Low flying pie in the sky.
April 1967. We had just moved down from Sacramento getting ready for me to start classes at Pepperdine L A. For a short while at first we lived in a large apartment complex in Inglewood with pool and was somewhat expensive. But it was a month to month and we kept looking for something a little more affordable. Would rather have something cheap. If you know what I mean.
So, one day driving about Inglewood and on Osage Avenue, I had spotted a for rent sign. The sign was in front of a single-family house with a small two-story cluster of four or five apartments in back of the house. So, I assumed the owner of the apartments lived in the house in front. Went to the door and Mrs. Osborne came to the door and said, yes we are the owners and would you like to see the one-bedroom apartment now available. So, I made my way upstairs and walked into the empty apartment. Roomy enough Livingroom, nice little breakfast area and kitchen, short hallway connecting the bedroom with bathroom. A shared parking garage with my upstairs neighbor, Just go around to the back alley and open the double garage door and pull right in.
This apartment was within walking distance to my job at Sears and Just three short blocks away. How convenient. Plus, it had a wonderful view through the large Livingroom window looking down at the little wood framed cottage to the south . Seemed perfect to me. Why not. I am in college and strapped for money.
Then the upstairs neighbor woman came over and introduced herself and said she and her husband lived across the hall and she mentioned their apartment is just the same but in reverse and rented only for 85-bucks a month. Wow! That’s an affordable price for sure.
I went back down stairs and down the drive way to the front house and told Mrs. Osborne we would take your offer and would like to move in the first of the month. So, we made a deal.
But, wait a minute. There must be a catch here. What is going to be the big surprise. It seems too easy and just right. All the other apartments were occupied and dwellers were okay with their living quarters. But don’t hold your breath Charlie.
The first of the month came, my boss at Sears loaned us his truck, and we moved our meager furniture into our new apartment and made ourselves at home. It couldn’t have been any better.
Then a gentleman I met at our new church and I got to talking. I told him approximately where were living and he mentioned in passing, you might be under the landing path for the new north runway at the airport. The airport was approximately three miles down range to our west. Then he mentioned large commercial aircraft should begin landing on that runway any day now and possibly you might be up range from that runway and with large jets flying just over head. Then I thought to myself, so this is the big surprise. Right? Good grief Charlie Brown.
It wasn’t more than a week or two later here they came. Flying overhead so close you could read the small lettering on the aircraft bottoms. Close enough and if flying a bit slower one could count the rivets from nose to tail while the big aircraft glided about a thousand feet above our lovely little apartment.
But the noise. Noise so loud any conversation with others came to a halt for about one minute until the roaring plane passed over. Noise so loud the windows rattled. Surprise surprise surprise.
Never the less, we lived there for two years until I finished my college classes. The jet noise was just something one got use to. But the rental price was just right. Just don’t talk when aircraft were passing over. What!? What did you say?
Dogs don’t eat popcorn.
Never mind he was trained to do something else.
His thing was popcorn. I would pull out of the cabinet a microwave popcorn package and he quickly would be so close to me he would be standing on my foot. Rickles, my beloved Yellow Lab guide dog, would be at my side in a sit position anxiously waiting the results of the popcorn package taken from the microwave. I’d take out the popped popcorn and give it a good shake to distribute the salt and seasonings inside the microwave bag. Then split it open and pour the contents into a plastic bowl and drop, as if by accident, a couple of popped kernels on the kitchen floor. And almost instantaneously he would grabbed the popped booty and licking the floor where it had landed.
So, I would make my way into the family room, turn on the evening news, and recline on the sofa with popcorn bowl in hand. Then without invitation Rickles would be again in his sit position nearby waiting for his share of the popped corn. If I failed to toss a kernel or two right away, he would discretely touch my elbow with his very wet nose as a reminder to share the corn. “Hey, don’t forget me buddy.”
At which point we would go into our ‘dog and pony’ routine but without the pony. I would toss in his direction a kernel and without fail he would catch the popped kernel almost before it left my hand. Then I would toss the popcorn up high in the air and Rickles would be soring upwards to catch it. Snap! Got it.
