A Personal Reflection: Goodbye to 754-3093

Chasing History: Exploring My Ancestral Roots - Blog Post #50

By Tonya McQuade

Recently, my dad had me call to cancel the phone line at their home on Minta Lane. He and my mom are moving to an assisted living facility, and even though he’ll be going back and forth between the two for a while, he said they could just use their cell phones. I also cancelled the internet service and Direct TV, but neither of those carried the same weight for me as canceling the phone number with which I grew up: 754-3093.

We moved to Antioch when I was four years old. My dad had accepted a teaching job at Antioch High School in Industrial Arts, and my parents purchased the house at 2300 Kendree Street. I quickly began meeting some of the neighbors, and soon found myself roller skating with Suellen, Tonja, and Trina who lived next door.

That Fall, I started Kindergarten at Turner School and met my first school friends: Karen (who lived just one street away) and Margaret and Sandra (who were quite a few blocks away). I also met Jamie, whose mom was my teacher, but Jamie was in the other Kindergarten class and didn’t become a close friend until we had the same teacher the following year.

As we grew older and began exchanging phone numbers, “754-3093” was the number my friends would call to reach me. No area code was required in those days, at least if you were calling locally. I can still remember many of my friends’ old numbers, even though I haven’t called them in years. Ask me if I remember any of my current friends’ phone numbers. Ha.

Back then, we had one phone in the kitchen, with a cord that was not very long and a rotary dial. Even when the push-button style became much more common, we still had a “dial phone” because, according to my dad, the “push button type” cost more. I don’t know if that was actually true - I just remember how long it took to dial numbers with 9’s and 0’s like ours.

Talking on the phone in our Kendree Street kitchen

There also wasn’t a whole lot of privacy when you had to talk on a phone in the kitchen. At some point, my parents added a phone in their room, and I do remember sneaking in there sometimes to make calls where I could enjoy some peace and quiet and not worry everyone was listening to my conversation.

When I was in eighth grade, we moved to Minta Lane, into a house that my parents built. Our phone number moved with us – and we added an upstairs phone extension that I could use. Eventually, we got a phone with a longer cord so I could bring the phone into my room. Ah, that felt like such a luxury! LOL. I still had to argue with my brothers about who was or was not “hogging” the phone (it was usually me), but still, there was more privacy than talking in the kitchen.

Of course, kids back then still had limited “phone control.” There was a good chance your parents would answer the phone, so you couldn’t exactly “hide” who was calling you, and callers faced a good chance of having to interact with your parents. Some did this better than others, earning your parents’ praise or “concern.” Young people today, who grow up with phones in their pocket, don’t know how good they have it.

In college, I had to adjust to a series of new phone numbers each year, tied to the dorm room or apartment where I was living. Sharing a phone with roommates was not always easy – nor was settling the bill at the end of the month. “Who made that long distance phone call?” was a common refrain. “Not me,” was the usual response.

Still, through my various living situations in those college years and the early years of married life, my parents were always there if I needed to chat. All I had to do was call 754-3093. Of course, by then, I had to add the area code, which had changed from 415 to 925. And, back then, every long distance call cost extra, so you had to weigh the number and length of your calls carefully. We wrote more letters back then – at least, I know, I certainly did.

I’ll never forget the first phone call I made to my parents from Osaka, Japan, where I had moved after college to teach English. My dad couldn’t believe how clear the call was. He thought I must be calling from somewhere nearby – that I must have decided to return to California early. No, I said, I’m calling from Japan. Truly, the wonders of modern technology, we both thought.

Now, of course, long distance calls are included in most (all?) people’s phone plans; and email, texting, Facetime, and Zoom have changed the way people communicate globally. When Anna was living in Hong Kong and Italy, and when Aaron was living in Japan, I could easily message them, email them, chat with them, or talk to them through Facetime where I could even see their faces and get a look at their apartments or the world around them. So amazing!

