The Ultimate Stage Mother

Me as the original "Bunny"

I will have to admit, my mother was the ultimate 'Stage Mother' from the day I arrived here on earth until she realized I would never, ever become a famous movie star, in fact not even a bit player. 

Like all babies, my photo was taken over and over by my father and of course by the local baby-photographer.  One such formal photo was entered in a 'Beautiful Baby' contest and mine won the first prize of a Blue Ribbon.  Maybe that was not such a good omen after all.

         
Mother soon entered me in the local dance-tumbling school for children toddlers and up.  I did somersaults, splits, back-bends and more which were lots of fun.  Soon I was learning to tap-dance in a lineup of other toddlers getting ready for our first  family attended recital.   As long as I watched the others in the lineup I managed to keep in step which must have impressed my parents enough to let me continue the classes.

         
Since mother was such an adept seamstress (only working for her own pleasure, not for an income) she created costumes fit for a movie star.  I guess you could say I was the very first official 'Bunny" as I was entered in the Fox Theater movie auditions in Pomona, California.  None of the other kids in the dance class had such a costume.  But of course there was a one-on-one interview and mother's hopes were let down when I was too shy to audibly answer questions.  I was four years old.

         
Apparently I had encouraged the audition by my solo tap-dance in a Little Dutch Girl costume mother had created and my dance teacher had urged mother:  "Do sign her up for the Fox Theater audition."  At least this allowed my parents to agree for continued dance lessons.  There followed the Mexican Hat Dance solo at age five, a costume that at age seven won me a first prize on Halloween at the local roller skating rink.  It was a ceramic lamp that my little sister kicked over years later and it broke in a million pieces.
         
My next exciting performance was on the stage in the Agriculture building  at the  Los Angeles County  Fair Grounds wearing mother's creation of a Rumba Costume. That performance went down in history as a total flop since I left the stage in the middle.  Mother must have been doing her best not to be angry:  "It's alright, everyone thought you were real cute."  I'm not so sure about that.
         
Did mother give up?  Not in your life!  Since my father's sister Helen was married to the doctor on set for Shirley Temple it was bound to happen that mother would convince Auntie Helen to make appointments at the various movie studio audition offices.  My father drove me to Los Angeles (quite a trip in those days all the way from Pomona prior to freeways) and I stayed in a hotel room with my Auntie the night before the auditions.  The traffic noise on the street below, the neon lights flickering off and on, and the sound of the then electric-street-cars along the tracks proved to be a restless night for both of us.  I awakened in the morning with my legs wrapped around Auntie's neck, a story she repeated to me again and again over the years following.
         

Age 4 

The day of the auditions seems as if it was yesterday.  As a five year old I was mortified to say the least.  The old, fat men who handled the auditions and the overly made up women who sat at the reception desks were enough to scare anyone, especially a kid.  Each audition my Auntie would sit in the waiting room. "Jean, you have to speak up when you're asked questions."  After repeating this routine several times, I finally got up my nerve.  When I left that audition, the last one of the day, Auntie said: "Betty Jean, I didn't mean you had to yell."

 

That last audition did impress a little.  Not long after, a talent scout came to our house at 1175 West Forth Street bringing a child size chair, little table and play telephone.  Again and again, the phone would ring and I had to answer and repeat what he told me to say.  After several replays, he told mother something like:  "Don't call us, we'll call you."  Oh well, I did get to keep the props and I was really glad the ordeal was over.  Did mother give up?  No, she just changed to the idea that I might become a famous musician thus the piano teacher, Miss Egg, followed by the Clarinet teacher and finally my cousin teaching me to play the trumpet which at least afforded me to be in the Fremont School Marching Band and a one-time participant in the famous Rose Bowl Parade in Pasadena.  Lastly, I tried out for a part in a stage play at Fremont Jr. High School, however didn't get the part.  Actually, that was fine with me.  I would rather work behind the scene on props and spend my spare time hiking in the mountains or roller skating.