And it would go on from there. Toss and catch. Toss and catch. Maybe a hundred times. Next to being an expert guide Rickles could catch popcorn with the best of them. If only we could figure out how this popcorn catching could be used in the real world of guide dogdom. I really don’t think the guide dog school would have need for such a thing in their training. Not sure how all this ‘cornpone’ routine began in the first place. Who ever heard of a dog eating popcorn anyway?
Our vacation summer 1952.
What to do with an eight-year-old boy?
We were on, what they call vacation. Our family and my Aunt Elsie drove from California all the way to Oklahoma. My dad, mom, older brother, youngest sister, and myself rumbled through the heat and dust storms in order to visit kinfolk in Oklahoma. Never mind they in Oklahoma seldom if ever came to California.
But anyway, while there, my Aunt Elsie and my mom decided to drive south to the other side of the Red River to visit my Aunt’s girl cousin Billie. So off we went to somewhere in North Texas. Probably a two-hour drive south. We arrived and went through all the hugging and glad to see ya’s. Then went inside and sat down and everybody except myself went into recollection mode. Talking about the past. So, I sat there and fidgeted and moaned. Then the girl cousin Billie could tell I was being left out of the conversation. And then she took me into the kitchen and found a fly swatter, put it in my hand, and told me to swat any fly I see. So, I did. I saw flies on the wall. I saw flies on the kitchen table. I saw flies on the refrigerator. I saw flies on the kitchen windows. I saw flies on the kitchen cabinets. I saw flies all over the kitchen stove. So, I went to work. Swatting flies everywhere I saw them land. Swat! Swat! Swat! I made good progress and felt I was doing good work.
Then later, the girl cousin came back into the kitchen and saw my handy work. I could quickly see she was a bit surprised if not miffed. Realizing what this eight-year-old boy had wrought. There was fly guts all over everything in the kitchen. Especially on spaces where food was cooked and prepared. Slimy fly guts. Everywhere. High and low. I must had swatted about two or three hundred flies if not a big bunch. Smashed. Rendered dead. Just wall kill.
So, she took from my hands the fly swatter and lead me back into the living room where people were still speaking about the past.
But I was doing such good work. The girl cousin seemed a bit perturbed if not really miffed. That’s when I realized it’s difficult to please women. So, I just sat there and picked my nose.
Wearing ‘Go to meetin’ clothes.
Okie fashion plate.
It took my dad working two jobs in order to outfit my mom with her mostly church fashions. As mentioned my parents lived in a ‘third-world’ community in red dirt Oklahoma before immigrating to California. No electricity, no running water, and no indoor plumbing. All of this was missing before moving to Southern California in the early 1940s.
But things quickly changed once living in East Los Angeles and the fashion center of the Okie settlement on the eastside. My mom began wearing broad brimmed hats and long white gloves to church. My dad put away his plowboy straw hat with bib overalls and found an Indianna Jones-like gray fedora. No more his white shirt and light-colored seersucker pants but a real two-piece gray pinstriped suit. A suit bought brand new at Sears. Not mail order but bought right off the rack. Before I forget, my dad had this horrid looking tie with a livered colored fish prominent on it. No stripes nor patterns. Just an ugly wide-eyed fish against a dark background. And by the way I am almost positive going to church in East L A was the first time my dad had ever worn a suit.
But back to my mom’s couturier. Her fashion was influenced by the other ladies fashion choice at our church in East L A. And we are talking working class 1950s fashion plate. Clothes and accessories from Sears, W T Grant and Bonds. Most of which was located on Whittier Blvd in downtown East L A.
One coat I distinctly remember was a coat my mom wore most of the time, summer or winter. A heavy wool-like coat with an orangish colored large fluffy animal fur collar. Not sure the furs origin. I don’t think it was mink but some other wild animal. Maybe a fox.
Then somehow or some way my mom obtained a real dead fox or some kind of squirrel or rodent and hung it around her neck(head, feet, and tail) and wore it to church. How gross that was. Why would she do that?
