The Orange County Register covered the story as well. Looks like it fell yesterday, Friday, December 29, 2017 at 7:30am.
The historic windmill atop
the Arcadia Denny’s detached and fell into the restaurant Friday morning.
Representatives from
Denny’s were not immediately available to comment Friday, but Arcadia police
were notified the windmill had fallen at 7:28 a.m., said Sgt. Dan Crowther.
Signs around the
restaurant at noon said it was closed for maintenance.
Exactly a year and a half
ago, on June 29, 2016, Denny’s officially reactivated the windmill, and it had been spinning
all day, every day since then.
The windmill is the last
remnant of the Van de Kamp’s Holland Dutch Bakery’s coffee shop franchise,
which built 15 locations bearing the same design. The Arcadia location, the
first of the 15 built, opened in 1967.
Denny’s purchased the
location in 1989. The diner-chain spent about $100,000 refurbishing the
windmill — replacing the motor, reinforcing the blades and adding new LED
lighting — according to President and CEO John Miller.
“It’s a bigger bill than
we initially thought,” Miller said in 2016. “But we figured when the windmill
is still spinning in 100 years, the cost won’t matter.”
Dad's
funeral was held at St. Rita's Church in
Sierra Madre. The front of the church, behind the altar, had a modern
design which I was no fan of. I don't know who scheduled the
funeral. I think people don't have a lot of options when a death occurs.
They take what is available. Set in the foothills above Sierra Madre on a
rainy day, one could not ask for anything more portentous.
The interior was
modern. Construction for the church began in 1908 and completed in
1910. A parochial school opened in 1922. In
1968, the second structure of St. Rita's was demolished and a third structure
was built in 1970 to give the chapel it's modern look seen here.
It lacked tradition, and given Sierra Madre's thirst for legacy, one would have
thought . . . oh, well. But this is where his funeral was held. For
some reason, the secretary from Realty World showed up.
My Dad
wrestled us guys up out of bed at 5am to get us to 5:40 mass at the St. Joseph's Chapel at
Santa Teresita Church in Monrovia. I did not like waking up on Sunday
mornings, but I also accepted its importance and the benefits that came from
being with my brothers and my dad and spending Sunday morning with them, though unpleasant it may have been on occasion. But I always loved my dad's energy
and his efforts to organize time on Sunday for us to learn in some systematic
way a faith. It's hard to understand the value of that system as a kid but
decades later one at least appreciates the instillation of prayers on the mind as one endures an onslaught of death, envy,
evil, defeat, essentially what is referred to as the Valley of Darkness in the Psalm 23 prayer.
The Lord is
my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still
waters.
He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His
name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest
my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will
dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.—Psalm
23:1-6
But there were other prayers as well, like the prayers of the Rosary, some of my favorites that helped protect me from the profanity and paganism of Darwinian, civic organizations.
The Sign of the Cross: In the
name of the Father of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen
The Apostles' Creed: I believe
in God the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ,
His only Son, our Lord; Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin
Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He
descended into hell. On the third day He arose again; He ascended into
heaven,and sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty; from thence
He shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Ghost,
the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgivness of sins, the
resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen
The Our Father: Our Father,
who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name: Thy kingdom come: Thy will be done on
earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread: and forgive us our
trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into
temptation: but deliver us from evil. Amen.
The Hail Mary: Hail Mary, full
of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women, and blessed is
the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death. Amen
Glory Be to the Father: Glory
be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit.As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
The Fatima Prayer: "O my
Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, and lead all souls
to Heaven, especially those in most need of Your Mercy". (Our Lady at Fatima,
13th July 1917)
The Hail, Holy Queen: Hail,
holy Queen, Mother of Mercy! our life, our sweetness, and our hope! To thee do
we cry, poor banished children of Eve; to thee do we send up our sighs,
mourning and weeping in this valley, of tears. Turn, then, most gracious
Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us; and after this our exile show unto us
the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus; O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.
