SKOOL DAZE

 I left California when I was in my early thirties. Transplanted myself in the Missouri Ozarks, West Texas, and now Tennessee.

When I abandoned California, I was really surprised to learn that school started in August in many places. I consider August to be the pinnacle of summer. School?? Never!
When I was a kid in Southern California school always started in mid-September, usually around the 15th. September in Southern Cal is almost always the hottest month of the year. Blisteringly hot.

 I vividly remember the September when I started seventh grade. I was only eleven years old (I began first grade at the age of four - - at Rutgers Prep, the posh private school in New Jersey). 

My seventh grade school was Dale Junior High in Anaheim, California. The first day that school started there was a horrific heat wave. The brutal desert Santa Ana winds blew in and the temperature soared to 115 degrees (Fahrenheit). It stayed that way for nearly a week.

Dale Junior High as it looks today.
There were absolutely no trees around when I attended school there - only a few palm trees across the street.

 

Back then in ancient times, nobody catered to kids. Despite the searing heat, the schools never shut down. I had to walk over two miles (one way) to school. No buses on my route. No rides. 

The heat was so intense that we really didn't have any constructive classes. There was no air-conditioning. Our teachers would open the doors and all the windows and turn out the lights. We'd swelter in a dark classroom, using wet paper towels to try to keep cool.

I think walking home was the worst part. I was so desperately dehydrated that I nearly passed out. If you think 100 degrees is hot, you should experience 115 on a long walk when you're eleven years old.

Come to think of it - during all my school years, I never rode the bus. I always walked - from second grade through my senior year.

Change of subject, sort of

I also never ate in the school cafeteria, not once. I always brought my lunch. In second grade I had a "farmer" lunch pail. It was shaped like a barn. Later I progressed to a Flintstones lunch box (heaven help us). After that, my mind's a blank. I think I brought all subsequent lunches in a brown paper bag.

A rather unflattering photo of me, probably age six, in Glendora, California -  showing off my new barnyard lunch pail (was my hair really that light?).

I didn't look like a child when I was six. I resembled a CEO or something. The children at Rutgers Prep in NJ were dressed meticulously. In California it was  more casual.....

....but Dale Junior High had a strict dress code when I was there.

Years later, when I was a student piano teacher in behalf of Cypress College, two of my young pupils were brothers who attended Dale Junior High. The crime in that school was so rampant that their mother removed them from Dale JH and placed them in a Catholic school.

Nowadays anything goes. Kids show up in schools with tattoos, nose rings, tattered jeans - - and that's just the girls.

Civil society has diminished into absolute trash.

Jon 💚  yearning for the old days

Afterthought

Ever since I (erroneously) announced that my blog would be discontinued, readership dwindled. The general consensus was that I'd croak and be done with.

My blog post reruns (like this one) seem to inspire even more of a mass exodus.

But I plan to remain, eternally bewitching you with my mesmeric magic.

I can't resist.

 

ECHOES OF DISTANT SUMMERS

  Note:

I re-post this at the end of every summer.
Why?
Because I like it.   Jon

 Dwelling continuously in the past is for idle dreamers. Occasionally visiting the past can be nourishment for a hungry soul.

 

There are times when I can close my eyes and make the distance of years melt away......

..... and suddenly I'm on the beach again, young and exuberant, immersed in the drowsy haze of a summer afternoon where the silver glare of sky and water mingle as one, where the soft sand burns my bare feet, and the salty scent of the ocean intoxicates my senses. The soothing, eternal roar of the waves seem to echo like the song of a shell pressed against my ear.

 I cherish those summers of distant memories, because now - - in the present purgatory of a different time and place, in the subtle shadows of my rapidly dwindling existence - - I fully appreciate their value. 

Memories often tend to assume halcyon proportions and our distant pasts sometimes seem better than they really were. Careful scrutiny of my past, however, confirms the fact that it did indeed harbor the best times of my life.

There is a fierce pang of sadness wedged in the heart of my memories, because what I miss most is the innocence and the optimism - - two precious things that I will never have again.

I was fortunate enough to have divided my youthful summers between the west coast and the east coast. 

I lived in Southern California which, in my biased opinion, was the greatest place on earth. I also spent summers on the east coast, the Jersey shore, where most of my relatives were. I was particularly partial to the Pacific Ocean, because it was my territory - - but the Atlantic had its own mesmeric powers. The Pacific - always blue, placid, inviting. The Atlantic - greenish gray, remote, moody.

