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| Photo by Sue Richards |
Welcome to my past.
I was born the year before WWII ended, and have since led what many people seem to consider a varied and colorful life.
I can’t remember when friends first started telling me that I should write my memoirs, but in 2015, I began posting brief chapters of reminiscence each week as “Throwback Thursday” essays on Facebook.
Before long, readers started telling me that I should compile these essays into a book. While a nice idea, this was impractical because of the sheer number of photos, many in color, involved in over 300 (and counting) essays, not to mention the web links that were essential to many off them.
I next considered a website, but upon inquiry, discovered that setting one up would be a very expensive proposition, and I’d still have to do most of the work anyway.
Since I’ve long been familiar with the elements of the free online tool Blogger™, I decided to turn the memoir essays into linked sections, each containing about 20-30 stories. (Apologies for any disparity in type size and/or eccentricities in spacing as a result of importing material from other sources)
These tales are not in any kind of autobiographical order. Many of them are about fascinating people I’ve known, including members of my family. Some are based on my own artwork. They're all just the tiniest bit outrageous.
Welcome to my past.
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| Photo by Laura Goldman |
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Color Key:
Red = Tales of the 1960s and 1970s/San Francisco Stories
Pink = Encounters with Remarkable people
Green = Family and Personal Stories
Blue = Sonoma County Stories/Pennsylvania Stories
Black = Renaissance and Dickens Fair(e)s and Other Theater
Purple = Interlocken Center for Experiential Education Stories
Orange = Artwork and Art-Related stories
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1 GROWING UP WITH A BIG BANG, Or, ELI WHITNEY PULLS A FAST ONE
2. OUR LIFE IS SHORTER THAN FLOWERS
3. EVOLUTION OF A MADWOMAN, PART II:
MY YEAR OF LIVING ZENLY
4. A FRAGRANT REWARD
5. WARM AS A PANCAKE: DAD PUTS THE HEART IN HEARTH
6. FINDING AYAKO
7. FROM MY MOTHER’S CLOSET (SHE’S TOO FAST FOR ME)
8A. THROWBACK THURSDAY INTERLUDE:
DAD’S SMILE
9. THEY KEPT US IN STITCHES: A TRIBUTE TO THE RENAISSANCE PLEASURE FAIRE COSTUME DEPARTMENT
10. HOUND DOG BLUES
11. LAS VEGAS DREAMIN’ WITH MAPLE AND STEVE
12. SUMMER PORTRAIT WITH HAT AND GLOVES
13. THE MAN WHO WAS FLINT: THE MULTIVOICED MULTIVERSE OF BILL RATNER
14. THE GREAT-LITERATURE APPROACH TO CURING WARTS: DAD PLUMBS THE MYSTERIES OF SPUNK-WATER
15. RICHARD BRAUTIGAN: MATTERS IRONIC AND ICONIC
16. THE GRANDMOTHER HILL PERPLEX
17. A RANDOM GODDESS SIGHTING
18. ONE LONG CONTINUOUS NAMEDROP, Or,
A FLY ON THE WALL OF A BAR WITH NO NAME.
19. PUSSY IN THE CORNER: SURVIVING RECESS IN THE 19TH CENTURY
20. PORTRAIT
GROWING UP WITH A BIG BANG, Or, ELI WHITNEY PULLS A FAST ONE
Although my parents were not hunters, shooters, or survivalists, the three adorable tykes pictured below (my sister Susan, my brother David, and I) grew up with a big-ass gun in our living room.
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| This photo was taken less than 10 feet from the gun. |
All through our childhoods, it leaned casually, barrel-up, on the wall next to the windowsill where my mother grew her African violets, just another piece of furniture to us.
A four-foot-two-inch length of death-dealing mechanism, it was intricately constructed of iron, brass alloy and solid walnut. My dad had brought it home from one of the farm auctions he loved to attend, and we kids were not forbidden to touch or examine it (though we were never, as a matter of principle, to point it at anyone).
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| The gun hanging on the wall of my dad's retirement home. |
This is not as cavalier a piece of parenting as it sounds, as, in order to actually fire the thing, one of us would have had to:
1. Raid a Civil War museum for a Minié ball (named for its French inventor, this was actually a cone-shaped, .54-caliber ridged projectile made of soft lead that was devastating in its effect when, upon being fired, it expanded and splintered, essentially blooming into a mini-shrapnel event)
2. Find a working percussion cap (there were several used ones rattling around in the “patch box” in the gun’s stock), and place it on the nipple provided for the purpose.
3. Find a 75-grain charge of black gunpowder, and pour it down the gun’s 33-inch barrel without spilling it.
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| We don't know if the powder horn, with its handy lever for dispensing powder, was used by the gun's previous owner. |
4. Wrap the Minié ball in a small piece of cloth or heavy paper (known as a “patch,” this item held the ball in place inside the barrel), and ram it down the barrel with the appropriately named “ramrod” attached to same.
And after all this, we would have had to lift the gun (it weighed around ten pounds), cock, aim, and fire it, with a good chance of the long-unused mechanism blowing up in one’s face.
All things considered, the only damage we could have realistically done with this firearm was to have it fall on one of us (which prompted my Dad to install a wall-bracket to hold it in place), or drop it on someone’s foot (oops, sorry).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_982NnSxxU (How to load and shoot a Model 1841 Mississippi Rifle)
The above firing statistics emerged during my recent second period of research on the gun, after discovering a shot of it in my photo collection, and saying to myself: “Wait, we had a gun in the living room?
The first research period? In my 5th or 6th grade American History class, we were spoon-fed a story called “The 100 Rifles of Eli Whitney.”
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Eli Whitney, Jr. This picture later appeared on a 1¢ postage stamp. |
In actuality, this demo was a command performance enforced to prove that Whitney, then far behind on the government’s 1798 order for 10,000 guns, could actually deliver.
Whitney, whose 1794 invention of the cotton gin at age 27 had brought him neither the fortune nor fame he felt he’d deserved (not to mention spectacularly failing in his object of reducing the need for slave labor, instead generating the rapid expansion of cotton-growing, and thus slavery), had taken up arms manufacturing in the town of New Haven, Connecticut. He didn’t invent the notion of interchangeable parts, merely promoted it.
The storied demonstration did take place, but it was later learned that Eli had secretly marked the parts of previously disassembled guns so that they could be easily put back together.
Unaware of this, my younger self was thrilled when Dad pointed out the “E. Whitney” and “US” stamps on the metal of our rifle’s central chamber. Could this be one of the fabled 100?
Then I did the math; Whitney lived from 1765 to 1825. Another stamp on the rifle indicated that it had been manufactured in 1853, when, I later discovered, the manufactory was being run mostly by Eli Whitney III and a nephew, inventor Eli Whitney Blake.
He replied: “You have a US Model 1841 (the model number was derived from the year of adoption) "Mississippi" Rifle by [Eli] Whitney. 1853 is the year of your gun’s manufacture.
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| Union soldier with Mississippi Rifle |
“The Mississippi Rifle was produced at the National Armory at Harpers Ferry as well as by several contractors, one of whom was Eli Whitney Jr. The Model 1841 was produced from around 1844 to 1855.
“Your gun has some condition issues apparent in the photos, and possibly others not so visible. It has been sanded, the edges are rounded, the rear sight is an incorrect replacement and there appears to be pitting on the metal.
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| Obviously a prized possession. |
“Based upon the photos and without an in-person inspection, I would estimate the retail value at between $800 and $1,200.”
The “Mississippi” rifle, I learned, on further research, got its name from being used to great effect by Jefferson Davis’s Mississippi Regiment in the Mexican War of 1846-48.
It’s easily identified in 19th-century photos by the distinctive brass “patch box” set into its walnut stock to contain not only the patches used in firing, but also small tools and other doodads.
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| The patch box |
Far from being one of Whitney’s “100 rifles,” it was actually one of 70,000 1841 models manufactured.
Although there’s no indication this particular gun was used by a Union soldier during the War Between the States, the custom touches, like the sanding to round off the stock and the gun-sight replacement, indicate that this is a weapon with a history of long and hard use, rather than a mint-condition showpiece. We’ll probably never know who owned it or what it was used to kill.
Were we kids traumatized by growing up with this artifact? Not that I can tell. The memory of it from my childhood is of a somewhat mysterious object, still and mute, but (had we known it) resounding with unseen history, and with an almost benign presence.
Almost.
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(And, for those who enjoy a juicy piece of etymology, I can’t resist including this delightful essay, from the “Mashed Radish” etymology website:)
“The word 'gun' first appears in the English language in the 14th century (when firearms began spreading in Europe), apparently as a shortening of a Scandinavian woman’s name.
"A munitions inventory of Windsor Castle, written in Latin around 1330, lists a certain kind of gunpowder-powered catapult: 'una magna balista de cornu quæ vocatur Domina Gunilda,' or 'a large cannon from Cornwall, which is called Lady Gunilda.'
"Yes, as far as we know, guns take their name from one Lady Gunilda.
"'Gunilda' comes from the Scandinavian 'Gunnild,' which, as Peter McLure explains for the OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY (OED), was once a familiar female name in the 12th and 13th centuries.
“'Militaries have often named great engines of war after females,' McLure continues, 'which has interesting psychological implications'—to say the least.
"The Scottish, for instance, named a notorious 15th- century cannon 'Mons Meg,' while WWI saw a German howitzer dubbed 'Big Bertha.' 'Brown Bess' is a nickname of uncertain origin for the British Army's muzzle-loading smoothbore flintlock Land Pattern Musket and its derivatives.
"The given name 'Gunnild'—bracketing off the problems of applying women’s names to weaponry—is an etymologically fitting name for firearms. It comes from the Scandinavian roots 'gunn-' and '–hildr', both meaning 'war' or 'battle.'
“By 1339, according to the OED, we find the shortened word 'gonnes' for medieval ballistas.
By 1409, we find 'handgone' for portable firearms. And by 2022? We find nearly one gun for every American.
"But the word 'gun' doesn’t kill people. Actual guns do."
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2. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Fitzpatrick Lane, Occidental, California; 1986
OUR LIFE IS SHORTER THAN FLOWERS
One day around three-and-a-half decades ago, I was sitting in a borrowed house overlooking the Pacific Ocean, looking at a just-finished drawing and listening idly to NPR, some low-key scholarly discussion on ancient civilizations.
Suddenly, I startled, my attention hijacked by hearing the first three lines on the card below, read in a slow, deliberate British accent. I fumbled frantically for pencil and paper, and thanks to the measured delivery, was able to get the whole thing down.
I had just begun a series of calligraphy postcards to sell at local stores, and this was surely a natural thing to share. The drawing was inspired by a National Geographic article on MesoAmerican agriculture.
Then, several years ago, I was looking over the card collection, found this one and was hit with a great splash of irony: it was in black and white.
I got out crayons and markers and remedied the situation.
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3.THROWBACK THURSDAY, San Francisco, California, 1975-76; Renaissance Pleasure Faire, Novato, California, 1976-1980
EVOLUTION OF A MADWOMAN, PART II, Or,
MY YEAR OF LIVING ZENLY
In the early 1970s, like many others in the ongoing counterculture-flavored mind-carnival that was San Francisco, I got interested in learning to meditate.