So there's that. I am not a big fan of this Pope Francis, for he really is a Marxist. Period. Dot. Stop. Another favorite of mine is the Serenity Prayer. In a profane world, this can be restorative.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can;and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;enjoying one moment at a time;accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;taking, as He did, this sinful worldas it is, not as I would have it;trusting that He will make all things rightif I surrender to His Will;that I may be reasonably happy in this lifeand supremely happy with Himforever in the next. Amen.
And upon waking up to get to mass we had to make sure that we carried our Daily Roman Misssals. These were small, hand-sized prayer books. I don't think that the ones that we had were in Latin, but I remember seeing prayers missals in Latin for sure.
But these missals were tiny. The Roman Daily Missal contained the following:
The Daily Roman
Missal contains the complete prayers, antiphons, and readings (A, B, C cycle
for Sundays, two-year cycle for weekdays) for all Masses throughout the
liturgical year and the Order of the Mass all in one volume. Short explanations
from the Catechism
of the Catholic Church are given above the Sunday readings. It
also contains English and Latin texts side by side for the Order of the Mass
and the Eucharistic prayers, making this a great missal to use when Mass is
said in Latin. It contains a liturgical calendar in the front that helps you
locate the appropriate readings for the year and month. It has many other features
such as the Proper of Saints, Masses and Prayers for various needs and
occasions. It also has a very helpful section of Catholic devotions and common
prayers in the back, and guides for the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Six
colored ribbons are included for ease of use.
The one here is a military missal, which is what we could have owned since my dad was a Marine. The ones we owned could have also looked like this. The size is 6 x 4.5.
It is amazing. I never met Aunt
Myrtle, Dad's cousin, but Dan did. In fact, he visited her back
in 2003 and received some terrific memories from her.
For me, Wheat Ridge was the first town I stopped in and ate a sausage and egg breakfast back in 2014. The town sits south of I70 between Golden and I25.
Mom attended Saint Clara's Orphanage in Denver. Here are a couple of photographs of kids who attended the school in 1936. Mom would have been 16, and the kids in those pictures look much younger. I don't know the year that Mom left the orphanage. Here is a 1940s picture of St. Clara's.
Here is acollection of Getty Images of Saint Clara's Orphanage through the years. The following picture is from a postcard but the listing does not provide the date. Grrr.
The orphanage was located at 3800 West 29th Avenue in Denver in an area known as West Highland, located west of Federal Blvd. and, of course, west of Interstate 25. The neighborhood was quite elegant. Lots of brick-style, turn-of-the-century homes still standing there and throughout the Denver area. Loved that area.
This is a terrific photo of an air force soldier visiting with boys from St. Clara's Orphanage. And that makes perfect sense that an Air Force soldier would visit the kids in Denver, given the fact that the Air Force Academy is located in Colorado Springs, CO., 75 miles or 72 minutes south of Denver. Below is another shot of St. Clara's Orphanage from Getty Images.
JUL 13 1967 St.Clara's Orphanage, which was founded and Built in 1890, will be shut down Jan 1 by Authorities. The 51 children now living in the building will be placed individually in new homes in the Denver area. Credit: Denver Post (Denver Post via Getty Images)
St. Clara's Orphanage, Denver, a home to some 10,000 children since it's origin in 1890, will be discontinued effective January 1, 1968. Joint announcement of the closing was made Thursday, July 13th by Mother M. Dolorine, Provincial of the Wheaton Franciscan Sisters who operate the home. The Right Reverend Monsignor Elmer J. Kolka, Director of Catholic Charities, and Roy I. Mason, Mile High United Way President. The orphanage has been affiliated with United Way and is predecessor organizations for 45 years. Monsignor Kolka said that appropriate planning will be made for the individual replacement of each of the 51 children, now in the orphanage.
"THE UTMOST concern and solicitude will be extended so that every child from the home will be adequately considered and cared for in the future." Monsignor Kolka said "Child care is one of the greatest functions of Catholic Charities, and St. Clara's became affiliated with the Catholic Charities in 1928."