 West Coast

In California, in Orange County, we lived less than five miles from the beach and it was an integral part of my life. I was well-acquainted with all the beach communities up the coast:
Laguna, Newport, Huntington, Bolsa Chica, Sunset, Seal Beach. 

Huntington Beach was the closest. Sometimes I'd ride my bike there. Occasionally I'd hitch a ride. All the kids hitched on Beach Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway.....long ago when things seemed safe.

 The Huntington Beach Pier

Long, hot summer days languishing in the sand at Huntington, absorbing the perpetual sunshine. Eating corn dogs & "strips" (fried tortilla strips with a mild hot sauce). Drinking Cactus Coolers (an orange-pineapple soft drink that I think still exists). Always swimming. Sometimes surfing. Enduring sunburns and jellyfish stings. 


Midnight bonfires, moonlit walks on the beach when the Grunion were running. Haunting the deserted pier at Seal Beach after midnight. Sailing with friends at Newport Beach on languid, carefree afternoons. Visiting Balboa Island and Catalina Island.

Later, when I had wheels, I'd drive to the beach or go with friends. Day or night, it was my most sacred refuge. 


Sudden flashback:
Driving with my best friend Mike in his red convertible Mustang along Pacific Coast Highway at sunset on the 4th of July. Stereo blaring, the evening alive with magic. Dazzling explosions of fireworks igniting every mile of the shore. The air warm and salty, heavy with the pungent sulfuric smell of  smoke.

  Years later I was best man at Mike's wedding. Marriage inevitably has a way of severing friendships and expunging the exuberance of youth. We lost contact long ago. The carefree days linger like taunting ghosts at the edge of our memories....

The Jersey Shore

East Coast

The east coast was always a blessed escape from unrelenting family problems and my father's insane violence.

I loved the colorful, comforting chaos of being alone in New York City: walking barefooted in Central Park, discovering museums, visiting Lincoln Center. Getting drunk in a sleazy Staten Island bar with my cousin Nancy and her husband Jim. Drinking was a new novelty to me then ( Nancy wasn't fond of drinking, but Jim and I got smashed).

Horseback riding with my cousin Nancy on early August evenings in the balmy New Jersey countryside. Boating along the Jersey coast and into New York Harbor (several of my relatives had boats). Watching the moon rise from the water in a sultry surrealistic haze. Long walks on the beach at Sandy Hook. Exploring the boardwalks at Asbury Park and Seaside Heights.

Asbury Park, New Jersey
 

Our once-large family has now dwindled drastically. The relatives are all dead, except for my cousins. Friends have vanished. And lovers. All those whom I truly cherished only remain in faded ghost memories, where distant voices still echo with warmth and laughter......

....and those golden summers linger tenderly in the recesses of my mind:  carefree times when the invincibility of youth deceived us into believing that life is eternal - -

- - where distant memories echo like the taunting pulse of a delicate whisper in a seashell pressed to my ear.

Jon V.

STARSTRUCK

It's nearly impossible to be raised in Southern California and not - in at least some small way - be affected by the movie industry. I was profoundly affected.

The distance of years and a semblance of maturity have slightly diminished my youthful enthusiasm for Hollywood, yet it still lingers with enduring persistence.

I was six years old when my family moved to California. At that long-ago time, remnants of Hollywood's golden past still lingered. The original Brown Derby restaurant was doing a brisk business on Wilshire Boulevard. Ciro's and the Coconut Grove were still hot night spots.

Movie stars were often out and about and sometimes accessible. We saw Harpo Marx on Hollywood Boulevard and Debbie Reynolds at the (then famous) Farmer's Market. I met comedian Henny Youngman on Olvera Street (the famed touristy Mexican street in L.A.) when I was a kid. In my sublime youthful ignorance I'd never heard of him - but got his autograph anyway.

 My father and I were stowaways in a wagon, on the set of Wagon Train somewhere in the Mojave Desert

As a child I had the privilege of seeing numerous TV shows being filmed on location (a friend of our family worked in the industry). Most notably I remember the movie ranch owned by stuntman/actor Ray "Crash" Corrigan, which was located in the Simi Valley, nestled in the scenic foothills of the Santa Susana Mountains.

Later known as Corriganville, it was in active use from the 1930's until around 1965. Hundreds of cowboy movies were filmed there and many TV shows including Gunsmoke, Rawhide, the Cisco Kid, Rin Tin Tin, the Lone Ranger, etc. 
Unfortunately, all the movie sets were destroyed by a series of fires in the 1970's.