For the next few years, I snooped cerebrally around the edges of meditation circles, attending lectures and films on the subject, reading the insights of Alan Watts and Thomas Merton, the iconic Be Here Now by Ram Dass, the writings of Tagore, Rumi, and other poets and philosophers, and, of course, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, the marvelous little book of transcribed talks by Shunryu Suzuki, founder of the San Francisco Zen Center, one of the first such institutions in the US.
But, in spite of good intentions, with one thing and another, work and travel, it wasn’t until the mid-70s that I decided it was time to stop fooling around, and start building a serious meditation practice.
OK, if you were seeking a place to do such a thing in 1970s San Francisco, you couldn’t get much more serious training than that available at the San Francisco Zen Center (simply “Zen Center” to its familiars).
For those unfamiliar with the types of zen practice, at that point there were basically two, both imported, pretty much whole and unabridged (except for language), from Japan.
Rinzai Zen is commonly known for its use of “koans,” impossible questions of the one-hand-clapping/tree-falling-in-the-forest variety, meant to unhitch the logical mind from its programming.
Soto Zen, as practiced at Zen Center, seemed to take as its premise that life hands you enough tricky questions, so why not use your practice to work on them?
To that end, I attended an introductory talk and tour at Zen Center, where I couldn’t help but notice that all the other attendees were dressed soberly in muted colors, while I wore a long flowered dress and embroidered headscarf. Oh.
I was immediately enchanted, however, by the serene ambiance of Zen Center. Founded in 1962 (and now known as City Center), it’s located in a stately former synagogue building at the corner of Page and Laguna Streets.
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| Interior courtyard at Zen Center |
Its interior was to me almost magical, all shining austerity, enriched by the scent of incense; the exquisite craftsmanship of Japanese drums and bells; beautiful scrolls tucked into alcoves; and marvelous figures of Buddha set off by elegant minimal flower arrangements
And so I began to attend formal sittings, followed by short services of bowing, chanting, and reciting sutras (Buddhist scriptures), plunking myself down on the outskirts of (to mix meditative metaphors) an imaginary mandala.
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| A service at Zen Center |
The abbot was at the center, surrounded by monks (male and female) who had taken formal vows, then serious students (many residing in the building) in the process of joining them, then a scattering of dedicated laypersons who regularly attended all sittings and services, then folks like me around the edges, testing the waters, so to speak.
I decided from the start that if I was going to do this Zen thing, I was going to do it (sort of) right, and so I found myself getting out of bed at an obscene hour each weekday to catch a bus that would get me to Zen Center in time for the second 40-minute sitting-cum-service of the morning at 5:30 AM. (I confess that I never even tried to make it to the 4:30 AM one).
One thing I most admired about Zen Center was its open-door policy, with a hallway outside the main zendo [meditation room] lined with sitting spaces so that anyone could walk in off the street, through the unlocked door, pull up a zafu (meditation cushion), and join the sitting and following service, no questions asked.
So that’s what I did, catching a bus outside afterwards to go to work downtown, and then interrupting my homeward bus ride for a 5PM sitting/service.
The bus was actually one of the most difficult aspects of my Zen practice, fluorescent-lit in the dark of morning, and packed with people who DID NOT WANT TO BE THERE, so I decided that I preferred a brisk half-hour walk, even though it took me through some pretty mean streets.
This phase lasted until I encountered, several blocks from Zen Center, a well-dressed young white male scarily high on something. He kept trying to grab me, but I managed to keep walking and distracting him, until I was myself distracted by a monk emerging from the side door to the zendo, whereupon my would-be assailant managed to smack me solidly on the nose.
The monk, robes flapping, chased him away, took me inside, mopped up my bloody snoot (thankfully not broken) and —what else—sent me off to sit.
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| Shunryu Suzuki-Roshi |
Suzuki-Roshi (roshi = teacher/spiritual leader), Zen Center’s beloved founder, had recently died, but his wife, Mitsu, was still a delightful presence there.
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| Baker-Roshi |
The new abbot, Richard Baker (who had possibly been a General Motors CEO or a Medici in a previous life), had already, during his time as Suzuki-Roshi’s Dharma heir (chosen successor) and second-in-command, begun to implement a far-reaching business plan that included the acquisition and creation of Tassajara Zen Mountain Center in Carmel Valley, and the purchase of 80-acre Green Gulch Farm (aka Green Dragon Temple or Soryu-ji), a prime and fertile piece of acreage channeling down to Muir Beach in Marin County.
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| Green Gulch Farm |
This ambitious program of expansion had also seen, or would soon, the founding of an artisan bakery, a grocery store, a shop selling meditation accessories made at Zen Center, and a vegetarian restaurant.
All of these were designed to provide employment for serious zensters, with the grocery and restaurant also serving as outlets for produce from Green Gulch Farm.
I duly put in some time at Green Gulch on weekends, when visitors were welcome for work parties, followed by a sitting, tea, and a dharma talk by the abbot or a guest speaker.
The guest speakers were usually quite distinguished, as there was a distinct whiff of celebrity floating around Zen Center at this point. Then-governor Jerry Brown was known to drop in (I saw him at occasionally at sittings), a fact made much of by the San Francisco Chronicle, whose reporter seemed a bit disappointed upon discovering that this was not some mysterious fly-by-night cult.
Poets like Gary Snyder and Paul Reps were occasional lecturers. Chris Pirsig, whose travels with his dad Robert were chronicled in the bestseller Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and poet Philip Whalen were then in residence, and there were visits and sponsorship by stars of the growing fields of environmentalism and enlightened entrepreneurship.
I’d very much lie to say that I became enlightened, or at least that I was a great Zen practitioner. This was not to be, but I persisted doggedly, cut my waist-length hair, which was a mess to deal with in the early mornings, dressed soberly, noticed my worldview shifting a bit, made a few friends, and found a group with which to practice T’ai Chi,
But then, after awhile, once the novelty and enchantment had worn off, I began to notice things, from my outsider’s viewpoint, about which, I confess, I started to get a bit judgy, although they were the kind of behaviors endemic to any hierarchical organization.
I began to notice people who seemed to feel that if they acted Zen enough, or Japanese enough, that they’d be enlightened, or at least that people would think they were.
I have to confess that I went through this phase myself, until a scholar friend informed me that Zen’s strict rules were set in place during the Sung Dynasty in China, when it was traditional to send teenaged boys to a monastery as kind of a “finishing school,” and were formulated out of the need to keep rowdy kids in line. (This may be apocryphal.)
And then there was Baker-Roshi, with whom I had little contact, but I remember feeling distinctly uneasy when, in a Dharma talk he (in my opinion) used Zen doctrine to justify a piece of obviously self-serving behavior. As it turned out, my instincts were pretty sharp.
From Wikipedia:
“Although his salary was reportedly modest, [Baker] lived a lifestyle which many perceived as extravagant. With so many students and so much public attention, some felt Baker became less available to the members of the community.
All of this discontent emerged when it was made public that Baker had allegedly been having an affair with the wife of an influential sangha member…the outcry surrounding the incident led to a series of accusations of impropriety on Baker's part, including the admissions by several female members of the community that they had had affairs with Baker before or during his tenure as abbot.]
The community's sense of crisis sharpened when the woman's husband, one of SFZC's primary benefactors, threatened to hold the organization legally responsible for its abbot's apparent misconduct
These revelations led to community-wide pandemonium, and in 1984 Baker was forced to resign as abbot.”
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| Richard Baker apparently mended his ways, went on to found several other Zen centers, and wound up marrying Queen Elizabeth II's grand-niece. |
Meanwhile, I’d begun reading books written by meditation teachers Sharon Salzberg, Joseph Epstein, Jack Kornfield, and others involved with the Insight Meditation Society, founded in Massachusetts in 1975.
All of these folks taught and practiced Vipassana, a form of meditation that some jokingly call “the Unitarianism of Buddhism.”
With its forays into psychological understanding of meditation, this approach has since formed the foundation of the “mindfulness” practice now being taught everywhere from prisons to corporations to kindergartens.
I found Vipassana refreshing in its serious but liberating and inclusive approach to meditation practice, attended a 10-day Vipassana retreat, and felt myself being ever more drawn to its rich and sensible MO.
One day, I just spontaneously stopped getting on the bus to Zen Center.
I did emerge from my seasons there with a few valuable takeaways. One was the habit of daily meditation practice. Another was a long-term appreciation of that book of talks by Suzuki-Roshi, and of the writings of Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh, both of which embodied to me the spirit of Zen without dwelling on the minutiae of doctrine.
Another long-term result was a book, Meditation 101: A Clear and Friendly Guide for Beginners of All Persuasions, published in 2002, filled with practical discoveries from my own eccentric meditation practice, and quotes from many of the teachers I’d encountered in shaping that practice, including Suzuki-Roshi and Thich Nhat Hanh.
I wrote this guide at the request of a friend and medical practitioner who felt that some of his conservative patients could benefit from meditation, and wanted a basic manual he could hand them. The book has since been used as a textbook in college religion classes, and as a guide for meditation retreats.
Although I’ve never actively promoted it, Meditation 101 can still be found at:
My last Zen takeaway, the most dramatic of all, was entirely unexpected.
Picture me, barefoot and in rags, backstage at the 1976 Renaissance Pleasure Faire, in which I’d been a paid performer for years.
I’d signed on to repeat a character that had been appreciated the previous year. Her name was Mad Maudlen, and she was the protagonist in an early 17th-century song. I had previously portrayed her as a floaty child-like sprite with flower wreath and long flowing hair.
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| Mad Maudlen, 1975 |
This year, my hair was cropped short (covered by a muslin cap), and I was feeling distinctly non-floaty. In fact, as I could hear the sounds of the opening procession, I realized that I had absolutely NO idea how Mad Maudlen should appear or behave.
One useful Zen practice is that of “kinhen,” a very slow walking meditation done between sittings to help restore circulation to cramped legs and to provide a literal change of pace.
So I started doing kinhen, one step, one breath. I figured I’d just keep doing it and see what happened.
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| Mad Maudlen, 1976 |
What happened was the real Mad Maudlin, whose peaceful snail’s-pace progress and gnomic tale-telling would intrigue Fairegoers for the next five years, and again in 1994 for a repeat appearance.
Was it Zen? Theater? Channeling? Self-hypnosis? A rare approach to meditation practice? The sound of one hand clapping?
Yes.
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4. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Farallones Institute Rural Center, Occidental, California; Spring, 1980
A FRAGRANT REWARD
It had been a really, really sucky winter.
Rain. So much rain, Record-breaking rain. Roads running like rivers. Trees, their roots loosened, crashing down unexpectedly. Towns flooded along the Russian River. And at the Farallones Institute Rural Center, a season of challenges.
First, in this appropriate/alternative-technology village/community, no sunshine, back then, equaled no solar energy. So, no solar showers in the communal bathhouse. Then the antiquated back-up propane water heater broke, and replacement parts were unavailable, as was the cash for a whole new heater.
So, no showers whatsoever, unless a number of residents pooled resources and rented a room in a local motel.
No working laundry facilities on the site. Walking around like a medieval peasant, unbathed, bundled in the same clothes for what seemed like days on end. (I had thought of myself as a reasonably attractive woman, but now I looked—and probably smelled—like a Yeti.)
I had been assigned a cabin that was fine in warm weather, but contained only a handmade adobe “Lorena” stove, made as part of a Peace Corps training program. While great for cooking (given enough firewood), it was useless for heating, and left me with no place of my own to hang out during the day.
Did I mention that it was raining?