I could never text 754-3093, nor could I see my parents when I spoke to them using that number, but that number always meant home. It’s where I knew I could find them. It embodied my early history, my early friendships, my early romances. It was the “permanent” number that didn’t change while so many others did. It was the emergency number I listed whenever I traveled to other countries; the number I called when I had my own “emergencies” and needed help.

Now, if I call that number, I hear that it has been disconnected. My parents have moved on, at least for now, to TreVista Senior Living in Antioch. My father will still be spending time at the house, but he said their friends can call them on their cell phones.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I’m sure,” he said.

So, it’s time to officially say goodbye to 754-3093. You’ve served the Graham family well for fifty-four years. I'm sad to see you go. May someone else connect with you in the future.

I hope you've enjoyed this blog post - the 50th I have written! Recently, I was excited to learn that my blog was chosen as one of the “15 Best San Jose Blogs and Websites in 2025,” coming in at #10. Check out my website for more information about my writing, to see some of my photographs, and to easily find additional blog posts. You can also sign up for my quarterly newsletter by emailing me at tonyagrahammcquade@gmail.com or by subscribing on my webpage.

Watching Grandpa Spin the Potter’s Wheel

Chasing History: Exploring My Ancestral Roots - Blog Post #49 

By Tonya McQuade

William Adolph Graham – or WAG as he always signed his pottery –

at work on his potter’s wheel in Calimesa, California, in the early 1970's.

Recently, my father gave me several more pieces of my grandpa’s pottery as he and my mom continue to downsize. I’ve always treasured the pottery my grandpa, William Adolph Graham, was able to create – especially since I can remember watching him sit at his potter’s wheel making some of these pieces. It amazed me to watch a lump of clay, helped by a little water, turn into a towering piece of artwork at his hands, and it’s something I’ve always hoped to learn myself someday. 

One of my favorite pieces is also one of his tallest at almost 18 inches. It sits on a prominent shelf in my living room, next to two other pieces he created, atop the wall unit my father built. I love that there are family ties to so many of the pieces of furniture and artwork in our home.

Three of WAG’s vases, sitting atop the wall unit my father, Douglas Graham, built, and in front of a line of books I also inherited from my grandfather

Three of WAG’s vases, sitting atop the wall unit my father, Douglas Graham, built,

and in front of a row of books I also inherited from my grandfather.

William Adolph Graham was born July 15, 1911, to Henry Hunt Graham and Francis Ethel Deakin Graham in Tooele, Utah. After graduating from high school in Twin Falls, Idaho, he hopped a train to California. There, about ten years later, he met and married my grandmother, Margaret Ruth Traughber. My father, Douglas William Graham, was born soon after, followed by two more daughters – my aunts Donna and Mary. 

The family moved around a lot in those early years, but by the time I knew my grandfather, he had settled in Southern California. I remember visiting him at homes in quite a few different locations there – Calimesa, Onyx, Bakersfield, and Visalia among them. It was in Calimesa, according to my father, that WAG started making pottery. He took some classes, bought himself a potter’s wheel and an electric kiln, and also made a gas-fired kiln. “He wanted to get good enough to sell it,” my father said, “but then he moved on to the next thing.”

Some of his pieces I have had for quite a while now, sitting on various shelves in my house. Apparently I need more shelves - I’m running out of space!

These three sit together on a high shelf in my dining room.

I love the etching on this one!

This one serves a utilitarian purpose: a Chip & Dip Bowl.

Some of the newer pieces have had to displace other items that were previously on display. Perhaps I will need to set up a rotation schedule for my artwork! LOL. I really do love the tea set below, though, which actually has four matching cups that go with it. It brings to mind this quote attributed to Lao Tzu: "We mold clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that makes the vessel useful." I’ll have to be sure to actually USE this teapot sometime, as well as the above Chip & Dip Bowl.

Tea Pot with Sugar Bowl and Creamer (with four cups that match)

And I think these are some of his prettiest vases:

I would love to see how he made this one!

They all have such unique designs; the one on the far left sits on a base.

