoga-Sunnyvale Road where Neale's Hollow is today. His plow struck a metal object, which turned out to be the breech knob from the cannon.

That's the story as I remember it from 1935 or so, and today I wonder about those details. Who, for instance, would have been dumb enough to ram green hay into a cannon?

Some town character, no doubt.

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