The structure at 3800 West 29th Avenue, which presently houses the children, was built in 1908 the original orphanage was located at 10th and Champa Streets where the same group of sisters now operate St. Rose's residence a home for working girls children were admitted to the original orphanage on 10th Street on Christmas Eve 1890 Mother Dolorine said the decision to close was made when she and her board attempted to plan for the sister personnel of the order.
Here on Page 11, you'll find an interesting history of how St. Clara's Orphanage became so.
SEP 22 1962, SEP 23 1962; Saint Clara's Orphanage; Denver -Boulder Orphans *****; In the driver's seat of a Lowry Field T-Bird--a T33 jet trainer plane--is John Weiss, 10, of St. Clara's Orphanage. Behind him, left to right, are Airman Second Class Homer Jackson, Danny Miller, 12, and Ansell Torrez, 10. 200 Denver-Boulder orphans got a tour. The youngsters watched a fire-fighting demonstration, saw an action-filled motion picture and enjoyed an especially elaborate luncheon with officers in the mess hall.;
Well, Mom was long gone from St. Clara's by 1954, but I thought that these photos from St. Regis nearby might be kind of interesting for nostalgia watchers.
It is strange what you can find on the internet. I found this sketch by Dad that he submitted for publication to the Arcadia Tribune. Publication date was November 10, 1977. This was published in a small section called "Slice of Life," which you can see at the bottom right-corner of the page in that link.
Ever since Adam and
Eve had trouble sleeping' after they bit into that apple, people have been
seeking cures and remedies for insomnia. Countless suggestions, even more than
all the sheep you could possibly count trying to catch some sleep, have been
made. Some authorities suggest sipping warm milk before retiring. However, the
results are questionable. Also this milk method has never been accepted or
approved by Morpheus. Others insist insomnia can be
cured with a glass of wine in an attempt to seek sleep. This practice can
create problems. Oftentimes one glass is not sufficient for sleep, so
subsequent trips to the bottle are required. You'll sleep alright, but you
might end up at an Alcoholic Anonymous chapter. And if you were employed, your chances of standing in long lines at an unemployment agency are great. My suggestion is to discard the above suggestions and get on the tube.
Television is the cure. It's a lullaby--it lulls you to sleep. It's like a
narcotic and you will soon have a sound night's sleep. And there's no after
effects except for the electric bill. CHARLES WALGENBACH Duarte
It got
moved around a bit. This desk has seen better days. The desk comes
with a pane glass top. It was beautiful to look at when in Duarte for my
dad had placed family photos between the glass and desk top so it was always a
treat to study the images and faces in black and white and in color arranged just so across the desk. It filled my heart with wonder and pride and
joy. I loved it. My dad rarely worked at the desk. He used it
more to store office supplies and some valuable Marine paraphernalia. He
did keep a lamp and a radio on the desk fixed mostly on the classical
station. The lamp he kept on this desk was a vintage retro desk lamp,
similar to the one seen here.
This may not make sense
to too many folks. If you're viewing this on your smartphone it will make
even less sense. If you're viewing this on your laptop, then click on the
picture itself to enlarge it and see a fuller scale of the scene. There
is nothing hiding in the scene, no hidden squirrels or bears or deer
camouflaged anywhere. It's just that I liked the contrast of light.
I originally posted this back on August 27, 2014 at my original site of mycelestine.blogspot.com. I remember how delighted Dad was when he brought home an antique, 1930's school desk chair that he used as a kid when in school. He loved things that reminded him of his childhood. Maybe because he moved so much as a kid that his memory for things was so strong.
But as much as he loved this treasure, my mom was beside herself. Why would he want old things? What's he going to do with them? Where are we going to store it? It didn't last long. These desks, originals like the one in the picture, go for $325 today.