I eventually wangled a housing transfer to a snug little loft above the Visitors’ Center, located in one of the original buildings of what had once been a working farm. This structure also contained a large workshop, which, though tidy on the surface, had probably begun to fall into elaborately layered chaos back in the site’s original farming days.
I was a garden intern, but since the soil was too waterlogged to work, gardening at that point mainly consisted of digging and maintaining runoff trenches in the South Garden, to prevent it being rinsed down the hill into the village of Occidental.
Lacking other useful occupation, I decided to take on the project of organizing the workshop. For weeks on end, I untangled lengths of wire, tossed useless tools, and sorted every single nail, screw, nut, bolt, brad, hook, eyebolt, cog, staple, pin, shim, spool, and grommet in the place by size and kind, into its respective grouping.
One of the workshop’s best features was a large cabinet fronted with dozens of drawers, each with a slot in which to place a card identifying its contents. Oh, good, not only a place to deposit all my sortings, but also a calligraphy project!
(Unless the cabinet has been replaced, there may still be unused drawers bearing signs that read: “Widgets,” “Mice,” “Idle Dreams,” “UFOs.” “Pork Pies,” and similar designations.)
Then I started on the remaining tools, both gardening and wood/metal-working types, marking hundreds of handles with bright-yellow paint, both for identification (to deter pilfering) and for easy location when in use.
By the time I’d finished, it was spring. The rain came sporadically instead of constantly. The garden soil dried out enough to plant.
And the 150-year-old pear tree in front of the communal kitchen burst into glorious flower, which is where head gardener Doug Gosling and his camera caught me, basking blissfully among the blossoms, catching some well-deserved rays.
5. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania, 1945-46
WARM AS A PANCAKE, Or;
DAD PUTS THE HEART IN HEARTH
For as long as I knew him, my dad kept a diary, not the heart-to-heart spill-everything kind, but an ongoing record of tasks, events, expenses, visitors, projects, comments on family life, and occasional thoughts and observations relating either to his day job as a market researcher, or to how to build or fix something.
Although I would have never dreamed of peeking into Dad’s diaries as a child, my sister Sue recently brought me a couple of them that she’d saved while going through his things after his passing in 2010.
As I’ve mentioned here before, in 1941 my parents bought a tumbledown 25-acre farm, on which everything, including the century-plus-old farmhouse, was dilapidated, broken, leaked, overgrown, and/or was about to give out.
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| My parents with baby Susan in 1941. The tar-paper shingles that had formerly covered the house's 18-inch-thick stone walls have been replaced with whitewash. |
In spite of the fact that he was holding down a full-time marketing job that included commuting 70+ miles to New York City several times a month, Dad happily set about putting things to rights, essentially another full-time gig.
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| Dad always seemed to be up a ladder fixing something. |
In the fall of 1945, when the house’s antiquated heating system may have begun to fail, Dad decided—in the chill of late October with winter setting in—to build a fireplace from the ground up in a corner of the original one-room stone structure that now served as our living room.
It wasn’t until writing this that I realized the fact that, although he’d had experience in bricklaying as part of a summer job in his college days, Dad had never before in his entire life built a fireplace.
As a young boy, however, he’d fallen under the influence of the 1924 Book of Knowledge, a set of a dozen or so volumes that his mother, who as a schoolteacher recognized an inquiring mind when she encountered it, had purchased for him.
Thirty years or so later, I would be equally fascinated by the very same BOK, which had a number of sections scattered throughout under the collective name of “Things to Make and Things to Do.”
Under its guidance, Dad had apparently developed a confident ability to construct complex things just by reading about how to do so.
The winter of 1945-46 seems to have been relatively mild, though Dad writes of hiring local handyman Henry “Pappy” Helm to help him punch the brick chimney up through the roof and get it sealed between frequent rainstorms.
As recorded in the 1946 diary, Pappy was paid the princely sum of $6.25 for his labor. (According to a pay stub found with the diary, Dad was then pulling down $147 a week in his white-collar marketing job.)
The fireplace project was started on November 3rd, 1945, and was, as Dad noted in his new 1946 diary, “essentially finished in 3 weeks, with the first fire on January 6th.”
On the January 16th diary page , he carefully recorded all of his expenditures on the project, which, with his almost unbelievable talent for creative recycling (free aged bricks from a building site, a discarded railroad tie for a rustic mantel, a disused granite curbstone for a hearth), came to exactly $100.01—that's one hundred dollars and one cent, folks.
On the day of the January 6th inaugural fire, Dad wrote:
“Great day! We had the first fire in the new fireplace. It works! [Amie] walked up in front of it and was so happy to see something that acted like THAT that she fairly shrieked with glee.
“The little fellow was practically a hot dog before long. Her little belly was as warm as a pancake when I picked her up.”
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| A photo taken on that occasion. |
We all loved that fireplace. We roasted marshmallows in it, popped corn, huddled around it during frequent winter power outages, and enjoyed long sessions of staring into it and dreaming. It functioned flawlessly in all situations.
Dad had cleverly incorporated a handsome woodbox/windowseat into the fireplace construction, and I spent hours of my childhood there, sitting with my face in a book, or watching the world through the front window.
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| Susan on the windowseat with "Snooper." |
Dad would go on to construct and reconstruct many things—stone walls, stables, corrals, a pond and pond house, furniture, a greenhouse, a walk-in freezer/coldroom, and a rental apartment, to name a few—but that hastily built and lovingly assembled fireplace remains my first and best memory of his skill, dedication, resourcefulness, and warmth.
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| The house in the 2000s @@@@@@@@ |
6. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Fall, 1998, Occidental, California
FINDING AYAKO
In the late 1990s, I added another calligraphy card to my growing collection.
It was my habit back then to write down quotes and their sources in a notebook for possible later inscription. When I happened on this one some time later, my mind went blank. I couldn’t for the life of me remember who the heck this Ayako Isayama was, or even where I’d originally found the quote.
I was so taken with it, however, that I rendered it into calligraphy, choosing for it a frame that expressed a kind of wild exuberance (this example was colored in a moment of whimsy).
I recently rediscovered the card in a pile of old artwork, and began to wonder anew: who in the world was Ayako Isayama?
Google was no help, nor was Wikipedia. It wasn’t until I entered the name into Google Images that I found some group photos from a 1998 article in a Buddhist publication called Tricycle.
The original site turned out to be an article by a woman named Louise Rafkin, who in 1998 made a pilgrimage to Ittoen, a Buddhist commune near Kyoto.
The Ittoen community was founded in 1928 by a man named Tenko Nishida (1872-1968), who felt that all spiritualities were grounded in the idea of humble service.
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| Ayako can be seen over the shoulder of Nisheda-san. |
His preferred manifestation was cleaning; long before Marie Kondo made the best-seller lists with her books on the joys of tidying up, Nishida’s disciples were scrubbing toilets in bus stations, de-littering public streets down to the tiniest cigarette butt, weeding public gardens, washing clothes—all without payment. (The commune and its practice survives to this day) https://www.ittoen.or.jp/english/
In the Tricycle article, Rafkin writes about Ayako, the young woman assigned to accompany her on cleaning forays. As they worked together and became friends, Raskin learned more about this remarkable young woman. Of one exchange she writes:
“Ayako pulled [out] an album. Inside, there were pictures of her with American families, on a farm, one next to a Washington, D.C. apartment building.
“And there were newspaper clippings, circa mid-70’s, about a young Japanese ‘nun’ who had volunteered to massage feet at several retirement homes. ‘For over one month I did humble service. I spent six dollars,’ she said. ‘Two dollars I gave to a church.’”
During the last tea-time that the two women shared, Raskin asked Ayako how she, Raskin, could bring the principles of Ittoen to the outside world after she returned to the US.
The advice on this card was Ayako’s reply.
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7. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Bangor, Pennsylvania; 1927
FROM MY MOTHER’S CLOSET, Or,
SHE’S TOO FAST FOR ME
Yep, it’s my mother again (on the right), this time in illustration of a tiny newspaper clipping found among a collection of items saved from her 1920s girlhood.
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| My mother Barbara Arnts with bestie Mildred "Mil" Ribble. |
There’s no indication where or exactly when this piece, an obvious novelty “filler” article, was printed, although all of the song titles referenced appeared before or during 1927.
It reads:
*******************
THE MODERN GIRL, ACCORDING TO POPULAR SONGS
“She’s sugar. She’s a red-hot mama with ruby lips.
“She’s a flapper with turned-up nose and turned-down hose, and when she struts her stuff—oh boy, she’s just a red-hot Hottentot! She’s the fairest peach on the beach, and when she walks down the street, all the little birdies go ‘Tweet-tweet-tweet.’
“And she’s five-foot-two, eyes of blue, and boy what those five feet can do! She’s my bundle of love. She’s beautiful. She’s cute. You read in her glance oceans of love and romance. She’s all alone every evening, feeling blue.
“She’s wondering where you are and how you are. She’s waiting by the telephone, and you can’t make her blue, ‘cause she’s got lots of vitality.
“And can she roll those eyes and give those sighs and kisses—burning kisses from the sands of Araby!
“Her love’s as strong as applejack, and after her laughter come tears, among her souvenirs.
“She’s adorable. She’s a poor little Broadway Rose, with singed wings and silken hose. She’s a one-o’-clock baby. She’s nobody’s sweetheart now. But can she do the Black Bottom, and how! And what she’s got, she’s got lots of. She knows her stuff. She’s my sugar.”
**************
This egregious piece of fluff is attributed in the clipping to one Vincent Clark Odell, who was born in California in 1907, and apparently drifted into obscurity.
My mother was, in fact, exactly five-foot-two, with lovely blue eyes. For some reason she preserved this scrap of newsprint, upon the bottom of which someone has scrawled: “She’s too fast for me.”
I was unable to find a contemporary reference to these words in a song. (It was way too early to allude to a popular and very obnoxious 1940s Hit-Parade polka called “She’s Too Fat for Me.”)
My demure mother? too fast? For whom? Was it my dad who wrote it (handwriting inconclusive)? Another beau? Why did she keep it for all those years?
I’ll never know.
*****************
SOME OF THE SONGS REFERENCED:
“Red Hot Mama” (1924)*Has Anybody Seen My Gal?” (1925)“Hot, Hot, Hottentot” (1925)“She’s the only Pebble on the Beach” (original from 1896)“When My Sugar Walks Down the Street” (1924)“My Bundle of Love” (1925)“Sheik of Araby” (1921)“Among My Souvenirs” (1927)“Broadway Rose” (1921 )“Nobody’s Sweetheart” (1924) "One ‘O Clock Baby” (1927)“The Black Bottom” (1927)
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8. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Syracuse University, Syracuse, New York; February, 1964
SHE LOVES YOU, Or,
A SIGN OF THE TIMES
When I was a sophomore (Class of ’66) at Syracuse, I was assigned, by some random process known only to the University Housing Office, to a former commercial building known as Sherbrooke Apartments.
Although it was rambling, musty, and located in a particularly dicey area at the very edge of the campus, Sherbrooke was actually a step up from my freshman living unit, Washington Arms, an erstwhile fleabag hotel popularly referred to as “The Armpit.”
Among the Sherbrooke residents were quite a few art students, distinguishable by their ever-present portfolios and tackle boxes full of art supplies, and their unconventional swoopy garments—the rest of us were trotting about meekly in pleated skirts, crewnecks, knee socks and penny loafers.