          
Can you imagine what it would have been like for me if "Toddlers and Tiaras" had been popular during my childhood?  Not a pretty picture.  This is one time I'm especially happy that I was born more than half a century too soon.

Falling Down Memory Lane



Me as a Reporter in Kuwait

When I started this story telling I didn't realize my daughter would find so many old photos to add here and there.  Truly this is becoming a Journey Down Memory Lane which may have been a better title.  Surely the only readers will be those who don't bore easily.  I'll try to keep things a little interesting as I jog my memory. I do find that the happy times far outweigh anything less.  As Anthony Bourdain says:  "This must be the opposite of sucks."  I really had an outstandingly joyful childhood with fantastic parents, a great extended family and wonderful friends.  I did have some moments when something bad almost happened, but somehow things worked out in spite of my being a bit careless.
         
Falling is a good example.  My mother always noted:  "That's why I named her Grace."  Of course she hadn't named me Grace and maybe that was the problem from the beginning.  I have slid across floors on my backside, slid down stairs and probably tumbled down more ski slopes than skiing.  Roller skating was my first good example.  At an earlier age I would skate as fast as possible to the end of our block, grab the metal sign post and spin around.  Most of the time I would miss and go sprawling with skinned knees. Never seemed to give up trying.

        

Thinking back, I realize I should never have put on a pair of high-heel shoes.  Can't imagine how I never sprained an ankle in the process of sprawling across marble floors and down carpeted stairs in some of the finest buildings.  "Are you OK?"  was the usual question asked by the person standing over my clumsy fall. "Not really, I just slid down that entire staircase."  And, to verify these stories, there was always one of my kids or friends along to say it was factual,having tried to act at the time that they didn't even know me.

         
Then there was the elegant wedding reception to which I was invited.  I arrived fashionably late that afternoon.  I stepped into the main room, immediately slid across the freshly polished hardwood floor in front of God and everyone.  I ended up under the cake table with the toasting goblets crashing around me.  What could I do?  I peaked out from under the white linen table skirt:  "And, for my next act?"  Some just exhaled, some laughed politely, and there were those I will never convince I had not imbibed.           

I did finally actually 'break a leg' sliding down marble stairs in Kuwait as a Reporter for Arab Times newspaper.  Due to the lack of building code, no railing to stop my fast decline.  The last step had a large chip and sent my foot in one direction and my attached leg in the other.  I looked down at a compound fracture and thought about Meryl Streep's movie where she fell down stairs and her head was on backward. Well my surgery went well, my leg healed over a few months, and I got lots of attention while recovering and carrying out my reporting duties.  Could've been worse.
         
Then there was the time, in Kuwait that I fell backward into an inverted Lucite display cover for a new hospital and there I sat with my feet in the air while the dignitaries, Kuwaiti men in their dishsashas, tried to agree on how to handle the situation.  Finally, when they realized I was laughing, not crying, they pulled me to safety.  For the next few years almost every assignment put me in touch with yet another VIP that had witnessed the event.  Such is life.  Really great fun after all!   

Teenage Wedding

My Wedding Day

Looking through an old album I found a photo of my wedding day.  Both bride and groom were all of 18 and thought we were young adults ready to go out in the world on our own.  We looked like skinny kids playing dress up.  We were from the old school:  'Virgins' in every sense of the word.  Growing up in near destitute families following The Great Depression, things had begun to turn for the better.  It was Spring, it was 1950 and anything was possible.
         
Fortunately, we had learned good work habits, young 'JD' began delivering the Progress Bulletin paper in Pomona Valley and as he grew took on many after school jobs.  In fact, he bought my engagement ring from money earned working in the citrus groves attending smudge-pots throughout freezing winter nights.  These young boys were given permission to stay home from school the following day to catch up on lost sleep.  Their faces were soot-black with watery-red eyes peeking out,  Looking a bit like some creature from a black and white horror film.
         