One Saturday morning I went with Dad and Marilyn down to Long Beach's Acres
of Books, 1960-2008. It was a huge used
book store with shelves to the ceiling, or so it seemed, and books stacked
everywhere. It was glorious. Anyway, as the three or four of us were getting lost in the store, I remember ferreting through a stack at a table
of books just down the aisle from my dad. And I heard him utter as loud
as he could in a quiet place, "Oh, my God I found it." "It"
was a reference to his grade school primer in which he had scrolled his name
"Billy Walgenbach" in elementary school. It was a book that had gotten away from
him. And here he was years later in a completely different town plucking
a piece of his property back from oblivion. I remember being amazed at
the serendipitous nature of it all. How random and what luck he had.
In 2007 I made several trips
to that store to buy books for the kids at Garfield. We were building a
classroom library, but I wanted to provide them with books that I thought would
be interesting. I remember I gave a copy of Michael Jordan's
autobiography to one kid and he was ecstatic, asking me "Sir, do I get to
keep this?" I said "It is yours." And I found several copies of Desmond Morris' The Naked Ape. I also found a few copies of his Baby Watching that I bought and handed out to a couple of the girls in class. I don't know, I guess in retrospect, the gesture could have been viewed by them as inappropriate. But at the time I loved his works. And his insights on children made me happy. The history of the book store, at least the history found at Wikipedia, is interesting.
The business was founded
in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1927 by Bertrand
Smith. In 1934 Smith moved to California and established the store in Long
Beach; he moved to the current address in 1960. Acres of Books was the largest
and oldest family-owned second-hand bookstore in California, claiming to have in
stock over one million books.
In 1959 Smith gave to the
people of Long Beach a collection of rare books, some dating back to the 15th
century. Included in the collection is a two volume facsimile of the Gutenberg Bible,
all of which is housed as part of the Loraine and Earl Burns Miller Special
Collections Room at the main branch of the Long Beach public library.
In 1990 Acres of Books was
designated a cultural heritage landmark by the City of Long Beach.
Acres of Books closed on
October 18, 2008.[1] The
owners have sold the 12,000-square-foot (1,100 m2) lot the store is located on to the Long Beach
Redevelopment Agency for $2.8 million.[2] Subsequently,
the Redevelopment Agency was dissolved by order of Governor Jerry Brown.
The site was proposed to be
developed as an art exchange, but the project seems to be moribund.
Here are some decent pics of the book store. And here is a decent personal essay by a local Long Beachean. Is that a word? And here's some news on the store before it sold. It does, as is in most cases when the local government gets involved, sound like there is some intrigue surrounding the business and the site of the store. Somebody, somewhere wanted that piece of real estate pretty bad and it sounds like the city forced the "cultural heritage landmark" designation on it and still the owners sold it. Don't get it. Here is something from LA Times writer, Tony Barboza. Is he a friend of Nick's?
The history of Acres of Books goes back
some eight decades to when bookseller Bertrand Smith moved from Ohio to Long
Beach and opened the shop in 1934. In 1960, he moved to the site on Long Beach
Boulevard, which previously housed a country-western dance hall and, before
that, a car showroom.
I liked so many things about this store. Its size, for one. I liked the checkout counter with the display glass that featured certain books, novels and classics and such. I liked the fact that it had two entrances, one on the north from the parking lot there and one at the west end of the store. I loved its openness that was limited to the room where the checkout stand was. The rest of the store was made up of narrow and carpeted trails between book cases and some dark alcoves where a wall or vent was exposed and only a bookcase or two, evidently a section that went mysteriously unfinished. No one ever sought to retrofit the bookcases. The owners bound the cases with a single two-by-four that arched across the aisle. It looked as bad as it sounds. The 2 x 4 ran at a 30-degree angle, which only put a question mark to the design of the place. Engineers they were not. Book emporium, few could aspire to such a title. But in many ways it was the lack of design that made people feel comfortable here. It was part garage, part basement occupied with all the intelligence and disinterest of an adolescent young man. The front light was quite nice at almost all times during the day. The store also sold some school supplies; apparently, used books didn't always cover the bills. But its history called forth more than that. As we've read, this place was partly hallowed by legends like Ray Bradbury, Eli Wallach, Diane Keaton, and, among others, myself, my father, and Marilyn D.