Then later on my mom made my dad buy her a blue mink coat. A coat with sections of eyed blue mink on blue leather. A coat necessitating serious winter weather. None the less she rarely wore the coat. Nice looking but in the wrong climate. It would have been fine for someone in Minnesota or Maine.
Now, Even though her foot size measured 9 or 9 and a half, she always bought size 8 shoes. You could see the result of that near the end of her days. Why to women insist on smaller sizes? My mom basically recked her feet.
My dad had two or three long sleeve white dress shirts. Shirts with French cuffs that required cuff-links. Never the less my older sister and her girlfriends thought it cool to wear their dad’s white long sleeve dress shirts. Worn with tails out hanging down past their knees over a pair of old jeans. Certainly, creating their own fashion. Sort of dumb looking.
Then it wasn’t until about 1950 we all at 1318 South Simmons Avenue started wearing pajamas. Yes! Before we just wore our underwear to bed. Yet another fashion change still necessitating my dad to work a second job. Now don’t get me started on my mom’s often change of living room furniture. Blond to French provincial to Danish modern and on and on. And for sure I do not know why on earth my mom insisted on a huge crystal chandelier hung over the dining room table. Must had cost hundreds of dollars. If not a thousand or two. Well, I could go on but won’t. So, have a nice day.
Don’t let the children and widows hear this.
posted by Chuck Ayers
Voices coming from above.
Our weekends went something like this. Saturday early evening we kids would be near the big sycamore tree and home base in front of our house and out on the parkway between the sidewalk and curb by the street. My older brother would say when I count to three the last one to say ‘not it’ is it. So, when he counted to three, me being the youngest and a bit slow on the uptake often was it. And we were playing ‘hide and seek.’ So, what I had to do was lean up against the big tree hide my eyes in the crook of my elbow leaning against the tree and count to one hundred while the rest of our neighbor kids ran and hid. And so, it went.
By the time we were hot and sweaty my mom would yell out the front door…Sharron, Carl, Charles…come in now and take your Saturday night bath. Gotta get ready for Sunday church tomorrow.
My parents insisted we younger kids sit with them on the second row of pews and behave. So, my youngest sister and I sat with mom and dad. By the time we had two hymns and a prayer, I was quickly fading away and leaning up against my mother’s soft arm and slipping my head down into my mom’s cushy lap. The preachers pontifications didn’t seem to bother me as I snoozed.
Next door to our little church in East Los Angeles was McCormick’s funeral home. Our church was fortunate to receive dozens and dozens of hard paper fans stapled on a wood stick with McCormick Funeral home printed in bold letters. Good thing, our church had no ceiling fans.
The funeral home had two or three ambulances and was dispatched by two-way radio. The funeral home had a huge broadcast antenna to call the drivers of each ambulance.
But one Sunday morning while our preacher was in mid-homily a voice came out of the churches PA speaker of someone other than the preacher’s. “Larry, where in hell are you? Ya gotta get the Miller body from the downtown morgue and bring his body to the funeral parlor. So, get your ass moving!”
To say the least the preacher as well as the church goers were all dumb struck. Not knowing where the profane voice was coming from. But it didn’t take much discussion where the mystery voice emanated. One could only look at the fan in each hand and determine it came from the next-door funeral home. So, one of our church leaders the next day called the funeral home and admonished and exhorted the funeral director requesting that the dispatcher clean up his language. Not sure if our PA system could filter out the errant voices. The home must had changed frequencies because our church was not visited with mystery voices from that point on. Roger that!
Mr. Disney, we need you back here on Earth.
My happy place.
It was clean and well-kept and certainly a happy place for me to be. I had looked forward to being in this place ever since Walt Disney talked about it on his Wednesday night Disneyland TV show. Finally in 1955 the theme park opened to the general public. But what was noticed and appreciated by me and others was how clean and organized the park was in those early days. Disney had an army of white uniformed boys with broom and pans picking up every cup and paper wrap and stowing it in nearby waste receptacles. Tidy and organized seem to be the order of the day. Every day, almost to the point of being surreal. A portrait of cleanliness. And for sure, the beginnings of happiness. Happiness for others and me.