One of the more swoopy of the art gang was a young woman named Sue, a free spirit and wild dresser with close-cropped brown hair topped with a blonde wig that, as she informed us, was called “Murgatroyd” when she was drunk, and “Elizabeth” when she was sober.
This hairpiece almost seemed to have a social life of its own, as Sue was wont to leave it here and there all over campus, often to be returned to Sherbrooke by some male art student, fraternity lad or sports hero (Sue had wisely equipped Murgatroyd/Elizabeth with a discreet sewn-inside name-and-address tag.)
Sue was the first among us to sniff out the beginnings of Beatlemania, even before the Liverpudlians’ landmark appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show in February of ’64.
She celebrated the Fab Four far and wide throughout the dorm, with posters on the walls, stickers on the windows, and the strains of “She Loves You” on repeat blasting from her open doorway.
If she thought you deserved it, you would be invited to join a select group in her room to listen to more obscure cuts like “Anna,” “Till There Was You,” and “Don’t Bother Me.”
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| Me in a quasi-Beatle hairdo (Photo by Chan Rudd) |
The culmination of her devotional campaign was an event recorded by a photo in a local newspaper, with the following caption:
“’Beatlemania’ has hit the SU campus, and the British boys might be flattered to know that a dormitory has adopted their name. Residents of the former Sherbrooke Apartments at 950 Madison St. voted at a Sunday night house meeting, to call their living center ‘Beatle Brooke.’”
It didn’t last long, but oh Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.
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8A. THROWBACK THURSDAY INTERLUDE
When photographed, my dad tended to adopt a serious look, or, at best, a non-serious face, but then, every so often—that smile!
Howard Hill (1913-2010)
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9. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Original Renaissance Pleasure Faire, Marin County and Agoura, California; 1969-1974
THEY KEPT US IN STITCHES: A TRIBUTE TO THE RENAISSANCE PLEASURE FAIRE COSTUME DEPARTMENT
In high school and college, I had nothing against peppy cheerleaders or parade-leading majorettes; I just had no desire to become either one.
However, between the fall of 1969, when I first began performing in the original Renaissance Pleasure Faire, and the autumn of 1975, when I adopted the solitary character role of Mad Maudlen, I was cast in roles that required either excessive pep, the ability to lead parades, or a combination of both.
These characters also became showpieces for the work of the Faire’s extraordinary costume department, who literally had my back on every occasion.
(Fall, 1969) My first role, as an anonymous wenchette, was to act as companion to Guildmaster James Kahlo, whose arthritis made navigating the uneven ground of the Fairesite difficult.
I was issued a standard Faire ensemble of: drawstring blouse (which in the 17th century would have been a knee-length shift that also served as underclothing and possibly nightgown); laced bodice; and skirt with rucked-up overskirt. Theoretically the overskirt could be let down when necessary to cover a muddy/dusty hem on the underskirt. Also, the number of skirt layers was a bit of a status symbol of the times for aristocrats, modestly imitated by the peasant class.
Since headcoverings were de rigeur (clean hair was definitely a luxury in chilly England), I made myself a wreath of bay laurel and strawflowers.
The second week of this Faire, I was suddenly promoted to Harvest Maid when the shy flaxen-haired teenager who had been dragooned into the role simply stopped showing up for it.
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| A sprightly jig |
(Fall, 1970) A complete change of look as Harvest Maid. This getup came from that year’s MGM Studios' sell-off of its costume stock. It was neither purely Medieval nor authentic Renaissance garb, but everybody agreed that it worked.
(Fall, 1970) James was adamantly against wearing animal fur or leather, so the costumers devised some authentic-looking fakes. His shoes were made of canvas with fancy buckles.
In the spring of 1971, I was Mistress of Misrule. I have no photos of this costume, but as I recall, it involved mismatched fabrics and a silly velvet hat with feathers.
Another haycart moment.You can't see what I'm wearing, but this scene nicely captures the spirited pandemonium of the event.
(Fall, 1971) Here I've been newly promoted to Mistress of Revels, leading a procession with Master of Revels [Faire co-founder] Ron Patterson.
This was the first MOR outfit, a workout in itself with that heavy velvet cape and woven-ribboned bodice, more appropriate for English chill than for Marin County in September.
The MOR getup was topped with this elaborate wreath, which earned me the sobriquet of “The Grape Lady.”
Ron Patterson in his MOR suit, with James Kahlo. Ron's doublet matched my bodice.
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| (Her Majesty arrives on horseback) |
Mistress of Revels was a serious working role that entailed leading the lengthy entrance procession of Good Queen Bess (played by the indomitable Peg Long, who moonlighted as entertainment director) to the Main Stage for the elaborate “Queen’s Show.”
QE1 greets her subjects in the Queen's Show. Note the "Faire brats" crowding the steps. Lord Mayor Scott Beach is at right. I'm at left with tambourine.
Sir Francis Drake (Will Wood) presents the Queen with captured Spanish Treasure, as the disgruntled Spanish Ambassador (Carl Arena) looks on.
Our second task was sheepdogging Her Majesty’s Progress through the Faire, accompanied by her court, her musicians, the Lord Mayor and other dignitaries of the Shire, and various hangers-on.
Our task as Master and Mistress of Revels was keeping this mob in order during numerous (pre-arranged) royal visits to various craft and food booths, during which the paraders not involved in the visit would wander about in a disorganized mob, which we then had to pull together to parade to the next stop. The Progress could take well over an hour, depending on the crowds.
After my Grape-lady stints, I enjoyed donning this airy robe-over hoopskirt for stilt-walking.
(Fall, 1973) Ron Patterson was succeeded as Master of Revels by the impeccable Will Wood (r), and we got a whole new (and thankfully much lighter) coordinated look.
In this group photo, with juggler Ray Jason (l), and Oak, Ash, and Thorn baritone Dale Hill, the lovely Rona Elliott (r) has inherited the burgundy costume and grapes.
Rona would go on to be a prominent music journalist and interviewer, appearing on television and radio, and in print. She was the first news anchor on music channel VH1 and music correspondent for NBC's Today show for ten years.
Rona Elliott (in another costume confection) and I pose for photographer Robert Altman.
Luisa Puig followed Peg Long as Queen, and the costumes grew ever more elaborate. This last photo inspired several comments:
Noel Gieleghem: "This is from 1979 IIRC. I can ID two of the costumes in this picture. Janet Winter (Luisa's R) is wearing one of her creations. Samantha John's (Luisa's L) is wearing a creation by Kelson.
Court and courtiers provided their own costumes. Only the APQ (actor portraying queen) was costumed by the Faire itself. The rest of us had to make and pay for our own costumes. Sometimes they were subsidized."
Janet Winter: "I made the white court suit, half visible on the far left of the picture, being worn by Daniel Larkin, and the young man behind the Queen is Duncan Scrymgeour Lewis."
I was also reminded that the head of the Costume Department at that time was Carolie Tarbell, of whom I have no photo.
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10. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; Early 1960s
HOUND DOG BLUES
The family portrait below is the only photo I have that includes our dog “Petey,” here held in my arms in 1961.
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| My mother, brother David, Sister Sue, me and Petey, Dad |
A sweet-tempered and lively little purebred beagle, Petey had arrived one Christmas morning, courtesy of an uncle who taught in the veterinary-medicine branch of Cornell University.
The poor little guy, and others like him, had been used for experimental purposes—he still had at least one shaved area on arrival—and at first, if approached too quickly, he would roll over and offer his belly in resigned submission.
Liberated, however, he proved to be a resilient pup, and soon settled into family life in the country.
Feeding him was no chore—he’d eagerly gobble anything served to him. He didn’t chew the furniture, poop on the rug, or destroy our shoes, because he was from the very first a happily indoor/outdoor free-range doggie, who seldom felt the pull of a leash.
Surrounded by forests and fields, he exuberantly exercised and discreetly toileted himself; kept us kids company on our outdoor excursions and activities; doggedly persisted in chasing (but never catching) bunnies; gave the milkman and bread truck an occasional good barking; and exchanged affectionate rubs and sniffs with all of us at every opportunity.
My dad had decreed from the get-go that there was to be no nonsense about dogs sleeping on beds or even in the house at night. Once Petey had settled in a bit, his appropriate bedtime place, Dad insisted, was in the rambling garage/stable building on the other side of the driveway.
Petey hate, hate, HATED this arrangement, and every night at bedtime, when he could invariably be found curled on the living-room rug under the coffee table between the sofa and the fireplace, the sentence “C’mon, Petey, time to go out” would induce an Oscar-worthy piece of performance art.
When first called, he would resolutely keep his eyes closed, obviously hoping we’d just go away. When we persisted, he’d adopt a piteous expression possibly intended to produce guilt in anyone who Expected a Dog to Go Out on a Night Like This (no matter how balmy).
He’d then groan to his feet as slowly as possible, joint by obviously creaking and painful joint (no doubt hoping we’d forget that we’d watched him earlier that day giving those bunnies a serious run for their money).
If we still persisted in ignoring his Poor Old Dog schtick, he’d sigh deeply and slink to the door, head down, tail between legs. On occasion, especially in winter, he'd downright refuse, and we’d have to pick him up and carry him bodily out to his nighttime quarters.
One day a neighbor mentioned to my dad that a number of local domestic canines—well-fed farm dogs and pets—had been getting together at night to form a pack that roamed around killing sheep and other small livestock, apparently just for the fun of it.
The county animal control department had been called in, and had decreed that any dog caught or identified as part of this predatory clutch should be removed from its owner’s custody and destroyed. “Keep Petey inside at night!” the neighbor cautioned.
Several nights later, as we were finishing dinner, there was a sharp knock on the kitchen door. The porch light revealed an Animal Control Officer in full uniform.
The officer, without preamble, grimly described the predatory-canine situation, ending with an accusatory: “You have a dog registered to this address.”“Yes,” said my dad, ‘but we shut him up in the garage at night; he never goes out."
The officer looked as if he’d heard it all before. Our hearts sank a little. How, after all, could we prove Petey’s innocence?“ So, it’s after dark now,” the guy challenged, “Do you know where your dog is?”
In reply, my dad led the officer to the living room where Petey, true to form, was curled nose-to-tail under the coffee table.
“C’mon Petey! Time to get up!” Dad commanded, hiding a grin. Petey, of course, went into his usual evening performance.
Watching our canine thespian staggering and groaning reluctantly to his feet, the officer’s face softened.“Oh my,” he said, “That’s an OLD dog.”
Squatting, he scratched Petey’s ears, earning himself a piteous eye-roll and moan.“Poor old fellow,” he commiserated, ”You aren’t going to be chasing anything, are you?”
Turning to us, he apologized nicely for interrupting our dinner, and left, whereupon we were finally able to release the built-up case of giggles we’d been suppressing, as Petey, with a disgusted look, scuttled back under the coffee table and resumed his doggy dreaming.
Not going to be chasing anything? Ha! Wait till tomorrow and tell it to the bunnies!
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THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco, California; Harrah’s, 11. Las Vegas, Nevada; sometime in the early 1970s
LAS VEGAS DREAMIN’ WITH MAPLE AND STEVE
I recently, and somewhat randomly, checked a book out of the library. It was called Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life, by Steve Martin, and it self-chronicled the noted comedian’s early standup career, which he abandoned in 1981 to write and star in films and TV episodes, record albums, play music, and generally lead the rest of his life as a brilliantly creative polymath.