Me, age six or seven, inspecting an ancient fire engine on a movie set

My father snapped this photo while a feisty actor from Gunsmoke drew his six-shooter on me (I don't remember the actor's name)

 That's me in front of the fort which was used in the 1948 movie Fort Apache (that was before my time...) and many other movies.

 Here's a photo of the fort taken while they were filming the movie

 

 I never had any aspirations to be an actor or to work in the film industry, but I was still intrigued with it.

When I was in my 20's (and early 30's) I spent a lot of time in Hollywood and had the opportunity to mingle with some of the bigwigs. I met many stars - including John Wayne, Groucho Marx, Shelley Winters, Sammy Davis Jr., Raquel Welch, Cher, Ann Miller, Patty Duke, George Burns, Zsa Zsa Gabor (to name only a few).

Just for the heck of it, I also did a few stints as a movie extra and worked on such enormously forgettable pictures as Malibu Beach and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.

I probably shouldn't ruin my sterling reputation by mentioning this (big *smile* inserted here), but I knew a fairly well-known director of adult films and was on the sets of a few porn movies - including one on location near the old Spahn Movie Ranch, where notorious Charles Manson and his murderous hippie gang used to live.
I even had an offer to be in a gay porn flick but declined. Despite ugly rumors to the contrary, I do have a small semblance of pride and dignity.....

My main interest, of course, was music and I exclusively concentrated on my work as a pianist. 
Yet, my fascination with the film industry later inspired me when I was a freelance writer. I published many articles about Hollywood history (with an emphasis on the silent era). My foremost objective for writing was to resurrect the memory of forgotten stars and films.

My present existence as an impoverished semi-hermit in the Tennessee wilderness is very far removed from my California youth. My Hollywood memories linger tauntingly like echoes of a faded dream.

I cherish them.

 

Note:
this is a rehash from a previous blog post

PARADE

The Tournament of Roses Parade in 1903

Horse-drawn carriage covered in pampas grass

The Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena, California, is traditionally held on January 1st. It's also traditionally never held on a Sunday - so this year the 128th edition of the parade was presented on Monday, the 2nd of January.

You'd have to live in Southern California to understand what a mega event this parade used to be. It ranked right up there with the annual Hollywood Oscars ceremony.

I've seen the parade live several times, worked as a volunteer putting flowers on the floats (never again...) and - one New Year's Day morning, in the throes of a nasty hangover - I took a wrong turn off the freeway and accidentally wound up in Pasadena just when the parade was about to start. I still get nightmares remembering the traffic congestion and chaos.

When I was a kid, the Tournament of Roses Parade mostly consisted of floats filled with massive flowers and babes in swim suits - - and high school marching bands.

Nowadays, the buxom babes are scarce, the floats are much more creative and intricately crafted - - and there are still endless processions of high school marching bands.

By the way - the floats are all decorated with real flowers, plants, spices, and things such as beans, bark, and seeds.

Truth to tell, I was never particularly fond of parades, but I watched the Rose Parade Monday morning on KTLA live-stream - and a rush of California memories overtook me.

 Tournament of Roses Parade in 1917

A few floats from the 2017 parade

"Real California Milk"

the California Milk Advisory Board

"Prosperity in the Wild"

sponsored by the Western Asset Management Company 

The Surfing Dogs Float 

Sponsored by the Lucy Pet Foundation

is the longest, heaviest float in parade history.

126 feet long, with an 8,000 gallon tank of water, a total weight of 74 tons. And eight surfing dogs.

Truthfully, I don't know how the driver of the float ever made that perilous turn - - since he can't see where he's navigating. He has to rely solely on computer technology and the guidance of "spotters" stationed on the float.

Simmered in Tradition
sponsored by Ragu

 When the Cat's Away, the Mice Play

One of my personal favorite floats, sponsored by the city of Sierra Madre. I liked the revolving stack of tea cups. But I can't figure out why there are two Alice in Wonderlands on the float.

Okay, it's time for a confession:
This post was never intended to be solely about the Rose Parade. I got completely side-tracked.

I had planned on writing about my memories of winter in Southern California. Since this post is already annoyingly long, I'll save my initial intentions until next time.

I'm sure you'll be waiting with breathless anticipation..... 

BTW -
The Blogger Gremlins have been screwing up my attempts to center these photos properly and put the captions underneath them. Blame Blogger for any errors that you see.