Disneyland Main street America was for sure a photo of how a town’s main thoroughfare should look as prescribed by the Chamber of Commerce. At the one end of the main street was the Santa Fe Railroad station and Sleeping Beauty’s castle at the other. So kept up and clean one would hate to bring small children with their gum and candy wrappers in fear they might drop litter here and there. But small children is who this happy place was designed and built for. My first visit was at age eleven. And visited Disneyland at least a dozen times since. My happy place for sure.
I had the momentary chance to thank Walt himself in person but was in such awe and shock, I couldn’t even speak. I was dumbfounded and speechless. An Okie kid with no words to offer. Just a blank stare.
Uncle Walt, please forgive me.
If I were a car, I’d be a Beetle.
Automobile manufacturers! Do this!
First a bit about my car and my thrifty background. The most fun I ever had driving any vehicle was back in my college years living in Los Angeles. Spring 1967 up to my first real job in 1969. Driving a car by the seat of the pants and mostly hands on. I felt one with the car and I’m certain it loved me back.
None the less, the early builder of this car called it a “people’s car or as most had named it, the Beetle or the VW Bug.” Yes a VW beetle the cool little car whose body shape seldom had changed through the years. The exception was the changing size of the head light and tail light and bumpers. Assembled and sold by Volkswagen of West Germany and a most humble mode of transportation But repeating, most fun to drive. It fit like a glove and was my persona, Demure, frugal, and cheap. But again, most FUN to shift and go.
My first Beetle was a1958 VW Bug with small oval rear window and the flip lever for the reserve gas tank. A function one flips with the right foot and Good luck with that. No onboard gas gage. I often had to reach way down and flip the lever with my hand instead while hoping not to run into a pedestrian or police car. It was a rusty red color that seemed to easily flow into the rusty areas of the car body. The headliner was a bit torn never the less the radio and heater worked just fine. But when too much rust appeared, I decided to paint the beetle black. And I mean paint it myself and in my garage. A garage I shared with an upstairs neighbor. So, I masked off all the windows, windshields front and back, and any chrome trim. Covered the tires and hubcaps and laid newspapers on the ground. Then began to spray. Started with the left front fender, front hood, right front fender, all the roof, passenger door, rear panel, around the rear window, down the engine cover, then the left rear fender, and suddenly ran out of black paint. Well, what to do now? Walked to Sears and bought a can of black spray paint. Finished the driver side door with the can of spray paint. Wheew! The driver’s door looked like a graffiti job gone really bad. So, there it was an Okie paint job that cost me 12-bucks. Drove that car until the breaks failed and got a ticket for not stopping for a pedestrian crosswalk.
My next VW was a 1963 blue Bug which had a gas gage, a good radio, and no tares in the head liner. Drove that beauty up until I started to work in Culver City.
But back to my main point. I would like to see if VW would build the same bug body with the same dimensions as the 1972 beetle. Using some of the same glossy colors as the previous 1960s VWs. However instead of a gas powered four-cylinder engine, replace it with a more powerful electric motor. A complete plug-in and not a hybrid. The empty space behind the rear seat could be fitted with the car’s batteries. And if desired a sound replication device to duplicate the VW’s iconic motor sound. Something like Harley does with it’s electric bikes. Varoom-varoom. Going through the shifting sequences. First, second, third, and maybe fourth gear. I loved how the bug idled. Cachug cachug cachug… I’m sure it could be easily done.
If VW would do this I am almost positive Volkswagen would sell a million. I am just about sure I’m not the only one who loved this distinctive little beetle car. The symbol of pride and austerity. Who needs Beamers and Benzes anyway? They are just road junk. VW Beetles have panache and bravado. If not stupefaction.
Golf balls and rainbows.
The bluest skies ever with the whitest cotton puff clouds along with an occasional rainbow is what we moved to in 1972. And certainly, away from the smoky gray L A basin. So, we winged away to what some travelers call paradise. Honolulu is where we flew away to. Far away about 2500 miles from gray smoky air. Landing in the most brilliant deep blue and clear skies in the middle of the Pacific ocean. However, we did not move away from traffic and tall buildings. There is almost always a downside to every upside. Along the water’s edge of Waikiki looked much like the Miami beach front with a bit of downtown Los Angeles looming nearby. We lived in paradise for two years. From May 1972 to April 1974. Just long enough to enjoy the beaches and most warm tropical weather with its trade wind breezes and afternoon gentle showers. Aloha from the rainbow state.