One of the things that
my dad really loved was Orowheat's Wheat Berry Bread. He'd use it for all of his sandwiches. He would include two slices of it toasted for his dinner, butter it, then slice the toast into finger-width slivers, making it the perfect finger-food. By itself it was terrific. That is what Dad could do is turn ordinary foods into cuisine and turn ordinary occurrences into events. Will never forget his famous 3-day old meatloaf sandwiches, where he'd place a couple of slices of meatloaf, mayonnaise, horseradish, and Grey Poupon dijon mustard on the sandwich. And before he'd wrap it up in tin foil, he'd place nearly a half of an onion and yellow peppers as condiments. Will never for the time when he, Chuck Pullman, and I drove down to San Diego one Saturday morning as Roger Miller's "King of the Road" played on the radio in Chuck's Buick.
I was in the back seat popping the diamond-shaped bubbles of his seat covers.
As to the old car seat covers, this is evocative of those covers and those days.
living in SoCal your legs stuck to 'em and felt like you ripped skin off getting out.
The comments are funny.
How about the summer times?!I remember people using them on their couches
too.
And this reply:
I never sat on them, so I can’t
relate to the skin peeling off in the summer heat, nor the cracking in the cold.
I was mainly thinking of protecting
the original upholstery more than anything else.
The old auto parts store, Western Auto, is mentioned in that article. I do recall the franchise. Their sign was blue and gold unless I am thinking of AAMCO. It was not much, pretty plain which I liked. Didn't realize that Western Auto was founded by the same guy who founded Pepperdine University out in Malibu. Now THAT IS interesting.
Western Auto Supply Company—known more widely as Western Auto—was a specialty retail chain of stores that supplied automobile parts and
accessories. It operated approximately 1200 stores across the United States and in Puerto Rico.[1] It
was started in 1909 in Kansas City, Missouri, by George Pepperdine, who
later founded Pepperdine University.[2]
Western Auto
was bought by Beneficial Corporation in
1961; Western Auto's management led a leveraged buyoutin
1985, leading three years later to a sale to Sears. Sears sold most of the company to Advance Auto Parts in
1998, and by 2003, the resulting merger had led to the end of the Western Auto
brand and its product distribution network.
Though I remember Western Auto, I think it belonged to the Sears brand. So if you bought a Sears battery you were getting a Western Auto battery. But Sears acquired Western Auto in 1988, the year that Dad left us. Today, Western Auto is Advanced Auto. I don't see too many of them here in Southern California, but they're all over Denver and the Front Range. Back to my story, as we wove south on Interstate 5 down through San Clemente I saw through the starlit, predawn hour the blue and white sign of International House of Pancakes illuminated off the highway.
Dad here has a gold plated medallion of the Virgin Mary around his neck, a gift from Marilyn who picked it up in Egypt on her travels there. He loved that medallion. The photo has to be 1985 or 1986. On the stove
behind them is Dad's pot of chili. On the bar is the most recent LA Times
with the sections stacked. On Mom's pink tiled counter-top is Dad's
signature 7-Up. Dad was so proud of his Virgin Mary medallion. Chuck was
so happy and proud to be in my dad's orbit. In the cabinet behind them
at the left always hung a catholic calendar.
And, boy, could I smells those pancakes. But it wasn't just the pancakes that I loved about IHOP. It was the restaurant itself. In my mind, it was an old-world, German bakery/restaurant, and I wanted all the comfort and exclusivity of such a place. I asked dad if we could stop to eat. He replied, "Soon." In lieu of the aromatic pancakes, hot syrup, and bacon at IHOP, he extracted from a brown paper bag on the floor between his feet a cube of tinfoil folded and wrinkled and offered it to me. I took it. In the early morning shadows, I peeled back the tinfoil to find a sandwich made of Orowheat Wheat Berry bread piled high with 3-day old meatloaf, cold mashed potatoes, mayonnaise, and Dijon mustard with horseradish.