JD was working as an apprentice learning the mold making industry at CACO, Inc.  I was working for Dr Z learning to be a dental assistant.  Paychecks were minimal, but with a promise of more.  As was the custom in my senior year, 1949, any girl with any decent quality was officially engaged to be married before graduation.  From the local jewelers my gold engagement ring had a perfectly cut diamond  that sparkled when I held out my hand to my friends.  Of course, the diamond was of a very small size:  "Must be a real diamond, they don't make zircons that small," was my future brother-in-law's comment.
          
Having been brought up in St. Paul's Episcopal Church, wedding plans for a Spring wedding were well under way. Mother, who had married against parents wishes and no one in attendance, dreamed of my having a big wedding.  She was very sad that our family didn't have the money to pull it off.  So, I spent my savings on a fairy-tale wedding that meant lots of sewing to begin with.  A rainbow of pastel fabrics for my 6 maids-in-waiting, and yards of white embroidered sheer over satin for my gown.  Two of my maids sewed their own gowns from the same pattern.  My little sister was now 12 and old enough to be my maid-of-honor.
         
My fiance' located a flower grower who agreed to sell us hundreds of daisies which we dyed to match each maid's dress.  Baskets bought from Alvera Street in Los Angeles were filled with the daisies and carried rather than formal bouquets.  Mother sewed a lovely gown and cape of crepe-back satin of deepest blue and splurged on a lacy broad brim hat and gloves.  JD's mother created a deep rose crepe gown for herself with a stylish hat and gloves.  She had been a seamstress for City of Paris department store in San Francisco as a young lady.  The church was literally filled with friends and relatives from miles around as it was the first formal wedding for many of them.  My father's brother and family arrived from Idaho and mother's cousin's family from Colorado none of whom had ever seen the ocean, so this was to be just the beginning of a California vacation for them.
         
Wouldn't you know there is always a glitch.  Everyone rushed off to the church and left me behind at the house.  When they finally realized the wedding was about to start and the bride was missing, guess who was sent to bring me to the church?  You guessed it, JD and he was not a happy camper.  We really thought about calling the whole thing off, but decided it was a bit too late to back out.  The men of the wedding party were handsomely dressed in rented tuxedos and my maids were dressed and waiting. So I quickly changed into my wedding gown.  The Boy's Choir sang beautifully and my God Father, Charlie,  made sure everything went like clockwork.
         
The afternoon commenced with the typical reception of wedding cake, candy-coated almonds and fruit punch.  I changed into my going-away suit of navy blue with a perky hat and gloves. We drove away in JD's employer's car as our little Chevy coop sat at the curb adorned with tin cans and soaped windows announcing 'Just Married.'  Clever get-a-way?  Actually, the steering column had broken in our '37 Chevy and JD had towed it to the front of the church knowing it would keep his buddies busy. 

Where did we go?  After driving around for an hour or so, we drove to our newly refurbished, rented house.  Ate a sandwich and potato salad mother had made and after listening to the radio fell into bed absolutely exhausted.  We would have to try being married another day.  All our money was spent on a wedding.  At least we had jobs. And we wouldn't start a family for two more years.

High School Dance

I have always loved to dance, beginning with tap lessons then everything from 'Lambeth Walk' of the '30s to 'Jitterbug' of the 40's.  My paternal grandmother talked about "dancing all night" as a young girl so I guess it's in my genes.  Needless to say, I made sure I had a date for every dance held during my four years of high school. 

Material to make a formal meant saving up my baby-sitting money and later my small paycheck from being a 'soda jerk' at Hull House on Garey Avenue in Pomona.  I almost missed getting invited to one dance after having an argument with my current boyfriend.  Fortunately we made up the day before the dance.  What to do about a formal?  I'll tell you how that problem was solved.
         
