Fairfax Grange Chronicles · 1950s
The Lot Next Door: How a Parking Deal Nearly Cost the Grange Its Home
Sometimes the stories that matter most don’t come from grand moments. They come from the weeds. Literally.
Not long ago, we unearthed a folder labeled Parking Lot History 1964–1985 . Inside was a stack of leases. They included handwritten letters between the Fairfax Grange and a rancher named Hamilton. He was the man who owned the land just north of the hall.
The first lease, from 1964, described the lot simply as:
“All the empty land north of the Grange.”
That was it. No legal boundaries, no parcel number—just a casual brushstroke of Bakersfield real estate. Back then, the Grange paid $50 a year for the privilege. It gave our members a place to park and a straight shot through the front (west) door.
Hamilton was a straight-shooting, plainspoken guy. His letters paint a picture of a man who didn’t love government interference and wasn’t shy about saying so.
“I never hear from officials unless there’s a new tax or rule to follow,” he wrote in one note. But he respected the Grange—called us good tenants, said we never gave him a reason to worry.
Still, time wore on. The lot became harder to manage. Weeds cropped up. Complaints followed. At one point, Hamilton—who had moved out of the area—reminded us gently:
“I’m not exactly in the weed control business.”
Then came the turning point.
In the late ‘70s, Hamilton started thinking about selling the land. In a friendly letter, he floated an idea that nearly changed everything. He suggested that the Grange sell its lot too. This would bundle both properties into one clean deal.
It was close. But in the end, the Grange said no.
That decision kept our hall standing. Because Hamilton’s land went to a man who opened a firewood business—and it’s been chopping and stacking ever since.
That’s how the parking lot became the woodpile next door. And how the Grange nearly became part of a different history.
Today, the west doors of the hall still open toward that lot. But inside, the Fairfax Grange continues—anchored by a decision that could’ve gone the other way.
And next time you pass that stack of firewood, remember: It almost had our name on it.