Would I? Would I really bite into this concoction that was made by the loving hands of my father? I would. I tell that story just to illustrate how he viewed certain food items as healthy food. And compared to white bread, wheatberry was healthier. That is until the bread companies began using enriched wheat where the germ was removed.
Then Orowheat added honey to make Orowheat Honey Wheat Berry Bread. And though he loved this bread, too, it was not as healthy. It was tastier, it was sweeter, but not healthier.
Dad was health-conscious in his retirement years. At least in retirement, his favorite cereal was Kellogg's Cracklin' Oats. Though
I don't remember what year it was, I do remember that he quit smoking cold turkey. He smoked Tareytons almost exclusively.
And
he really enjoyed dining out at the Seafood Broiler in Glendale. It had
to be in Glendale. Glendale is where my dad's friends lived. Nora almost lived in Glendale in Burbank. Marilyn and Frank moved to Glendale from Sherman Oaks. They lived at 13633 Morrison Street, one block north of Notre Dame High School where I, Tom, and Joe would go and play tennis or basketball. Her home was elegant. The front room had a recessed section closer to the back sliding glass door. And Marilyn and Frank kept a little library of sorts. I remember reading their copy of Guinness' Book of World Record, learning about a bearded lady and thought how awful that must have been. You can see an external picture of their home here and a map of its location is below. I remember watching an episode of the Saturday Evening Movie on CBS with Ralph Story introducing the movie. He had a terrific voice, one that resonated both with the WWII folks and Baby Boomers. I remember that Dad bought a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken while we were at their house. And I remember that Frank smoked cigars. Those were great days. Me, Tom, Joe, and Dad stayed with Frank and Marilyn one summer down in the scalding environs of Palm Springs back in 1972 or thereabouts. We played doubles tennis in the morning, ate, then for a short swim before we made back inside. But I do remember walking a few blocks to a store and back and how it felt like I was walking in a . . . well . . . a desert. I recall the vapors rising off the asphalt road. It is a good memory.
I mean if
I had to find a photo of one of the spots of my old stomping grounds it would
be this one. Citrus College parking lot. I loved my time here right out of the
gate from Duarte High School. I showed up here and the first class that I
really enjoyed was Business Law. I loved the textbook. I loved how it was
written and how it read. It was, in fact, one of the first things that I
had read that I loved. I mean I loved Jerry West's biography Zeek From
Cabin Creek. I loved the Hardy Boys series. And though I didn't
love The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe read in Mr. Carr's class, it did get
me to think, and I liked that. Next, it was John Steinbeck's The Grapes of
Wrath. And though I thought that his writing was beautiful, which it was,
the story didn't really blow my hair back if you know what I mean. But
this shot of Citrus warms me to no end. First, I will never forget the
guys I met at Citrus. There was a guy by the name of Dennis. No,
not Dennis the Menace. This guy was a decent guy, a professional guy who
helped me make my way through the scheduling and application process. With
a little help from my friends is such a great line and a true line. This
is how life works. And in this sense, life can and does take care of
itself. Sort of . . . . Sadly, I don't recall my teachers'
names. My Business Law professor, I liked a lot. My American
History class and teacher I liked a lot. About that class, I will never
forget an older couple, meaning older than 18, maybe in their early 30s, who
came to class unshowered and smelly. Their clothes were tattered.
But they showed up to history quite regularly. And held meaningful
classroom discussion with other students and the professor. Looking back
on it, those days were really interesting. I'd had at least two English
classes that I'd remember.
In one, we
were assigned Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. No book ever or since has
gripped me. It scared me, to say the least.