My Uncle Jack, a US Marshall in Santa Monica, just happened to come by that crucial evening.  "No problem."  He drove me all the way from Pomona to Pasadena (with lights and siren, over-the-speed-limit) and we got in the department store just before closing.  He selected my size formal:  black jersey top with white net full skirt and we drove back home much safer of course.  Didn't cost me a cent - gift from my Uncle Jack. I was asked to try it on right away and it fit perfectly.  Mother was not all that pleased.
          
"Jean, you cannot wear that low 'V' neckline at your age."  She began pinning the opening higher and then creating a 'sweetheart' shape by gathering at the sides of the opening.  By now I was covered nearly up to my chin.  Needless to say it was either wear the more discrete neckline or forget the dance.  So, I danced the next night in my demure black/white gown and decided that dancing feet were more important than the shape of a neckline.
         
There were many dances from sophomore through senior years and I didn't miss even one.  In order to afford the new, different gown for every dance (you simply could not wear the same gown twice) I was lucky to have a mother who knew how to sew.  Gowns sent to me from my older cousin were altered to fit.  The ones mother created were designed to be cut to dress length and do double duty. 

Once I became adept to making my own clothes, I chose fabrics such as corduroy rather than velvet so that a sleeveless gown was easily converted into a jumper to be worn over a blouse or sweater.  Certainly there were much more lavish gowns worn by other girls at the dances, but none were better sewn and fitted.  None were created as cost effective as mine.
         
None of my friends knew that I had often been literally sewn into my gown at the last minute.  This entailed having mother cut me out of the gown when I returned home from the dance before midnight.  A routine that stands out in my memory as delightful.  Mother was always there to listen to every detail of the evening of dance. I believe she lived her teen years through me.  Her last dance had been at the age of 16 due to Polio.  She never talked about that, but really seemed to support and enjoy my love of dancing.
     

FDR and WWII

I do remember the war effort times very well.  Father was our 'block-warden' so each evening after dark, following the city alarm system sounding, he would patrol around the block to be sure no lights emitted from the houses.  This entailed taping black tar paper over the inside of windows and only using very low lights.  At these times my little sister and I were bedded down under the dining room table which was kind of fun, like camping out.  Never gave it a thought that mother couldn't take cover so she sat by us in her wheelchair.
          
FDR's 'Fireside Chats' were well attended around our radio as we listened quietly to Roosevelt's every word.  His presidency was, I suppose, fatherly and thus very reassuring.  At school we learned to recognize  every national and foreign airplane flying overhead. Of course the P-38 was the easiest with it's double-tail.  Also, we had practice bomb-drills where we were instructed to crouch under our desk until the all-clear bell sounded. As kids this was all great fun.
         
The Military Draft was in place so that every healthy male, from 17 to 50 could be sent off to war. Father, of course, was exempt due to the fact that mother depended on his caring for her most immediate needs. As the recruits left their jobs to go to war,  young, strong females replaced factory jobs and also learned to be mechanics. Thus was born:  'Rosie the Riveter.' And, the military also accepted  females into their ranks although kept them away from the front lines.  Nurses, of course, were sent to hospitals near the action. Many men and women were killed or injured during WWII.  The saying: "War is hell!"
         
Here at home many items, such as butter and petrol, were only gotten with government 'ration-stamps' Every one saved rendered meat fat to fill old Crisco cans and turn them over to grocery stores  to be used to manufacture military ammunition.  We also saved every bit of foil from gum wrappers to form a ball which was also turned over to the government for the same purpose.  Whether all these things were actually of importance is still undetermined to this day.  The one important outcome  however, was the fact it brought everyone together to "help win the war."  As an adult I can see there is no 'win' situation in a war.
         
History tells us that FDR died early in his fourth term as President of this nation. His passing was mourned by families of all walks of life, people who identified with his fatherly position.  My mother was especially fond of him since he too had been a victim of the same Polio Epidemic of 1916.  She always felt felt this one incident had made Roosevelt better understand 'the human condition' of the average American even though he had been brought up in wealth.  Once the Congress convened they enacted the new rule that a president could only serve two four-year terms.  Now if only Congress could get their act together and determine maximum terms for the House and Senate?  Probably not in my lifetime.