ENCHANTMENT

I got a request on my previous post from blogger John Gray of Going Gently 
He wants to see a photo of the painting that is hanging above my cat Bosco:

Well, it is actually an antique poster of a 1913 painting by Maxfield Parrish, entitled Enchantment. This particular poster is an advertisement for Edison Mazda light bulbs. 

The original painting is on my header photo, and this is my poster:

 I specifically hung this poster above my bed, because if it falls off the wall and hits me while I'm sleeping it will do only minimal damage (it's framed under sturdy lightweight acrylic). 

I once had a heavy oil painting above my bed. It fell one night and nearly killed me.

I've had this poster since I was eighteen yrs. old and it brings back lots of fond memories. I bought it in an antique shop on Hollywood Boulevard. I loved it at first sight and......these many years later I still love it. It's one of the very few things I have left from my Hollywood days.

My diaries and journals are lost, most of my photos are gone. I'm left with only memories of an incredible time and a fantastic place -  when I was adventurous, reckless, enthusiastic, outgoing. A far cry from the introverted hermit that I've become. 

I also still have this antique owl, that I bought in another small shop on Hollywood Boulevard.

  
 I had kept the owl on my desk for years. One time long ago, in a blind (and uncharacteristic) moment of rage, I threw it at somebody. It hit the wall and broke apart at the base. I managed to glue it back together and it has endured all these years.

Another of my Hollywood momentos is an antique Turkish hashish pipe made of brass and wood - which I actually used. It might still be around somewhere, packed away. I haven't looked for it.

So why am I mentioning all of this crap? 

Tonight as I look at these token relics of the past, I'm thinking of those long-ago times. And I can almost smell the cool, damp air of a misty California autumn night - when I haunted the after-midnight streets of Hollywood.....

....when I smoked Kool cigarettes and sometimes hash, when I swigged whiskey from a pint bottle that I kept in my coat, and popped occasional quaaludes, when I had a switchblade stashed down the side of my boot....when I thrived on adventure, and was always ready for a sexual encounter....

It was a different time, in a world infinitely far away from where I am now, and I miss it immensely.

 One of the very few photos left, taken when I first went to Hollywood. It was used in a local periodical, in an article about West Hollywood musicians. I was still pathetically skinny - wearing a loose-fitting shirt from India. I also had on the boots in which I kept the switchblade.

This started out about a poster and somehow got lost in a ramble of memories. But for me it was a satisfying ramble.

Am I living in the past?

Nope. But I'm sure as hell missing it.

 

FOG AND WILD DOGS

Nearly every morning the mountains are shrouded with gentle fog. It lingers in the canyons and weaves listlessly among the naked branches of trees.

I lie in bed and watch it from the window, feeling peaceful and content. Fog was extremely rare in Texas, and when it did appear it held no beauty or magical ambiance. The fog here in Tennessee reminds me of Southern California fog and ignites fond memories. 

In Orange County, near the beach, the mornings always started out foggy before the sun broke through. I remember those yawning mornings when I'd get up insanely early to go to college. I had to drive past Los Alamitos Race Track and I'd often stop to watch the horses being exercised. 

After arriving on campus I'd head for the music department and climb the three flights of stairs to the rehearsal rooms. I'd get a cup of coffee and then start playing one of the pianos - - while occasionally watching the gentle somber fog weave past the windows.

So many pleasant memories from the faded past.......

Tonight, here in the mountains, I'm in the kitchen cooking an impromptu dinner. The silence is suddenly interrupted by a disturbingly loud clamor of barking and howling dogs. Wild dogs. They roam everywhere late at night, creating a ruckus and igniting bone-chilling fear. 

They are extremely close to the house this time, quite near the back porch. I have a flimsy back door and a very over-sized kitchen window. I can see about a dozen dogs scurrying by and I'm slightly unnerved.

Slightly unnerved?? Hell, I'm scared shitless.

My big cat Kitzee (also known as Scratch) jumps up on a box to watch them. I'm hoping the dogs don't make a leap for the window when they see her.

I snap a quick photo with my digital camera - just for posterity.......

Fortunately the dogs pass by very quickly. The wild ruckus fades away and soon the night is silent again.

Just an average night in the wilderness.

Kitzee, watching the wild dogs

from the kitchen window.

I plan to post another story about my sordid youthful adventures very soon. Just thought I'd mention it, to pique your interest.