And when I saw the movie, In Cold Blood, with Robert Blake, the truth of the story only made me sick. Perhaps the worst of it was
due to the fact that I liked his character in Baretta. Wikipedia
remembers the details:
Detective Anthony Vincenzo "Tony" Baretta is an unorthodox
plainclothes cop (badge #609) with the 53rd precinct, who lives with Fred, his
Triton sulphur-crested
cockatoo, in apartment 2C at the
run-down King Edward Hotel in an unnamed, fictional city. A master of disguise,
Baretta wore many while performing his duties. When not working he usually wore
a short-sleeve sweatshirt, casual slacks, a brown suede jacket, and a newsboy
cap.
In one
English class, the professor called the class illiterates. Yeah,
probably. I remember telling Ann Douzadjian, co-owner with her husband Jack of Steamboat Fried Chicken in Duarte, that and she was appalled that a teacher would say such a thing. Strange the details that we recall, eh? There was a
classmate who was complaining to me about his mother-in-law. He was
complaining because he was struggling with the decision to put her in a home, a
convalescent home, an old-folks' home. It shocked me. I could never
imagine anyone doing any such things to one's mother or mother-in-law.
But just as interesting, if not more so, was the Citrus College
cafeteria. It was the first and only place I'd ever witness a young man
have an epileptic seizure. Not his most dignified moment, that's for
sure. But as school grew to become aimless, like every other school
program, I began to spend more time in the Cafeteria in the morning hours where
many of us would play pinball. Yep, pinball. Pinball and
cards. Hearts. I'll never forget that it was the first time that
I'd heard Neil Young's Heart of Gold play on the jukebox there.
Paul Parker
was there. He was a fixture in my life since the 10th grade, since
meeting him in the handball courts behind the boys' gym at Duarte High
School.
Though this
is not by far the best picture of Paul, it is the only one I have. Paul was and is one of the more talented men I knew. In my mind, his dad was a sportsman's fisherman, who knew the spots, knew the bait, the set-up, simply knew the territory of any fishing spot on the planet. That was one of my great pleasures fishing with Paul was to hear the stories he'd tell of him fishing with his dad as the two of us would be tunneling our way through thick brush then down the cliff of a mountain just to secure a lone spot on the shore of the San Gabriel Dam. Paul was a dashing young man who won the eyes and the hearts of the ladies, but he was also a talented businessman, artist, and friend. Will never forget his love for John Denver and how he used to play Mountain High in Colorado. I'd listen to this with him in his room growing up as I'd eye his famous hat rack with headgear for every sport from red and black hunting caps to camouflage military styled hunting hats. He was a man's man. Was a privilege to have had those hours with him. We went on a few great fishing trips as well--to the Sierras once with just me and him. We went to Pleasant Valley Reservoir and fished the Owens feeding the reservoir from Bishop Power Plant in Birchim Canyon where Lower Rock Creek and the Owens River from the west side of the reservoir. I took this shot while he and I were fishing on the San
Gabriel River right where Highway 39 bends in the road there to head up into
the canyon.
So Paul wasn't just any friend. He was a great friend. I got to know his family. Went on my very first double date with Paul with a couple of sisters, whom I thought were from Colombia but maybe from Brazil. The gal I went out with was Rosemary. Her perfume sent me. Wow! There was no other guy in Duarte whom I trusted more. I do remember how he admired Gary Fenimore or Feniman, who lived down on Fish Canyon and had a pointing English Springer Spaniel. Loved those days of Duarte, the days when you'd see two friends walking down toward the San Gabriel Valley Gun Club, where my two brothers Joe and Chuck worked for a spell. Those were the days when kids would walk down the street with shotguns draped on their shoulders and no one hardly noticed other than to declare their intention for going shooting at the gun club. Beautiful days those. There was a section out at the Riverbed called the Bowl. It was a loop carved out in the bambooed section of the Riverbed just north of Fish Canyon Drive. Will never forget Dana Butters who owned a falcon or a hawk and celebrated and represented falconry quite well. This was interesting. Go about a third of the way down and you'll find this entry:
Dana Butters of Duarte received the Monrovia Rock Hounds Geology Scholarship.