Hobo Stories

During The Great Depression there were 'hobos' (homeless men of all ages) who rode for free in open boxcars on the railroads that spanned the US.  When my parents first lived on Sixth and Locus Streets mother was resting on the sofa after father went back to work after lunch.  It was customary not to lock the doors during the daytime so the door to the back porch and kitchen were open.  Suddenly, according to the story repeated over and over through the years, a hobo in ragged clothing walked in and found mother lying on the sofa: "Get up and fix me a sandwich," he ordered in a gruff voice.  Since mother couldn't possibly get up with her legs paralyzed from Polio she decided to act tough: "Fix your own sandwich.  Everything's in the icebox.  Help yourself to some lemonade. And, put your dirty dishes in the sink before you leave."
         
The ruse seemed to work.  She kept one hand on her hip "to look tough" and heard him rumbling through the kitchen.  After a short time he stuck his head around the corner: "Thanks for the fixins mam," and she heard the door close behind him  She literally shook for a few minutes until she realized he was really gone and wouldn't harm her.  She had quite a story to tell father when he arrived home at 5:pm and he promised to never again leave the house unlocked.  Hobos still came to the backdoor from time to time since we were just six blocks from the railroad that ran the length of California.  Although clearly living on hard times, the men were generally polite, asked what they could do to earn a plate of food.  Father would let them rake leaves or mow the lawn and then have them sit on the back porch step for a plate of whatever he had prepared for dinner.  He always treated them with respect knowing it could've just have well been himself in such a dire need.
         
The Great Depression lasted for several years throughout the 1930's.  Even after we moved into the second house on West Forth Street there were hungry men who came to our back door for a plate of food after a bit of yard work.  Father felt they were men down on their luck, willing to work.  If our family was away from the house on an excursion, father never locked the back door: "If someone is hungry and we're not at home I would rather they could at least help themselves to something to eat."  No one ever entered our house while we were away, but I'll always remember there were those times when there was an amazing trust and compassion among people. 

Sad but True

I really didn't want to put a damper on this subject of travel, but I've waited long enough to give the details of what it was like coming through The Great Depression.  So many families lost just about everything they owned: house, car, job and even their health suffered.  My family wasn't so different. In 1934 the bad times caught up with us.  Although father didn't lose his job as 'Stone Cutter Artist' with the Gray Granite Company, the house, three rental properties, the Ford V-8 were lost. 

The only house we could then afford was three miles away on West Fourth Street: one bedroom, living-dining, one bath, kitchen, front and back porches.  The bonus was the place was shaded by a huge Acacia tree and a chicken shed/coop on the alley.  My parents did their best to make it a home and put up drapes to divide off the dining room for my new bedroom which was fine for a four year old.
         
Oh yes, the health issue did arise when mother came down with pneumonia.  I remember her lying in bed with warm mustard-plasters on her chest prepared by father morning and night.  I don't remember any complaining of course since both parents have always been positive thinkers.  Also, those were the days when doctors did make house calls.  Time passed quickly and everything was finally O.K.  Father now had an old used Hudson and drove to work where before he had only to walk two blocks.  Driving home to help mother at lunch time must have been difficult, but I never knew if it was.
       
It seemed only a short time before father moved us a few houses over.  That house was so dirty that he wouldn't allow us inside until he had literally washed the inside with a garden hose and painted everything inside with white-wash.  The Navy gave away battleship-gray paint for house exteriors and that was topped off with white trim.  Father even sanded and finished the old hardwood floors.  Fortunately the former renters had not taken the fixtures with them as happened with our previous property renters.
         
