The Golden Lie

    As for Coloma, it looks like it’s straight out of a movie about the Wild West. There are small wooden stores, saloons, dusty streets. It feels like outlaws could come riding in at any moment, looking for a shoot-out.

    Not that there are any shoot-outs in Coloma these days. It’s now part of a state park, with a museum. By mid-morning, we’d learned all about this guy named James Marshall. He found gold in Coloma in 1848. Now my dad was leading us on a hike. The trail ahead was steep. But that wasn’t why I was taking my time.

    “Josephine!” he yelled again.

    Forget what I said about the stomachache. The worst thing about having a terrible secret is knowing you are about to ruin your dad’s life.

    My terrible secret has to do with my great-great-grandfather, who died in 1914. We call him Triple G because great-great-grandfather is too long. So is Horatio Algernon Sherman, which was his name. He ran away from home as a teen to try to strike it rich in the Gold Rush. 

    Triple G was part of the Donner Party—a bunch of pioneers who headed out west together. Some thought they would get rich quick in the gold fields. Others wanted a new life in a new town.

    But the Donner Party got stuck high in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Winter snows came. Nearly half the pioneers starved or froze to death. Some ate the bodies of their dead friends to stay alive. Only the toughest—like Triple G—survived. 

    I’ve heard the stories about Triple G 70,000 times. How he walked in the snow for days. How he carried a sick child for miles. How he wrestled a mountain lion with his bare hands. To top it all off, Triple G found gold when he got to California. He became this totally rich miner.

    It was my grandfather who first told my brother and me the stories of Triple G. Now the stories are my dad’s to tell, and he loves it. He shares the mountain lion story every Thanksgiving. 

    My dad always says that my brother and I get our bravery from Triple G. And if I’m honest, it’s hard not to think that our family is just a little special—thanks to him.

    So one day, my teacher asked us to write about someone from history. And of course Triple G was my obvious choice. I couldn’t wait to surprise my dad by finding a new story about him. But there was nothing about Triple G online. Nothing at all. So I rode my bike to the library and marched up to a librarian.

    “Can I help you?” the librarian asked. 

    I told him about my project. He smiled as I talked about Triple G.

    “Whoa. The Donner Party?” the librarian said. “I have just the thing for you: early issues of The Californian. It was the big newspaper from that time.” But then his smile turned to a frown. “It’s strange that you didn’t find anything online,” he said. “The members of the Donner Party are all well-known.”

SHOPKEEPER TO OFFER CASH PRIZE IN SACK RACE

Mr. Horatio Algernon Sherman is to offer a prize of 5 dollars to this year’s July Fourth sack race winner. He’s a shopkeeper who came to Coloma from Iowa recently. He is well-known for his generosity. My heart sank. Three lines. That was it for Horatio Algernon Sherman. The article was dated June 26, 1849.

My heart sank. Three lines. That was it for Horatio Algernon Sherman. The article was dated June 26, 1849.

    When I caught up with my dad and brother, they were sipping water in the shade. “Dad, I have something to tell you,” I said. 

    And then I told him. About the newspaper. About the sack race. “Triple G wasn’t special, Dad,” I said quietly. “He was . . . ordinary.”

    In that moment, my dad was staring at me like a raccoon caught in the beam of a flashlight. Then he looked down and started kicking at the dirt. “I know,” he said. “I figured it out at your age. But then Grandpa told you the same stories. I saw how much it meant to you that Triple G was a hero.”

    “But you’re the one who cares so much!” I said. 

    “Look, I don’t care that Triple G never wrestled a lion,” he said. “I care that he believed in a bigger future for himself. He made the dangerous journey out west. And he did it so he could make a better life for himself, his children, his grandchildren . . .”

    “His great-great-grandchildren,” my brother said.

    “Exactly,” my dad said. “So he was a hero in his own way.”

    “The newspaper did say he was generous,” I said. 

    And that’s when I realized it: I knew exactly what my paper was going to be about.