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| A wild and crazy guy: 1970s |
In the description of his early comic years, I came upon these paragraphs:
“I took on an excellent roadie, Maple Byrne, whom I met at a defunct recording studio where he lived in the echo chamber. He was a real Deadhead who had to vanish now and then to see a Grateful Dead Concert.
“He booked my travel, set up the props, checked the sound, and ran the lights. Despite his presence, on the road I was fundamentally a loner, withdrawn and solitary, and Maple’s introduction of mournful Irish folk music into my life didn’t help my mood.
“We would drive at night from job to job, listening to cassette tapes of the Bothy Band; sad, lonely songs for the sad, lonely road.”
Reading this, I suddenly had a vivid flashback.
I should explain that I first met Maple in 1971, and we frequently hung out together at the then-newly opened Boarding House club in San Francisco.
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| Maple (second from left) with some Steve Martin fans in the 1970s. |
This no-frills 300-seat venue stayed open for less than a decade, but nonetheless managed to attract and showcase a dazzling variety of acts on their way to superstardom.
A deceptively quiet little guy (a New York Times reviewer would later accurately describe him as ”elfin”) with a wild mane of hair and a soft Missouri twang to his voice, Maple served as the Boarding House’s techie, stage manager, sound-and-light man, occasional artistic-relations dude, and gofer, moving silently and invisibly from task to task with almost spooky efficiency, like a will-‘o-the-wisp combination of Jeeves and McGyver.
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| The Boarding House after its 1980s conversion to a theater. |
It was at the Boarding House that Steve Martin, who would record four albums there, first met Maple, who lived on the top floor, not in an echo chamber, though the latter made a better story.
Maple’s job over the years evolved into nothing less than an advanced course in no-muss-no-fuss stage production, dealing with everything from soulful male soloists like Neil Young, Randy Newman, Billy Joel, Tom Waits and Jim Croce, to up-and-coming goddesses (Bette Midler, Joan Baez, Dolly Parton, Patti Smith, for example); off-the-wall comedians (think Steve Martin, Robin Williams, Lily Tomlin, George Carlin, Ellen DeGeneres, Jay Leno); and musical groups of all descriptions (e.g. Talking Heads, Bob Marley, Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks, Old & In the Way, the David Grisman Quintet, Jerry Garcia and Merle Saunders, any latest David Bromberg or Grateful Dead spinoff).
https://www.concertarchives.org/venues/boarding-house
Eventually, as quoted above, Steve was able to entice Maple onto the road with him, a feat most of the names above had probably attempted at one time or another. Martin was probably successful at this because Maple’s offbeat sense of humor was a more down-home, low-key, lower-case version of his. They GOT each other.
One Friday in the early seventies, I received a phone call from my friend, now on the road with Steve. The normally unflappable Maple sounded uncharacteristically distracted and a little desperate.
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| Moi, about that time. |
“We’re in Las Vegas. Steve’s agent booked him into Harrah’s this weekend, doing a dinner show and a midnight show every night. This is like #35 of 60 cities in 65 days. Steve hates it. I hate it. Can you come here and keep me from going nuts?”
A typical on-the-road schedule. (Caption by Steve)
How could I refuse? I had no special plans for the weekend, so I followed Maple’s instructions and got on a bus that would take me directly to Harrah’s. When I arrived, he greeted me gratefully, looking a bit singed around the edges.
That was the beginning of one of the odder weekends of my life. My memory of it is fogged, but it may have contained some of the following elements:
If you’ve never been to Harrah’s, you should know that—at least back then—it was a land of endless artificially lit twilight, smoke-filled rooms, bordello décor, the clack and roll of ubiquitous slot machines, canned music, mostly hokey nonstop stage shows, flowing alcohol, desperate-seeming hungry-eyed people, and not a clock in sight.
Steve, as were all the biggest headliners, was being put up at the private home of a local bigwig, so Maple and I were on our own in these bizarre (to us) surroundings. Neither of us had any interest in gambling, smoking, or getting schnockered on alcohol, so we wandered about hand-in-hand like a couple of hippie babes in the woods.
Maple had already discovered every back entrance and bolt-hole in the place, and took me on an informal tour of Harrah’s seamy underbelly. It was as bad as you might imagine, but fascinating in a weird way.
We tried people-watching, but that was just sad. We tried going outside, which somehow seemed even stranger, so we went to one of the daytime shows that featured either has–beens or wannabes. Meh.
Then we went to set up for Steve’s performance.
It was actually fairly intriguing watching the show from backstage. According to Maple, Steve was getting really tired of his old routines —Happy Feet! King Tut! Bunny Ears! Arrow through the Head! Crazy Banjo! “Well, Excuuuuuse Me!”
He kept trying to infuse his performances with new material, but audiences often loudly demanded the old favorites. Thus the Steve Martin I met, although polite and welcoming (and a bit nonplussed to see Maple show up with an actual GIRL), was the somewhat brooding and frustrated fellow described in his book.
His performance, however, was just about seamless, and I loved seeing the tight interplay between Steve and Maple, with light effects perfectly on cue, props appearing exactly when needed, and a refreshing tonic-with-a-twist and a chilled towel hand-delivered at the end.
During subsequent performances, Maple cued me in to those attempts to sneak in new material, and we rated their success or relative failure. I also enjoyed seeing Steve handle the occasional heckler with deadpan efficiency.
But soon the entire weekend got to seem topsy-turvy: napping in the daytime, staying up until the wee hours, eating uninspired food at odd times, watching Maple tinker with Steve’s banjo; drinking too much club soda; coming upon women crying in bathrooms; sneaking backstage to watch and listen to the chorus girls as they flounced about in feathers, sequins, and not much else, commenting pithily on the onstage talent.
One interesting highlight was, after watching Maple cross a crowded room swiftly and invisibly, disturbing no one (a talent of his I’d often admired), I asked how he did it.“Follow me,” he said, “and do what I do.” I did, and it was the closest I’ve yet come to an out-of-body experience.
Somehow we got through the weekend, and I managed to keep Maple in reasonable spirits. However, after a conversation with Steve following the last midnight show, my friend came over to me looking a bit downcast.
“Steve just wants to get out of here, so I have to leave. You can either stay in the room until 11AM, or we can get you to the bus back to San Francisco.” I opted for the latter, and hugged Maple one last time.
“You OK now?” I asked.
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he replied.
I got back to San Francisco around dawn, splurged on a cab home, and fell into bed.
Waking in the late afternoon, I encountered one of my housemates in the hall.“You look a little wasted,” he observed.
“Yeah,” I replied, “And I just had the strangest dream.”
CODA: Maple would go on to work his magic with the Grateful Dead, Lyle Lovett, Steve Goodman, John Prine, and other musical luminaries, ending up with country queen Emmylou Harris, with whom he still travels.
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| Chilling with Emmylou |
He has also become celebrated as a guitar technician, collector and historian. His amazing collection of instruments has been detailed in numerous media articles and features.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aM3KpBYT_Vo (Maple in 2018, unexpectedly talkative, promoting an article in VINTAGE GUITARmagazine/2:33)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=On1p_k08OMM (Maple in 2017, featured and celebrated on a series called MARTY’S GUITAR TOURS /39:46)
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12. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; 1990s
SUMMER PORTRAIT WITH HAT AND GLOVES
I’ve always enjoyed repetitive and meditative tasks, so de-weeding between the bricks of a small patio on a summer morning during a visit with my parents was just the ticket.
The day was heating up a bit, and at one point my mother opened the sliding door next to where I was working, and popped this charming chapeau onto my head. (She owned two of them, though I don’t remember ever seeing her wear one.)
I don’t remember who took the photo, but it was obviously someone of whom I was quite fond.
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13.THROWBACK THURSDAY: Interlocken International Summer Camp, Windsor, New Hampshire; 1980s and 1990s
THE MAN WHO WAS FLINT, Or,
THE MULTIVOICED MULTIVERSE OF BILL RATNER
When I first met Bill Ratner at an Interlocken ISC staff orientation in the 1980s, he immediately seemed somehow…familiar.
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| Bill Ratner directing The Odyssey at Interlocken. |
Then, as we were getting acquainted, the two small sons of another staff member came running up to him, wide-eyed.
“Are you really Flint?” blurted one of them.
“Yes,” said Bill, seeming unsurprised.
“Told ya!” said one to the other, and with another reverent look, they ran off, presumably to spread the word, whatever it was. I must have looked puzzled.
“Long story,” said Mr. Ratner.
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| Bill |
Later, talking to other staff members, I learned that this genial, deep-voiced, and soft-spoken guy was (and still is) one of the most in-demand voiceover actors and announcers in Hollywood.
Along with voicing untold numbers of commercials, narrating documentary films, and lending his vast repertoire of vocal skills to animated features, radio spots, film trailers, documentaries, and video games, Bill would also evolve over the years into a master storyteller, theater director, grief counselor, poet, author, educator, and solo performance artist extraordinaire.
The small-boy “Flint” interruption, he explained, had its roots in a 1983 audition that resulted in his voicing the role of Warrant Officer Flint, one of the main characters in the soon-to-be wildly popular G.I. Joe animated TV features and films (aka the show that solved the long-standing toy-makers’ conundrum: “How can we get boys to play with dolls?”), and many other spinoffs, guest appearances, sequels, related video games and even public service announcements.
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| Flint |
For instance, each episode of G.I. Joe, to placate parents about its military premise, ended with a PSA illustrating that “Knowing is half the battle,” i.e., that it’s necessary to be informed in order to do the right thing in a given situation.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1oMTBQAki_c (G.I. Joe PSA voiced by Bill Ratner as Flint)
Having somehow missed that era, I went to Wikipedia:
“Flint is the chief warrant officer for the G.I. Joe Team. His real name is Dashiell R. Faireborn, and he was born in Wichita, Kansas. He is a Rhodes Scholar and holds a degree in English literature. He graduated with top honors from Airborne School, Ranger School, Special Forces School and Flight Warrant Officers School. As a master tactician, he oversaw strategically important rescue missions.”
(A degree in English literature—I love it.)
Each summer for years, Bill, his wife (film-set designer, artist and educator) Aleka Corwin, and their two young daughters, Arianna and Miranda, would ditch Tinseltown for the New Hampshire woods, and the chance to use their multi-talents in new and interesting ways.
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| Aleka, Arianna, Bill and Miranda Ratner |
Arianna, who had been appearing in commercials and doing voiceovers since she was a tiny moppet, and Miranda, who would become an artist and yoga instructor, would quickly melt into the ISCs student population, while Aleka taught wild and wonderful art classes and Bill realized theatrical projects for kids that he’d dreamed up in the course of his working life—voiceovers, of course, cartoon history, puppetry and storytelling, and a unique production known as “The Dreamshow.”
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Arianna in the studio with her dad , and (below) Modeling as a toddler.  |
In this class, participants would report on actual dreams, which Bill would record and turn into script form, virtually word for word.
Each student in the group would then be responsible for directing a theater piece based on his or her dream, to be presented to the entire ISC as part an evening activity.
“ Some of them” said Bill in an interview, “directed it like a play; some chose to narrate the dream with others acting it out. The highlights were often kids who seemed socially marginal, who, when put in charge of their own theater piece, became stars. I was bowled over by the results.”
According to Bill, he was first fascinated by the concept of voiceover in 1952, at the age of five, when his dad, an advertising man, brought home a TV, and the youngster first heard the omniscient voice of an invisible offstage announcer.