Wouldn't you know, once we were settled in our new house I was firmly established in kindergarten at Hamilton School and mother was pregnant.  My paternal grandparents moved from Idaho into our former house down the block, cousin Eddie's family moved in next door and father's oldest brother and family moved in to the house on the corner so I was firmly ensconced in a family circle that was absolutely the best.
         
As mother noted:  "It's an ill wind that doesn't blow some good."  Amen.

Up in the Blue Sky

As you may have guessed, my first travels in life were via my mother's wheelchair on her lap.  Or, in the Ford V-8 that my parents bought when first married and lost during The Great Depression.  "At first you wouldn't go to sleep without your father driving you around the block," extolled mother.  Of course I remember adventures via the old Hudson with a stick-shift that often came loose from the floor and a headliner hanging in shreds later on Traveling on narrow mountain roads or going through town after town on the way to the Pacific Ocean, the Giant Redwoods or Mexico stretched my mind more and more.  But guess what really gave me something to think about.
         
Flying of course!  On my eighth birthday, on a bright sunny morning, father surprised both me and my cousin Eddie by taking us to Chino Airport.  He had arranged for a flight in a small bi-plane piloted by a young man who did stunt-flying for a living.  Once tightly strapped in the rear seat on either side of father the plane took off and from that moment on Eddie and I hovered at the side windows absolutely in awe of people and places growing smaller by the minute.  Mother was waving from the car window below and was soon out of sight as we tumbled over and over through the air, swooshing down close to the ground then up, up again into the sky. Never had a thought of fear since father was beside me and neither Eddie or me let out a sound.  Neither of us wanted the plane to land, but the hour of fun was over and must have cost a lot.  It was my only birthday present that year and the very best one I ever had.
        
As you might know, this was the travel seed that was planted and grew, and grew so that eventually I had the opportunity to travel across this country, travel around the world and be a passenger in just about every air vehicle both private, commercial and military.  Such a wonderful life of travel yet to tell.

First Bicycle

I kept informing my parents: "I'm the only ten year old that doesn't have a bicycle," reminding them: "All I want for Christmas is a bicycle." which only brought the response: "Bicycles cost a lot and we really can't afford one, sorry."  So, I reconciled myself that this was the case and probably pouted a lot although I surely understood the financial situation following The Great Depression.  Christmas was on the way.  Father brought home a fresh pine tree that touched the 12' ceiling of our living room.  He strung the lights, first making sure every colored bulb was tightly screwed in and in working condition.  Then he draped the red, then the green garlands, added the collection of glittery ornaments and lastly carefully placed each strand of silver tinsle.  The wrapped packages would not appear until the night before Christmas after my four year old baby sister and me were both fast asleep.
         
This Christmas morning I woke late because the only present I wanted was a bicycle and knew it wouldn't be under the tree.  After father urged me to come into the living room, I walked in not even looking towards the tree.  After all, what could possibly be there to interest me.  As I sat on the sofa mother urged:  "Jean you haven't even looked at your Christmas present."  I finally looked over and saw, to my great surprise, a bright red Schwin bicycle.  Exactly what I wanted.  A boys style bicycle that I had specifically ordered so that I could get going really fast then swing my leg over and ride 'side-saddle' for a few daring minutes.  This was my happiest Christmas of my childhood.  Now I could actually travel out of Pomona all on my own.  Of course, that was not in father's bicycle rules, but as long as I got back home before dark who would know how far I had traveled.  I'll tell you who.
         
The day after Christmas I left right after breakfast and followed road signs to La Puente which sounded very exotic indeed.  Just as I crossed Pomona City Limits father pulled up behind me in that old Hudson. "Where do you think you're going young lady?"  "Back to the house I guess."  "You got that right," was his stern reply. As I climbed into the back seat, father tied my new bicycle onto the car trunk.  Once home he chained the bicycle to the front porch post and there it remained for one month.  Lesson learned?  Not really.  It took a couple more excursions before being apprehended again and my bicycle was sold.  End of story.