This one, we use in our kitchen to hold plants:

And here’s one that can be used as a pitcher:

In putting this post together, I also learned that my father had to teach ceramics one summer, the one time he taught summer school at Antioch High School. The course included both wood shop (which he taught many times as an industrial arts teacher) and ceramics (which he only taught that one time). He had my grandfather bring his potter’s wheel to Antioch so my dad could practice making pottery for several days. He said he actually became pretty good!

My father, Douglas Graham, practices at the potter’s wheel as my brother Cam looks on.

He told me a story of one memorable lesson he had the class do – and it sounds like one they would remember! He explained the instructions ahead of time to his students. They were going to be “monks” working at a monastery making bowls, each student forming their bowl in the shape they wanted with their own hands, operating under a vow of silence. 

When they walked in the next day, the students entered into a dark room filled with the sounds of Gregorian chant music. They were each given a lump of clay and a candle – the only light they would have to work by. My dad said they all took it very seriously, and no one talked. They kept their vow of silence. As he recalled,  he really liked teaching ceramics because, unlike with woodshop, “there was no right way to do it.” He didn’t really like teaching summer school, though – he needed time to “follow his own bliss” – so that was the only time he taught ceramics.

My grandpa also liked to follow his own bliss. Over the years, he had many hobbies and artistic pursuits, often taking classes to learn new skills. In addition to his pottery, I have some of his paintings and pencil sketches, including an amazing portrait of an eskimo, some beautiful landscapes, and a couple of Bodie outhouses. He became fascinated by the many outhouses scattered around the well-preserved ghost town of Bodie after a visit to Bodie State Historic Park in Bridgeport, California, and he sketched quite a few of them.

Portrait of an Eskimo

Mountain Landscape

Desert Landscape

Bodie Outhouses

I love that he had such a creative spark – and I love that I now have such a great sampling of my grandpa’s pottery. My parents also still have quite a few pieces, as do my brothers and my aunts. Hopefully someday, I will be able to add to my collection with some pieces of my own. With my retirement fast approaching in June, I may finally get the chance to sign up for a pottery class. Until then, I’m happy to be able to admire and display WAG’s beautiful artwork.

I hope you've enjoyed this blog post. Check out my website for more information about my writing, to see some of my photographs, and to easily find additional blog posts. You can also sign up for my quarterly newsletter by emailing me at tonyagrahammcquade@gmail.com or by subscribing on my webpage.

Publishing My Mom’s Children’s Story: Henrietta and Weber Find a Friend

Chasing History: Exploring My Ancestral Roots - Blog Post #48

By Tonya McQuade

Cover photo drawn by my son, Aaron Silva, for my mom's book:

"Henrietta and Weber Find a Friend"

Are you looking for a great gift idea for a child in your life who enjoys animals? Well, let me tell you about my mom's new book ...

Years ago, I remember my mother talking about wanting to write a children’s book about her chicken Henrietta. I didn’t know she had actually written one until I was helping my parents go through boxes of old cards and photos this past summer, and I came across a folder with both a story about Henrietta and Weber, as well as an essay about raising chickens. I could see my mom had even gotten some feedback from someone on the manuscript; but then, she tucked it away inside a folder, where it stayed hidden for more than thirty years.

I was in high school when my dad first brought home chickens, and since I soon went away to college, I did not have as much experience with the chickens as my mom and the rest of the family did – but I watched as she fell in love with the chickens, started painting chickens, and started decorating the kitchen with chickens (on the walls, not in the oven!). I watched as she nursed Spot (aka. Weber) back to health, saw how upset she was when she learned Filo had been killed, and tried to comfort her when I found her crying by the phone one day, thinking she had just received some tragic news. She had: Peanut (another one of the chickens) had died.

One of my mom’s paintings of a chicken and young girl

My mom has always been an animal lover, taking in many stray cats over the years, as well as dogs, chickens, hamsters, fish, birds, and even a goose. On a recent trip to visit her in Antioch, she wanted to go to Walmart so she could buy more birdseed for her bird feeders in the backyard, as well as peanuts for the squirrels. Her favorite vacation was to Africa, where she was able to see many animals on safari, as well as hike the trail to see the mountain gorillas in Uganda.