As Bill would later do in schools and with Interlocken kids, his dad would deconstruct commercials, showing him how to spot the psychological “hooks” used to sell merchandise.
Growing up, he played radio with his friends, tried his luck at stage acting and stand-up comedy, went to film school, became a radio announcer, and finally found his resonant niche in voiceover acting; since then, he’s branched out in some surprising directions:
Wikipedia again:
"Ratner is best known as the voice of “Flint” in Hasbro's syndicated TV cartoon G.I. Joe[including guest appearances by Flint on The Transformers, Family Guy, Air Emergency, Robot Chicken and others].
"His voice has been used in numerous movie trailers, including Inside Out, Will Ferrell's Talladega Nights and Blades of Glory, Kung Fu Panda, Mike Myers's The Love Guru, Monsters vs. Aliens and many more.
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| Some of Bill's Projects |
"He narrates documentaries on the Discovery Channel, A&E, The Weather Channel, The History Channel, and others.
"His voice is on video games such as Kings Quest, Grand Theft Auto, Mass Effect and Final Fantasy, and he is the narrator in episodes of BEN 10 for the Cartoon Network.
Bill in voiceover mode.
"Ratner is also a voiceover announcer for television stations across the US. His book, Parenting for the Digital Age: The Truth About Media's effect on Children and What to Do About It, winner of the National Indie Excellence Award] and a Next Generation Indie Book Award and Eric Hoffer Award finalist, is published by Familius.His personal essays are published in The Baltimore Review, Blue Lake Review, and The Missouri Review.
"Ratner's performances of his personal essays are featured on KCRW's Strangers and National Public Radio's The Business, and Good Food. He tours nationally for storytelling conferences and festivals, is a regular competitor in The Moth Story Slams in Los Angeles, is a nine-time Moth StorySLAM Winner, a National Storytelling Festival Story Slam teller-(Jonesborough TN), and a National Storytelling Network storyteller.
"He is a contributing author of the book Secrets of Voiceover Success. He is a two-time winner of "Best of the Hollywood Fringe Festival Extension" – Solo Category for "Bobbywood: Whatever Happened to Bobby the Bellboy?" in 2013 and “Voices in my Head: A Life.” He is a member of Actors Equity Association, and Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of TV & Radio Artists (SAG-AFTRA) where he teaches voiceover.
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| Bill as an award-winner. |
(Bill Ratner voiceover demo/3:17)
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| Aleka in 2016 |
Bill and Aleka, in spite of their Hollywood pedigrees, were always a treat to work with and hang out with—generous, thoughtful, goofy and ingenious. I sometimes wondered how they managed to toggle so effectively between the world of showbiz and the idealistic life at Interlocken. Then, in an interview, Bill remembered a time when his two background worlds got a bit tangled in his early days at the ISC.
About to rehearse a puppet show in the camp’s dance pavilion, Bill realized that he hadn’t actually reserved the space for that time. The young woman in charge of scheduling quite reasonably refused to allow the rehearsal, as there were other activities scheduled.
Bill recalls:“I felt I was under pressure, so I got angry, and started pulling rank, and blustering that this had all been prearranged, we needed the space, etc., etc.
"The young woman got very flustered, and went to the program director, and it ended up being very embarrassing.
“I realized then that my vocational roots are in Hollywood, and this is how people behave in Hollywood when they don’t get their way—they throw a little snit-fit.
“ I walked around for a few days saying to myself ‘I used my adult muscle on a young college student in order to get my way over a puppet show.’
“All these issues of authority kept coming up for me, and it was a result of my not trusting that things would work out, and the conflict between my feeling that I had to muscle it on through by myself, and trusting in the way things get done at Interlocken. It was a subtle personal lesson for me in ego versus group process.”
And, as Flint would agree, knowing is half the battle.
https://www.youtube.com/results... (Numerous Bill Ratner videos)
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NOTE: Arianna Ratner, like her dad, is now one of the most in-demand voice actors in the business.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgJQHJIhY_c(Arianna Ratner Video game demo/2:43
This would have been merely an interesting piece of literary trivia, except that my brother David, who was abut eight at the time, was then afflicted with numerous warts dotting his legs from top to bottom.
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14. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; c. 1958
DAD PLUMBS THE MYSTERIES OF SPUNK-WATER,
Or,
THE GREAT-LITERATURE APPROACH TO CURING WARTS
It took me back to a hazy day in the late 1950s when our family went on its annual hike-and-climb to picnic on the top of Hexenkopf Crag, a mysterious chunk of mica-laced granite about whose haunted properties I’ve written before.
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| This was probably taken atop Hexenkopf on that very day. My mother is at right, David in the middle, I in the foreground. |
On our way back out of the woods surrounding the crag, we came upon a large hollowed-out stump filled with water.
“Spunk-water!” I exclaimed, and then, of course, had to explain myself.
I’d been reading The Adventures off Tom Sawyer, in which (Chapter 6), Tom and his friend Huck Finn engage in a spirited discussion concerning the best way to rid oneself of warts.
This would have been merely an interesting piece of literary trivia, except that my brother David, who was abut eight at the time, was then afflicted with numerous warts dotting his legs from top to bottom.
It turned out that Dad, as a boy, had once had a troublesome wart on his thumb charmed away by the local GP’s wife in the small Arkansas town where he was living at the time.
He wrote in his memoirs: “Mrs. Armstrong took my hand in hers, looked far away, and without hardly touching it, explained that I must not think about it or even look at it. One day it would be gone. It worked out exactly as she had predicted.”
Then, following Tom Sawyer’s instructions, we had David recite the following verse (which I’ve bowdlerized slightly to avoid giving offense):
“Barley-corn, barley-corn, [Indian]-meal shorts,
Spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts.”
The rest of the instructions were to go home without looking back or speaking to anyone on the way; wide-eyed, David complied.
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| Dad and David were best buddies |
Within about a week, the warts had disappeared, leaving perfectly smooth skin behind—all except one or two on his feet, which had been covered by his shoes.
“I’d often heard” Dad wrote, “that warts were susceptible to the power of suggestion, but I never knew that it could be so selective.”
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15. THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco California, Early 1970s
RICHARD BRAUTIGAN: MATTERS IRONIC AND ICONIC
One day in the early 1970s, I received a phone call from a friend who was a member of the San Francisco Mime Troupe (they did political satire, not mime; go figure).
Me at about that time.
“Hey,” he said, “Wanna go to a party at the Airplane House tonight? There’s a bunch of RCA execs in town, and the band wants to give them a real San Francisco experience.”
I didn’t need a translator; the “Airplane House” was legendary for its parties. Here’s a little history from a guided-tour site:
“The mansion at 2400 Fulton St. was built in 1904 by lumber baron R.A. Vance, who wanted only the finest materials used in its construction. The three-story, 17-room mansion had mahogany wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, silk wallpaper, and eight fireplaces.
“In the late 1960s, Jefferson Airplane was one of the most famous rock bands in the United States, and was considered a pioneer of psychedelic rock. In 1968, the band bought the mansion from its elderly owner for $70,000. It was within walking distance of Haight-Ashbury and quickly became a focal point for local musicians, fans, hippies, and all manner of oddballs. The new owners promptly painted the grand old home black.”
The Airplane House
“I’m in,” I said.
When we arrived, the collection of people milling about, grooving and dancing and groping, was fairly extraordinary. In addition to members of a number of top San Francisco bands, dressed in hip road-gypsy style, and their groupies (attired in everything from Girl Scout uniforms [ironic] to what appeared to be shredded antimacassars), there were representatives of SF’s beloved drag-and-glitter performing troupe, the Cockettes; actors from the renowned improv group the Committee; and a fellow dressed as beloved 19th-Century eccentric Emperor Norton, with two trained dogs and a foul-mouthed parrot.
The record-company executives were easy to spot: they were the ones inappropriately dressed and desperately trying to keep their cool, as poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti held court in one corner and a street juggler sliced-and-diced gravity with a variety of sharp implements in another.
In an adjoining room, belly dancers (one wearing nothing but a large boa constrictor) gyrated freely, bathed in the rays of a portable light-show.
Middle-Eastern music blended with Indian ragas. The lighting ranged from bright to mysterious, depending on the room. The air was hazy with incense and herb. You know, the usual.
At one point, iconic San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen glad-handed his way through the crowd and back out the door to fold the event into the next morning’s column.
There was a lavish buffet and an open bar (wanting to stay sharp, I opted for Calistoga water with a twist of lime). The bartender, who dispensed both alcohol and joints freely, warned: “Watch out for the brownies; they’re lethal.”
It was on a trip back from the powder room (plenty of powder in evidence), and a detour though a quieter area, that I stopped to admire one of the mansion’s ornate fireplaces, not noticing that an armchair in the nook next to it was occupied.
“Well, hi,” said a soft voice, and a long arm snaked out and pulled me onto the lap of the chair’s occupant, whom I recognized immediately by his spaniel-flop of long blond hair and morosely drooping moustache, as seen on half a dozen book covers.
“Hello,” he said, “I’m Richard Brautigan.”
For those too young to remember, Richard Brautigan was, at the time of which I write, one of the most well-known and lauded writers in the US.
Born in 1935 and raised dirt-poor in a neglectful family, he sought refuge in the written word, and would eventually publish ten novels, two collections of short stories, and four books of poetry.
From WIKIPEDIA:
“Brautigan’s first published novel, A Confederate General from Big Sur, met with little critical or commercial success, but when Trout Fishing in America (which has sold over 4 million copies worldwide) was published in 1967, it topped numerous best-seller lists, and Brautigan was catapulted to international fame.
"Literary critics labeled him the writer most representative of the emerging countercultural youth movement of the late 1960s, even though he was said to be contemptuous of hippies.”
Although Brautigan’s poetry was all the rage among San Francisco’s hip cognoscenti, it was often considered slight and facile by critics when compared with that of Beat contemporaries like Ferlinghetti, Gary Snyder, Alan Ginsberg, and Charles Bukowski.
Nevertheless, I had always had a soft spot for Richard’s non-verses, which tended to read like a cross between haiku and cartoon captions.
He could manifest tender observation:
Shenevertakesherwatchoff Poem
(For Marcia)
Because you always have a clock
strapped to your body, it's natural
that I should think of you
as the correct time:
with your long blonde hair at 8:03,
and your pulse-lightning breasts at11:17,
and your rose-meow smile at 5:30,
I know I'm right.
He could erupt in scatological despair:
I Feel Horrible She Doesn't
I feel horrible.
She doesn’t
love me and I wander around
the house
like a sewing machine
that’s just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.
…or create gently futuristic fantasy:
All Watched over by Machines of Loving Grace
I like to think
(and the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.
I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.
“You know,” I said to Brautigan, “I’ve always wondered about your last name. It sounds somewhat Irish, but not quite.”
“Oh,” he said, “Well, my father was German, and his original last name was Brautigam, with an ‘m.’"
I remarked that the name meant “bridegroom” in German.
“Yes,” he said, “and he changed it when WWII started and Germans were persona non grata. He wanted it to sound Irish.”
We continued discussing names and words (a hobby for both of us) until I felt his hands starting to creep, whereupon I said: “Well, I’d better go find the guy I arrived with.” His face fell into even more morose lines: “I guess this means you won’t be having sex with me,” he said,
“No,” I replied, “but thanks for asking.”