None the less it was our good fortune to live a few miles away from downtown Honolulu in a townhouse over looking a newly developed golf course. Further down the vista expanse was the historic Pearl Harbor. Complete with the stylized Arizona Memorial and Ford Island. As the owner of our condo said, “a million-dollar view looking out the back lanai.” A landscape Norman Rockwell would have trouble duplicating. A vast spread of Bermuda grass, waving palm trees, and gently rolling topography flowing down to the water’s edge. Never mind the newly constructed shopping mall down to the right corner of this picture. If you like gray navy vessels with tall lifting Crains in the harbor, this is your place.
But again, we were just up in an ivy patch off from the eleventh T-box. A good 45-degree slice from the Tee. Approximately fifty yards from a golfers divot. One could look down below into the ivy from our lanai and see dozens of new golf balls like hidden Easter eggs waiting to be found. Titlist, Ping, and more.
Along with the help of my three-year-old daughter we collected dozens of nearly new golf balls. Gave them away to a Japanese gentleman who sometimes practiced putting on our complex’s front lawn.
Eventually we gave up all this leisure living and moved to Oklahoma. Go Sooners! Love the red dirt.
She was the opening act.
Oklahoma’s own. A good friend of ours who lived in Rush Springs, Oklahoma (the watermelon capitol of the world) had a musical talent. As a teenager back in the early 1950s Barbera was somewhat talented playing the accordion. Rush Springs had an annual watermelon and music festival and the young teenage Barbera was chosen to open the music fest. It is not easy to draw and squeeze an accordion and play piano-like keys with one hand while pressing cord buttons with the other. A feat only a few could expertly execute. I certainly couldn’t. Too many variables to manage for me.
Barbera, I think, said she played Malaguena. A most spirited and quick fingered musical number. Most of us would have to practice over and over a hundred times just for others to recognize the tune.
So, the festival began and Barbera played flawlessly to a grand applauds. Then the stage announcer introduced the little-known next act, “Welcome to the Everly Brothers.” They hit their downbeat and played Wake-up Little Suzie.
A song request amigo.
Three Amigos.
1979. Many of our trips to Southern California we would often meet up with my cousin and his wife along with my wife and 9-year-old daughter. Meeting them for a spicy Mexican dinner. Sometimes my brother and his wife and maybe my cousins brother came along as well.
We would often gather at a restaurant named El Cholos or translated either the kid or field hand. But anyway, El Cholos in Whittier became one of our favorite Mexican restaurants because of its southwest style foods and it festive atmosphere. It certainly was a fun and easy place to carry on a lively conversation and laugh. We usually sat at a table for six or eight, served quickly with chips and salsa and drink orders were taken by attentive wait staffers. Once we decided what entre we wanted waiters would quickly arrive and take our dinner orders. And yes, the food was fresh, hot, and delicious.
What gave the restaurant a fiesta-like mood was its Mariachi singers. Three guitar playing Latino balladeers. All strumming, crooning, and singing traditional Old Mexico songs and wearing black pants and waist length jackets with decorative stitching worn over ruffled white shirts. Then topped with wide brim hats with dangling wiggling velvet bobbles. Just the sight of them was worth the price of admission. None the less they did a good job of singing the traditional south of the border songs.
When the Mariachi singers came our way our 9-year-old daughter approached the Three Amigos with a song request. Unabashedly she requested the three to sing Clementine. Such a request brought the whole thing to a sudden silence. The three stared at each other with bewilderment. But after a brief moment, they began
In a cavern
In a canyon
Excavating for a mine
Lived a miner
A forty-niner
And his daughter
Clementine.
Just that was enough for daughter to hear something she was familiar with and clapped. Extraordinary troubadours all of them. Audios amigos.
Chuck the Blogger Guy 