I’m so glad I came across her lost manuscripts and so happy I could help make my mom’s dream a reality by publishing her work. Henrietta and Weber Find a Friend is her children’s book about our family pets Henrietta, Weber, Tippy, and Scruffy. My mother, of course, is the “kind lady” in the house!

I surprised my mom with her newly-published book on her birthday in September.

Aaron drew the cover and inside illustrations for her book.

The paragraphs above that you just read appear in the book as my “Editor’s Note” at the end. I had so much fun reading my mom's story, typing it up, and preparing it for publication. Aaron, too, was happy to contribute his artwork. My mom was very excited to see her story and essay in print - and was thrilled to see photos of young relatives reading her book (thanks to Jennifer and Joy for sending photos!). She was also grateful to be asked by some of her friends to autograph their books!

According to their mom, this is their new favorite book!

Another fan of my mom's book

Here, I share an excerpt from my mom's essay that appears after the children’s story:

I knew from the very beginning that they would mean trouble for me. Doug knew how much I loved animals, but he still decided to buy some baby chicks to be part of our living-off-the-earth plan. It wasn’t enough for him that we already had a large garden, which kept me busy with canning and various other preserving methods. We had built out own passive solar home together, which he designed. Reading "Mother Earth News" and "Organic Gardening" had become a way of life for us. So, it was only expected that raising chickens would also fit into this plan. But that’s where we ran into some definite differences in values.

I had gone along with most of the changes we were making in our lives pretty well, at least in my opinion. Now Doug would have a different tale to tell, especially when he first proposed the whole idea to me of selling our lovely home and building one ourselves. It meant we would all have some sacrifices to make for a while. Once I got over the shock, I was able to adjust quite well. There was an old house already on the property that we could live in while we were building our new home. Of course, it was full of fleas, but we managed to get rid of them. We considered the year we spent in the old house as camping out. Everyone pitched in and worked to help build the house, and it was exciting to see it all taking shape. Of course, there were those times when things didn’t go quite right, but the end product made up for any discomfort any of us experienced.

Once the house was finished, we settled in to complete our new life-style change of living pattern. We landscaped with drought-resistant plants and planted a wonderful vegetable garden, along with many fruit trees. It seemed as if our long-range goal and dream of the future had finally happened.

Why did he have to bring home those baby chicks and spoil it all? He knew I would get attached to them and NEVER be able to eat any of them. So, he proceeded to tell me they were his chicks, and I wasn’t to have anything to do with them. I managed to barely converse with him for about three days. Meanwhile, the chicks lived in the garage while he prepared their living quarters.

A photo of Henrietta - who survived the longest of all the chickens

I snuck a peek at them more than once. Eventually I got over my stubbornness, and we all named a chick. Doug named his Friar, or should I say, “Fryer.” He was going to make sure he got his point across. As luck would have it, Friar ended up being a rooster. Now, it was okay to have chickens within the city limits, but a rooster could cause some problems. Our neighbors didn’t seem to mind when I checked with them. The problem took care of itself, however, because Friar ended up dying before too long. The chickens became a part of our lives, and I loved watching all their crazy little antics. Having been raised in Chicago, I had never even been close to a chicken, so this was a new experience for me.

Eventually, I was able to find out what brooding meant because Patience decided to brood. Since we no longer had a rooster, Doug went to a farm and got her some fertilized eggs. During the night he switched her eggs for the fertilized ones. Some weeks later, I was to see the miracle of life peeking out from under the mound of black and white downy feathers.

If you want to read the rest of my mom’s essay, as well as the cute story of how Henrietta and Weber find a friend, I encourage you to buy her book at this Amazon link. Below is one of the photos Aaron drew for the book, showing the kind lady in the house holding the new “friend” Henrietta and Weber found. He said this is his favorite of the illustrations, and I have to say, it’s my favorite, too!