I hopped off of his lap and headed for the door, only to encounter a young woman who obviously wasn’t in Kansas any more.
She was wearing a frumpy party dress that was completely out of place here, and not in an ironic way.
I could see that the cup of wine she clutched was nearly empty, and noticed some telltale crumbs of chocolate in one corner of her mouth. She was standing still, but swaying slightly, her eyes unfocused.
Uh-oh, I thought.
“Are you OK, hon?” I asked, “Did you come here with someone?”
Her eyes focused briefly. “My cousin,” she said, “He’s a r-roadie? For—I forget their name.” A pause.“We don’t have parties like this in Wichita,” she informed me, then inquired owlishly: “Is there anyone, like, really famous here?”
I pointed to the armchair I’d just left. “See that guy over there? He’s a really famous writer.” Before I knew it, she’d toddled over to stand in front of Richard, who, naturally, pulled her down onto his lap.
I was wondering if I should intervene when I realized that the sweet young thing had settled down, curled up, laid her head on Richard’s shoulder, and apparently fallen fast asleep. He looked nonplussed at first, but then his entire vibe changed.
Putting his arms gently around the girl, he patted her shoulder softly, and, sighing, he leaned his cheek against her hair, closed his eyes, and allowed a hint of a smile to settle onto his face. I suddenly recalled that I’d read somewhere that he had a young daughter.
Remembering the roadie cousin, I reflected that Richard Brautigan probably wasn’t getting laid that night, but I was pleased that he had at least found a moment of sweetness and, yes, poetic justice, in his unhappy life.
CODA: In 1984, at the age of 49, Richard lost his lifelong battle with depression and alcoholism, and committed suicide in a cabin in Bolinas, CA.
His books were long out of fashion by 2000, when his daughter Ianthe published You Can't Catch Death: A Daughter's Memoir.
In 2011, a television documentary series by filmmaker Adam Curtis called All Watched over by Machines of Loving Grace aired on the BBC. In the series, Curtis argued that: “Computers have failed to liberate humanity,” and instead have "distorted and simplified our view of the world around us."
In 2013, writer William Hjortsberg published Jubilee Hitchhiker: the Life and Times of Richard Brautigan, a book described thusly on Amazon: “Part history, part biography, and part memoir, Jubilee Hitchhiker etches the portrait of a man destroyed by his genius.”
Rest in peace, Richard.
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16. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Booneville, Arkansas; Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; 1883-1950s
THE GRANDMOTHER HILL PERPLEX
My father’s mother (in our family lexicon, never “Grammy” or “Nana” or “Grandma,” but always “Grandmother Hill”) was, by all accounts, a complicated woman, both admirable and difficult.
Clara Maud Elkins Hill was born in Arkansas in 1883, one of two girls in a family of eight that included two sets of boy/girl twins. The Elkinses, my dad recalled, were a notably dour, persnickety and quarrelsome bunch.
A passel of Elkinses, Grandmother Hill's family. Back row: Marvin, Clara, Clara's twin Claud, Guy, Lee. Front row: Vera, Great-grandfather James Franklin Elkins, G-Grandmother Anna Eliza Elkins, Charles, Vera's twin Vance.
As a teenager, Clara kept house for two of her older brothers while they attended college; in return they paid her tuition at a nearby teachers’ college.
In the early 20th century, she wed Carlton Hill, a handsome, charming, and adventurous young widower. Although they stayed together and produced three sons, the marriage was not an easy ride for either of them.
Wedding photo of Clara and Carl Hill
Carlton jumped from job to job—farming, carpentry, oil-field prospector, clothing-store clerk—hoping to strike it rich, or at least achieve prosperity, finally finding his niche as a traveling salesman.
(My cousin Wayne Hill opines that this worked out so well because it got my freewheeling granddad out from under the exacting scrutiny of his spouse for weeks at a time.)
Grandmother Hill with oldest son Horace.
To supplement their often-meager income, Grandmother Hill taught school, took in sewing, and made “transformations’ (today known as “extensions”) for ladies, from hair that they pulled out of their hairbrushes. The family moved frequently when unable to afford the rent on a current house.
She was a prodigious knitter and worker in crochet. My sister Sue still has one of the three queen-sized lacy-medallion tablecloths she crocheted and presented to her daughters-in-law.
Grandmother Hill with sons Howard, Horace and Justin in the late 1930s. Dad became a market researcher, Horace a long-distance truck driver, and Justin president of the Oklahoma Restaurant Association. Nature? Nurture? What?
Although she frequently told my dad that he “was more trouble to raise than her other two boys put together,” he adored her, and credited her for forming (by example), his formidable work ethic, and fostering his ongoing curiosity, even scrimping to buy him the 1923 edition of the Book of Knowledge.
Dad never had a harsh word to say about his mother, though he did delight in recounting an episode that took place when he was about 10 years old, and she confiscated his prized “beanflip” (Arkansan for slingshot), because she felt he was wasting his time with it. A little later, she got curious and thought she’d try it out, only to wind up with a shiner from firing it—backwards.
Because she lived in Arkansas —which might as well have been Mars, what with the difficulty and expense of travel and phone calls in those days—I only met Grandmother Hill twice, when she came for brief visits to our place in Pennsylvania.
I have almost no recollection of her second visit, (which took place, to judge from photos, in the mid-1950s). Although we appear in posed photos together, I may have spent a great deal of time avoiding her whenever possible.
Me (in pigtails), brother David, and sister Susan, with Grandmother Hill, on our front lawn, probably around 1953.
My sister Sue, then a young teen, remembers that she brought us books of Bible stories, and admits that after Grandmother Hill died in 1956, she (Sue) was firmly convinced that the old woman was sitting up in heaven passing judgment on her every move.
On my first meeting with Grandmother Hill in 1945, though I was in general a gregarious kid, I (photo below) reacted in spontaneous cranky-toddler mode when she tried to make nice with me.
Then I seem to have relented, allowing her to coax me onto her lap, and my dad’s second photo shows her as the epitome of grandmotherly sweetness.
As I said, a complicated woman.
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17. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Graton, California; Early 2000s
A RANDOM GODDESS SIGHTING
As I've written here before, for several years I shared my friend Judith's house in Graton with the charmingly named Maraya Light Lee Jones and her mother Lisa.
A RANDOM GODDESS SIGHTING
As I've written here before, for several years I shared my friend Judith's house in Graton with the charmingly named Maraya Light Lee Jones and her mother Lisa.
Christmas 2003. Maraya Light with her new unicorn, me with my old bear Sarapandy.
One morning Maraya announced to me that she and her mother were going to "a goddess festival." This being Sonoma County, such events are business as usual. "Oh, that sounds like fun," I responded blandly.
Later that afternoon, I was on our back deck with my camera, photographing the garden in the late sunshine. Hearing the patter of little bare feet, I turned around just in time to get a shot of this adorable baby deity.
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18. THROWBACK THURSDAY: no name Bar, Sausalito, California; 1969-70
ONE LONG CONTINUOUS NAMEDROP
Or,
A FLY ON THE WALL OF A BAR WITH NO NAME.
I had one problem, however: both of my former part-time jobs had become unavailable. I had begun freelancing as a writer but now had no time to compile articles. How to support myself and still have time for study?
Then I had an inspiration. A friend had given me a gift adorned with a simple rolled-up tissue paper rose. I invested in a package of brightly colored tissue and a roll of florist’s tape, and taught myself make tidy little three-flower bouquets, which I scented with rose-flavored essential oil. I discovered that I could assemble individual flowers sight unseen by touch while studying. Perfect.
Posy-makings and posy
One day (since I knew that San Francisco merchants tended to crack down on unlicensed street vendors), I dressed in a lacy blouse and flowing skirt, and took myself and a basket of posies to the little town of Sausalito across the Bay in Marin County.
 |
| Would you buy a posy from this person? |
In those days, Sausalito, once a fishing village, was not the tourist mecca that it’s since become. It was bohemian and more than a bit funky. Rents were still reasonable, especially if you lived somewhere in the welter of houseboats, sailboats, and retired fishing boats surrounding a beached ferryboat in the random mooring site that ruled the edge of the Bay.
This free-spirited community, existing as it did in a state of happy un-policed anarchy, attracted artists, artisans, poets, writers, activists, and musicians, some of whom would become household names within the next decade.
In order to stay under the radar, so to speak, I refrained from accosting passersby on Bridgeway, Sausalito’s one-street shopping district. Instead, I went to the owners of the various shops, eateries, galleries, etc., that were strung along the street, and asked their permission to offer posies to their patrons at 25¢ a pop. Most were kind of charmed, and said to go for it.
Bridgeway
Thus, nearly every afternoon, after studying and flower-making, I’d hop a bus or ferry across the Bay to peddle my little bouquets. I found that I could clear $15-$20 a day, and since my rent was only $40 a month, I could easily live off of the proceeds.
One of my favorite and most profitable venues was a Sausalito bar called the no name (no capitals; the sign outside read simply, “Bar”).
The afternoon bartender, a lovely guy named Peter Bowen, would usually spring for a handful of posies, which he gallantly presented to the waitresses and other women in the bar. Peter was a handsome dude with a curly mustache, a sweet smile, and a glass eye that could make him look whimsical, quizzical, or intimidating as circumstances dictated.
He was also one of those balletic barkeeps who could simultaneously build a drink, take orders, hold a conversation, settle an argument, and referee a game of liar’s dice without breaking a sweat.
(At a 2019 no name reunion, former bartender Irving Swift commented: “In those days, if you worked the bar at the no name, it was like being a rock star.”)
Peter and I became friends, and occasionally kept company outside of bar hours. Later, after I’d been awarded my M.A., and had taken a weekend job at a Sausalito boutique, I’d often drop into the no name and spend a few afternoon hours tucked away on the barstool farthest from the door, chatting with Peter in his unoccupied moments, sipping tonic water, and watching the passing show.
What I had no way of knowing then was that I’d plunked myself down in the middle of a no name era (1959-1974) that would eventually become known as “The Wonder Years.”
Founded in 1959 by a sweetheart of a guy named Neil Davis, the no name was, as noted by ESQUIRE magazine, “more of a salon than a saloon.”
 |
| Neil Davis at a 2019 no name reunion. |
In an era when bars tended to be dark, smelly, smoky, and loud, Davis constructed an airy outdoor patio and installed large windows to let in light, with multiple mirrors to reflect it.
He also provided lavish amounts of reading matter, from the New York Times, Variety, and the Village Voice, to local papers, as well as dice cups, chess and backgammon boards.
He kept the drinks inexpensive and the atmosphere congenial; and in general encouraged patrons to linger and treat the place as their living room. As a result, the bar soon became a hangout for local artists, writers, and activists, wealthy bohos, and an evening crowd of San Francisco semi-celebrities.
no name outdoor patio, excavated from the hillside behind the bar.
In time, it became involved in charities and political movements, hosting local fundraisers and press conferences. Many a business deal and artistic collaboration took form over drinks at the no name.
As its reputation grew, so did the number of notables dropping by. San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen must have had a reliable spy or two in the ranks of regulars, because distinguished visitors and interesting scenes from the bar regularly popped up in his Pulitzer prize-winning column, even when he hadn’t been present the night before.
Herb Caen, in his element.
Tucked away in a corner on my barstool, I could turn slightly to my left, peer over the rim of my glass, and take in the ongoing show.
