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color. Most people are intrigued by them. Not Tid. When she first saw them, she observed, "They look like extraordinarily uncomfortable toilet seats."
So the Wrights, growing up in Santa Rose and later in Berkeley, a closely-knit family, a stern but affectionate father, a tiny pixie of a mother who loved him and us to distraction.
They both taught school before their marriage. In fact, they met when my father was appointed principal of a country school in Guerneville, a village in the Valley, where Bess Calderwood was on the staff. Her forbears were Scottish and Dutch, and one of them owned the land on which Trinity Church in New York now stands. The Wrights were English, Irish, and Welsh. They were a romantic family, sea captains and coffee merchants. One married the beautiful daughter of the President of San Salvador and another, I fear, may have had "wives" in more than one port. Another was a remittance man, paid by his English relatives to come to America and go West. He bought a ranch but his sons, my father and his brother,