Hey, Jon, it'll take more than that to pique their interest.

Heck, that's what you think.

RUMORS OF PARADISE

It's a gorgeous Tennessee morning: 
light snow, frigid temperatures, a sharp, crisp wind. A trio of whitetail deer bounded across my back yard and gracefully leaped a fence. Where is my camera when I need it? 

I'm drinking a cup of tea and unpacking a box of books. I found a volume of my poetry that was published long ago. One particular poem, Seventh Winter, caught my eye. I haven't seen it in aeons. It was written when I was only nineteen years old and depicts winter in Southern California when I was seven.

Reading it again has ignited a surge of memories - - and a poem that I previously never cared about suddenly seems alive and almost endearing.

Seventh Winter

Long after the others sleep
I lie awake counting
the frost-bitten stars
that fill my window, listening
to the dry rustle of palm trees
against a desert wind.
The stars shiver and blink,
as if long-ago lives
still watch from a distant place.
Last week near the boxcars
they found an old man's body
wrapped in layers of newspaper,
gnarled hands
still clasped in prayer.
Now the Mexican children
leave the fields early,
going home before dusk
in groups of no less than three.
Tonight the smudge pots are lighted,
smoking furiously
between fat rows of orange trees
as though cold January had not
already picked through the leaves
and ravaged every fruit.
Beyond the groves
restless dogs shred the night
with lean howls,
threatening the moon,
knowing that dawn will come
too late.

by Jon V.
from Dreams of Escape


Truth has never escaped my poetry. I remember the events clearly: 

the chilly winter nights, the nearby orange groves - - fruit glazed with frost, the acrid smell of eternally smoking smudge pots, the gentle wind rustling through the tops of palm trees.....the Mexican migrant workers....
..... the old man, found dead among newspapers in the boxcar. The mournful whistle of late-night freight trains.....

Smudge pots burning all night

in a feeble attempt to keep

the oranges from freezing

My parents moved to Southern California when I was five. We lived in Glendora (the first of many places) which is located in the gentle foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.

At the time, it was as close to paradise as anybody could get. I lived in Southern California for nearly thirty years and can attest to the fact that rumors of paradise were no exaggeration.

An idealized scene

which wasn't at all far from the truth

My early introduction to California was steeped in the stuff that dreams are made of. The fact that it was viewed through the eyes of an imaginative child did not fictionalize the absolute perfection of the environment.

Our house was surrounded by orange groves.  I'd pick the huge, fragrant navel oranges and eat them right from the trees. There was an abundance of lemon trees, persimmons trees, avocado and walnut trees. The ripe walnuts, with their hard green shells, would fall on our roof....the occasional plunk, plunk,plunk was a sound that we were used to day and night.

There were seemingly endless rows of tall, majestic date palms everywhere - - and vast fields of the biggest, most magnificent strawberries I've ever tasted. Beyond the orange groves loomed the mountains, and  distant snow-capped Mount Baldy was a very familiar sight.

Colorful, fragrant flowers abounded - - roses, poppies, lilac, calliopsis, hollyhocks, gardenias, geraniums, bird of paradise.
And if the winter had been a particularly wet one, the desert flowers in early spring would be breathtaking.

The mountains, the desert, the ocean. The Great Southland offered an intoxicating array of unforgettable experiences.

This scene is so typical of my childhood memories

Southern California has a way of spoiling people. Once you've experienced it, no other place can possibly compare. At least that's how it used to be.

Life has changed drastically since I was a child and the things I loved the most about California have largely vanished - - or at least been corrupted beyond salvation.

To be brutally honest, I was corrupted beyond salvation during my wild & reckless years in Hollywood - but I admittedly loved every minute of it. It was an adventure beyond all others, and a lifestyle that few people were privileged to experience.

It was the other side of Southern California.

I left California when I was thirty-four and never looked back. I was burned out and yearning for new adventures. In retrospect, California didn't burn me out - - my destructive lifestyle did. My years in California were the golden years, the very best of my life, and I treasure them.

Why didn't you ever go back, Jon?

 Despite being a hardcore sentimentalist, I've never had a desire to repeat the past. It's a complete impossibility. I can only savor the memories and the delicious rumors of the paradise that I once knew.

Downtown Glendora, looking almost exactly as it did

when I lived there. My Mom and I often walked downtown

and shopped in the stores on this very street.

San Gabriel Mountains in the background.

Was this post to long? Hell, no........