There were colorful locals, like sailor-adventurer and “President of the Pacific Ocean” Spike Africa; actor Sterling Hayden; novelist/screenwriter Don Carpenter and his novelist buddy, Herb Gold; ironic western-swing star Dan Hicks (he wrote the unforgettable “How Can I Miss You if You Won’t Go Away”), often with his “Hot Licks” bandmates.
Sterling Hayden
hen there were the Greater Bay Area and commuter regulars, like San Francisco call-girl activist Margo St. James; Actors Peter Coyote, Peter Fonda, Luke Askew and Rip Torn; comedians Tom and Dick Smothers; members of Jefferson Airplane, the Kingston Trio and other well-known bands; NY TIMES best-selling writers Evan S. Connell and Curt Gentry, and the multitalented Shel Silverstein.
 |
| Luke Askew with Peter Fonda in Easy Rider. |
 |
| Margo St. James |
 |
| The wonderfully named Elmore Ruál "Rip" Torn Jr. |
 |
| Shel Silverstein |
 |
| Lew Welch |
From my barstool perch at the dawn of the 1970s, I could clock occasional visitors like folk divas Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell; actors Clint Eastwood (always courteous), Jacqueline Bisset, Geraldine Page, and Julie Christie (tinier than I imagined). I was told Bob Dylan came in, but not while I was there.
As Peter Bowen once observed: “Yeah, this place is just one long continuous namedrop.”
I want to make it clear, by the way, that I was not actually palling around with these people, just pretending to be a fly on the wall, and trying not to stare.
The no-name regulars took a dim view of tourists who came in obviously looking for well-known faces. The price of drinks would mysteriously increase, the service become slow, and a subtle aura of polite standoffishness pervade the room, while the celebrities in question hid behind the New York Times financial section or sloped off into the back patio until the undesirables had left.
The closest that I came to mingling was on the rare occasions when the afternoon crowd filled up the bar and my seat was needed. Then I would go and join Don Carpenter, with whom I’d become friends in my posy-selling days, and sit quietly at what that ESQUIRE article had termed: “the West Coast equivalent of New York City’s famed Algonquin Round Table.”
Don Carpenter
It was an enjoyable interlude, but within a few months my writing career had taken an upturn, my days were filled, and my no name afternoons melted away into colorful memory.
CODA: Neil Davis sold the no name in 1974, but the place is still going strong as a music venue.
From a recent Yelp! review: “One night it’s a guy from the houseboat down the street playing his guitar, and the next it’s a platinum-selling artist”
In the mid-70s, Peter Bowen opened a gallery called “Scrimshaw” on the second floor, above the bar. Although it only lasted about a year, the verses carved into the risers of the stairs leading up to it are probably still there: “Here’s to the Ships/And the Women/Of Our Land/ May the First Be/Square-Rigged/And the Latter/ Well-Manned.”
I guess some traditions never change.
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THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; 1952-53
19. PUSSY IN THE CORNER: SURVIVING RECESS IN THE 19TH CENTURY
I recently walked past a newly refurbished playground a few blocks from my house in Sebastopol, CA, and was amazed at the profusion of recreational equipment provided there.
In addition to several variations on swings, slides, and monkey bars, I saw a zipline (!), climbing tunnels, a playhouse, cave-like hidey-holes under the slides, a spherical merry-go-round, and an honest-to-goodness pirate ship.
 |
| Libby Park playground |
I couldn’t help but think back to my third- and fourth-grade years at Hopewell School, the oldest (1820) and most primitive of the three one-room schoolhouses that comprised the school district on Mammy Morgan’s Hill.
 |
| Hopewell |
As I’ve written here before, the Morgan’s Hill community was settled in the 18th century by poor German immigrants, on ridge-top land nobody else wanted because (until the invention of the automobile) it was almost inaccessible from the river valley below. My parents arrived there (by car) in the early 1940s.
This early isolation resulted in much intermarrying among cousins; as a result, a number of my classmates were burdened with mild-to-severe mental and physical disabilities, but when it came to entertaining ourselves, we were an impressive bunch.
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| Me in third grade |
At Hopewell, we had electric lights, but no plumbing. (Two splintery outhouses stood in for toilet facilities.) At the beginning of each day, the bigger boys—some of whom had been in the fourth grade for several years, and seemed to like it there—would fill buckets at the outside pump next to the school, carry them indoors, and pour them into a stoneware crock rigged with a gravity-fed drinking-fountain attachment.
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| This photo was taken in my second-grade year, at Cedarville, the building for the 1st and 2nd grades. We were pampered with indoor plumbing and radiators for heat. We girls (I'm at upper left with Judy Hoffmann and Margaret King) had to wear skirts or dresses and behave like little ladies—Hopewell took care of THAT fantasy. In front are Dougie Hendricks, Billy Schippers, Georgie Brotzman, and one of the indistinguishable Lakey twins nose-picking as usual. |
In cold weather, the same pool of boys (we girls were relegated to clapping erasers, washing the slate blackboards and other dainty tasks) rotated in and out of the crew that descended daily through a trapdoor in the floor into the reaches of the coal cellar to bring up scuttles of anthracite to feed the large tank-like stove that was our only source of heat.
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| Although this museum exhibit is close to the interior layout of Hopewell, our schoolroom was larger, and the stove about twice the size of the one shown here. Note the hole in the desktop for an inkwell. Now I really feel like a museum piece. |
That stove was also central to the hot-lunch program that supplemented the sometimes-meager fare brought by the poorer pupils. Raw potatoes were wrapped in tinfoil (a recent innovation), and placed inside the stove in a bank of coals in the morning, to emerge hot and tasty at noon; butter and salt also provided.
Or, on certain days, those that could afford to would bring a can of soup, of any kind our home pantries could spare. All of these would be mixed together with water in a pot placed on top of the stove, to produce what we called “Everybody Soup.” Some combinations were more successful than others, but at least everybody got a hot nourishing cupful.
Half of our formal playground equipment consisted of a primitive backstop at the bottom of a long sloping field adjoining the school building. There, at recess, all but the gentlest boys would repair for sessions of an ongoing sport that, depending on what kind of equipment somebody brought from home, seemed to consist of equal parts baseball, football, and mud-wrestling.
When there was no sports paraphernalia present, the lads would entertain themselves by throwing rocks at one another. This was, however, forbidden after Harry Walters clocked his brother Francis so severely that a visit to the hospital was necessary. After that, the missiles of choice were unripe crabapples and horse chestnuts from the woods behind the school.
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| A fourth-grade field trip to new York City. Mrs. Rambo is top row center. |
On the other side, between the school building and Farmer Laubach’s fenced cow-pasture about ten yards away, was a sandy-dirt strip of playground area, with enough room for cutthroat games of “Giant Steps,” “Red Light, Green Light,” “Statues,” “Stoop Tag,” and “Monkey in the Middle.”
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| In this early-2000s photo, the pump platform has been engulfed by Virginia creeper vines, but the pump appears as a vertical streak of red. The "Pussy in the Corner" porch is at right |
Our only official piece of playground equipment there was—a rock.
Yes, a rock— a flat-topped, roughly rectangular chunk of limestone, about the size and shape of a modest footlocker—that someone had obviously brought in and dumped.
It was, however, a versatile rock. You could sit on it and pretend you were driving a car or occupying a throne. You could stand on it and feel important. You could use it for “home” in hide-and-seek. You could play “King of the Castle” and knock somebody down so they split their lip. (This was why Hopewell girls were allowed to wear slacks, jeans, and even overalls to school.)
We also had access to the school’s porch (see photo), upon which we played many a fierce game of “Pussy in the Corner.” In this pastime, four players stood at each of the four corner posts, and when a fifth, in the middle of the porch, yelled “Pussy in the Corner, change!”, each player, including the one in the middle, had to scramble for a new post. It was, to put it mildly, a contact sport.
If you were feeling indolent and someone had a set of jacks, you could sit on the rough-concrete pump platform and attempt to scoop them up without drawing blood.
The girls’ main recess hideout, however, was the woods behind the school, where old trees snaked their roots aboveground; we created “rooms” between them, hung out in the low branches, played “house,” or more elaborate games of make-believe, and exchanged girlish confidences.
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| Me (L) with friends Lesley Salisbury and Sandy Benner in second grade. |
With all of us scattered so far afield, our teacher, Mrs. Rambo called us in with blasts on a police whistle, as the bell in the steeple had been deemed unsafe.
A wild-card play facility was snow, which could be wallowed in, shaped into forts and mazes, and of course thrown at each other. I once got a gravel-laced slushball in the eye that required medical intervention (although Billy Schippers always claimed that he was aiming for Bobby Unangst).
Living in the boonies as we did, “snow days” off from school were a frequent and welcome occurrence, but at Hopewell we went outside in all but the nastiest weather.
It was not uncommon to find us, after recess, steaming gently in damp clothing at our desks, our shoes or boots set in a malodorous semicircle around the stove to dry.
If we absolutely had to stay indoors, at least the classroom facilities were sturdy enough for almost all activities. Our wooden desks were mounted on cast-iron frames and bolted to the floor in two sections (one for each grade), with an aisle running up the middle.
Each had a hole for an inkwell, surrounded by faint stains from the days before pencils became widely available (and what a nightmare THAT must have been for teachers).
Classes were taught to each grade alternately; the class not being taught did assignments from the previous class. As a result, we learned to concentrate with complex stuff going on in the background, and we had no actual “homework.”
Indoor recess activities that I remember: spelling bees (carefully handicapped so that the kids who could barely read, let alone spell, didn’t get eliminated early).
We also did art projects, usually involving construction paper and paste, the latter doled out in white globs on scraps of paper. The stuff smelled like wintergreen candy, and some kids had to be carefully monitored so that they didn’t eat it.
Spontaneous entertainment sometimes occurred when Farmer Laubach let his bull into the cow pasture that was clearly visible from the schoolhouse windows.
While some of the older boys whooped and sniggered, the rest of us innocently enjoyed the antics of the Holsteins “playing piggyback,” until a horrified substitute teacher, after pulling down all of the shades, complained to the school board, and breeding activities were removed to a far pasture.
We also had recitations from kids who’d memorized poems as “party pieces”(who could forget Dorothy Schruntz going up front to recite, taking a deep breath, and barfing profusely?)
Most fun of all, there was singing. We didn’t have a piano, but we did have a pitchpipe and a stack of battered booklets called SONGS FOR ALL OCCASIONS, many of which we had all long since learned by heart.
Imagine then, a roomful of scruffy urchins happily and untunefully belting out such chestnuts as “The Little Brown Church in the Vale,” “Yankee Doodle,” “When You and I Were Young, Maggie,” “Funiculi Funicula,” “Swanee River,” and my particular fave, “A Capital Ship:”
A capital ship for an ocean trip
Was the Walloping Window Blind,
No wind that blew dismayed her crew
Or troubled the captain's mind.The man at the wheel
Was made to feel
Contempt for the wildest blow,
Though it often appeared, when the gale had cleared,
That he'd been in his bunk below.
We may have been a grubby and ill-assorted bunch, some of us none too smart (and some of us too smart for our own good), but we sure knew how to entertain ourselves. Without benefit of zipline.
(For those who would like more of the Hopewell story: go to "Mrs. Rambo Learns a Lesson," story #11 in TBT Blog #11.)
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20. THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco, California; c.1972
PORTRAIT
Photography by Doug Leighton