Area students receive awards Dana Butters of Duarte and Christopher G. Johnson. Laurie Valadez and Theodore Takao Inouye of Monrovia have received scholarships while attending Citrus College. Miss Butters [clearly, that writer does not know Mr. Butters] received the Monrovia Rock Hounds Geology scholarship; Johnsons earned a grant to USC; Miss Valadez was awarded a scholarship to Cal State Northride and Inouye received a grant to
Another guy who hung out with us, playing cards, was a guy by
the name of Martinez. I remember him because he didn't like me too much;
in fact, he punched me in the chest one time, not hard, more to get me out of
his way, before he stormed off. He was losing in pinball and he was a
terrible loser. Besides being angry all the time, I do not know what he
was good at.
There was a gal who visited occasionally that I liked. Her name was
Dana. One of the guys asked me which of the girls in the cafeteria I
liked, and I pointed to Dana. So sure enough one of the guys called her
over from her table and the guys proceeded to tell her that this guy, meaning
me, has a crush on her. And it is true I did. So some idiot asks
her which of the guys here did she like, and she announced that it was
Martinez, the sore loser. It crushed me. But only for a day.
There were other women who hung around us there.
I didn't meet Scott Nelson from Ontario, Canada until much later. But
once I did, he and I used to hang around. He with Jacques from The Netherlands. Scott, in fact, played ping pong at our house in Duarte back in the late '70s. There was an unforgettable moment when a bunch of us were out in my '70's, green VW Bug. We had probably been drinking a few imported beer at Scott and Jacques' apartment in Azusa before we all piled into my Volkswagen and drove over to the bowling alley that used to be behind the Foothill Drive-In. Will never forget that. We may have been listening to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon 8-track, for I remember that Jacques loved that. Here is the soundtrack list, tunes that today only bring me great regret. The songs on the track that I liked were Time, Money,
Pink Floyd
tended to depress me. But my Jethro Tull Aqualung 8-track was my one and
true treasure for those days.
These are the lyrics that served as an anthem to my youth.
Sitting on a park bench
Eying little girls with bad intent
Snots running down his nose
Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes, hey, Aqualung
Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run, hey, Aqualung
Feeling like a dead duck
Spitting out pieces of his broken luck, oh, Aqualung
Sun streaking cold, an old man
wandering lonely
Taking time, the only way he knows
Leg hurting bad as he bends to pick a dog end
He goes down to a bog and warms his feet
Feeling alone, the army's up the road
Salvation a la mode and a cup of tea
Aqualung, my friend, don't you start away uneasy
You poor old sod, you see it's only me
Do you still remember
December's foggy freeze
When the ice that clings on to your beard
It was screaming agony
Hey and you snatch your rattling last
breaths
With deep-sea diver sounds
And the flowers bloom like
Madness in the spring
Sun streaking cold, an old man
wandering lonely
Taking time, the only way he knows
Leg hurting bad as he bends to pick a dog end
He goes down to a bog and warms his feet
Feeling alone, the army's up the road
Salvation a la mode and a cup of tea
Aqualung my friend don't you start away uneasy
You poor old sod, you see it's only me
Aqualung my friend don't you start
away uneasy
You poor old sod, you see it's only me
Sitting on a park bench
Eying up little girls with bad intent
Snots running down his nose
Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes, hey Aqualung
Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run, hey Aqualung
Feeling like a dead duck
Spitting out pieces of his broken luck, hey Aqualung
Oh Aqualung
I also liked
Skating Away on the Thin Ice of the New Day. And, of course, Fat Man was terrific. Like I said, this 8-track greatly consoled me and my loneliness in those years wandering aimlessly from Citrus. And so it goes. I would be remiss if I didn't mention the sports that I played here. Not for Citrus but with Duarte fellows. We played Sunday football games in the stadium with Paul Parker. I used to run bleachers here with Al Madrigal. We got in great shape for the local pick-up games in Irwindale, El Monte, and elsewhere.
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