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Today is my mother’s birthday. She was born 93 years ago in the little town of Groveland California, where her Dad headquartered as the Doctor on the Hetch Hetchy project. Hetch Hetchy, from the Miwok word hatchhatchie, meaning edible grass, is the name of a valley in Yosemite National Park, drained by the Tuolumne River. It was dammed and flooded in 1923 to accommodate San Francisco’s water and power needs.

Helene Angela Degnan, known as Nell, grew up in Yosemite Valley, raised by her dad, Dr. John P. Degnan, aunt Mary Ellen, and paternal grandparents, John and Bridget Degnan. It was a magical childhood she and her sisters enjoyed. They spent summers at play by the Merced River observing nature close at hand. Later this was shared with us, her children, who played by that same river.

Of course, a parent has many influences on a child. Beyond food, shelter and etiquette, my mother made all seven of us deep lovers of nature. It has manifested itself in many ways, coming out in poetry, music art, and lifestyle. She noticed things like light rimming leaves heavy with dew, turning them into jewels. On our many walks around Yosemite Valley, we learned the names of trees, flowers, birds, and rocks. Mom knew all the Miwok Indian legends about Yosemite, and where many of the grinding rocks were in the woods by our house near the chapel.

My mother always made sure I had plenty of art supplies. She bought reproductions of famous paintings and hung them around our house. We had place mats that were copies of Renoir, Van Gogh, Pissarro, and other artists whose work she loved.

Today the world is very different from my parent’s era. It is different again from my childhood. Things are speeding up at a dizzying rate. Still, there are constants that are markers. Markers in that they remind us who we are. For me it is going back to the river, recalling those nature walks with my family when we were little, and basking in that glow. 

The last conversation I had with my mom was on the phone. She was in a sterile hospital room describing to me the birds and flowers she saw out her window, and the Sierra with cumulus clouds gathering over them that dark August day.  She was unfailingly kind, gracious, and a child of nature. 

Moira Donohoe’s Blog

My family and I went on a hike recently on the eastern side of the Sierra. Our daughter is very interested in botany and bought some plant identification materials with her. It was a lot of fun identifying trees, plants and wildflowers. Many we knew without having to consult references, and eliminating possibilities according to different characteristics of bark, cone, needles, stem, petals and so on was like a treasure hunt. Sophie has been studying scientific methods for identifying plants, and has furthered her studies with practical knowledge through hiking in the Sierra, and in other areas in California. She is set on a path that began in her Yosemite childhood reinforced by years of camping and hiking with friends and family.

All of this made me reflect on how much a place shapes a family and how much a family shapes an individual. My mother, Helene Angela Degnan Donohoe, “Nell” to most people, also was raised in Yosemite. She was very knowledgeable about plants, especially wildflowers which she loved. A lot of this understanding came from the elders in her family, who, like many in that generation, used plants for numerous purposes. My Mom had a poetic interest in flowers, and she passed that onto us, her children. That is not to say that she didn’t realize some of the uses the pioneers and Native Americans made of certain plants. She and her sisters attended junior nature school in the summers in Yosemite, established by Bert Hartwell, a famous naturalist of his time. She talked very fondly of the wonderful lessons in botany, zoology, tracking, and many other areas of natural science. It was very extensive, and lasted six weeks. Here is an excerpt from the August 1938 volume 5, number 2 edition of Yosemite Junior Nature Notes that Nell Degnan wrote after a hike the Nature School took to Stanford Point on the Pohono Trail on the south rim of Yosemite valley. She was fifteen years old.

On, on, on, until we came to a place where there were the remains of a bear which had died on the trail. Then we took a door trail across to Old Inspiration Point, where there was a sheer drop. –“Gulp”- (It made me wish for wings as I looked down below.) Just beyond the point was Silver Strand Falls, while further on was Stanford Point which we set as our goal. We ate our lunch first, just above Silver Strand Falls in a little meadow which was beautifully in flower.

After lunch we went on to Stanford Point and had a wonderful view of the valley below. Coming down we watched the storm clouds gather in the back country and heard the distant thunder. The clouds gathered together in a black mass behind Clouds Rest, hiding all the rest of the back country. Clouds Rest was left silhouetted against the black sky, while the Sugar Pines, where we were, seemed to expand as if wishing for the rain to reach them.

The most interesting things seen on the trip were the views of the valley below, the flowers’ that were seen on the trip (especially the Washington Lily), the finding of the dead bear, and most of all the beautiful voice of the Hermit Thrush that was heard on the rim of the valley.

This story was accompanied by a sketch of the Washington Lily, and most of the entries had sketches that went with the stories. As the twig is bent, so grows the tree is a line Alexander Pope wrote in 1734 and seems to be true in my family.

The Pohono Trail is one of the most beautiful trails in Yosemite. It starts from the east end of the Wawona tunnel and skirts the south rim of the valley finishing at Glacier Point. Many have hiked parts of it, especially closer to the Glacier Point end, and it can also be accessed off the Glacier Point Road, via McGurk Meadows. As described in my mothers’ Nature Notes contribution, there are beautiful views, waterfalls, and meadows beautifully in flower.

I recently attended a Celebration of Life for a very special person. She enriched the lives of many children, including my own. As their kindergarten and first grade teacher, Ti was the perfect mix of sweetness, discipline, and fun. I began teaching Art as a volunteer in the Yosemite Valley Elementary School when my kids began their school careers. A project inspired by Ti stands out these many years later. It revolved around the pioneer apple orchards in Yosemite. The apples ripened in fall, and the kindergarten/first grade made a field trip to James Lamon’s Orchard every September. Planted in the 1850’s, it was one of the many orchards frequented by the Valley children for generations.  Others were by the chapel, and around our house in the Old Village, planted by my Great Grandfather, John Degnan, at Camp Curry, and by Rocky Point picnic area. The day at the orchard picnicking, playing tag, and collecting apples, was the culmination of a week of study about the orchards, the varieties of apples, and the natural history of the apple tree. The Apple Book was a handmadebook filled with the drawings and sentiments of the 20 or so students of the 1996 Kindergarten/1^st grade class of Yosemite Valley Elementary School.

Apple Blossom Time

Apples played an important role in Pioneer America. Yosemite, where my family settled in the 19^th Century, was very isolated, especially in winter. My grandparents told me they ordered their bare root apple trees from “Monkey Wards” catalog (Montgomery Wards). That and Sears Roebuck catalog, saw many pioneer families through various needs. The trees were planted and carefully tended. Pies, cider, jelly, and numerous other dishes were gleaned from the apples. They were stored in a root cellar and used throughout the long winter. Apples were a mainstay, not a frivolity.

The Yosemite Apple Trees are important to me as a descendent of those pioneers. Growing up in Yosemite we continued the tradition of gathering apples in fall. Our Grandpa loved to make pies and jelly, and used all the apples we brought him. Wood smoke, coffee on a crisp morning, and the smell of pies baking, heavy on the cinnamon, encapsulates all that is good about the season. Although my grandpa is gone, I have his pie recipe, and my children collected apples from those very same trees.

The painting “Apple Blossom Time”, is one of my favorite paintings. Its success is in the expression of uninhibited joy, the promise of spring, the sunlight and colors, and the freedom of childhood.