Travel Bug

My first venture out of the US was crossing our southern border from California into Mexico.  My father's old Hudson got us there and back on several occasions.  I had learned a few words in Spanish in a class at Fremont Jr. High School from a teacher with a Texas accent, but improved by talking with my school chums. So, I was able to practice my language skills during my short visits south of the border.  The shops were so colorful and I would save up my baby-sitting money to buy trinkets.  I still have the silver-fish earrings that were at first clip-ons later modified for my adult pierced ears.  These first out-of-country sojourns wet my appetite for later travel.
        
Of course, I never even dreamed of flying or sailing anywhere.  Father's cousin Florence had married a very wealthy business man who lived in Oakland, California.  They traveled all over the world by ship and train putting her diary into a book printed/distributed to family: 'Follow Us' which I have read over and over through the years as my father's copy was passed down to me.  Florence wrote of seeing the fine palaces of some of the greatest world leaders which were ultimately destroyed during WWII and she described the building of the San Francisco bridge as she sailed back home: "The most extraordinary bridge is being built."
         
Once I could finally afford to travel to far off places, I had the 'travel-bug' ensconced in my twenties, nothing could stop me from seeing the world, experiencing different cultures, and always as a 'traveler' never as a tourist.  I have found that people are more the same than different.  And, the more I see, the more I realize I have yet to visit.  

Me and Music

I already mentioned that I played the trumpet.  Actually marched in Fremont Jr. High Band wearing their traditional green/white uniform.  I did have a crush on the boy in front of me that played the trombone.  The year I moved to Emerson Jr High was the time I stopped playing the trumpet deciding it was a silly instrument for a girl to play.  That was a silly idea because it was the beginning of the all-girl big-band era.  My older cousin Bob was a fine trumpet player, played forth-trumpet in Les Brown's Band and even cut his single 'High on a Windy Trumpet' which was awesome.  He gave me trumpet lessons for which I'll be ever grateful even for the few years I played. 

Early on during those formative years I had piano lessons, tap-dance and tumbling, as well as clarinet lessons.  I did participate in recitals and can still read music and that's about it.  Never considered to be a vocalist.  My father sang every morning while he fixed breakfast for mother and us kids. He sang as good as Bing Crosby.  My little sister inherited his ability to sing and she often sang duets with another girl for women's lunch-meetings and such.
         
However, I grew up appreciating music, loving jazz and pop songs.  Used to buy the Hit Parade magazine that had the words to every song of the day.  All that has provided me with great pleasure and great respect for hard working musicians.  I did have another crush on a young trumpet player, another of Bob's students, by the name of Stan.  When Les Brown played at the Pomona Paladium Bob gave Stan two tickets and asked him to escort me. Pretty exciting evening and Stan was a real gentleman.  However, that was the first and only date with him.  I'm sure I was much too young and immature, but it's still a night to remember.

Jr. High School

Me in Jr. High

Jr. High School provided real growing-up lessons for me.  First, not one to wear any makeup, my closest girlfriends caught me in Ms Wiles PE class and darkened my blond eyelashes with black mascara and were very pleased with the results:  "Look, she has eyes!"  The lipstick they added was easily scrubbed off and they did forgive me for that.  I did learn how to apply the eye makeup and agreed it was an asset.
         
Living 'below the RR tracks' some of my best friends were from Mexico.  They soon joined gangs and the girls spent time during class knitting pairs of dice to hang on their boyfriend's rear-view car mirror.  I made sure to remain a good friend and they vowed to protect me which they must have done because I lived  rather uneventful 2-1/2 years before my family moved to the other side of the tracks. Now I attended Emerson Jr High for the last half year where I was pretty popular as the new kid even though some of the kids there had attended Hamilton Grade School.  With the move I fell back in Algebra, and lost my position as class secretary back at Fremont.
         
My first real boyfriend made note that he liked me by printing my name in block letters across the yoke of his blue checkered shirt and also his red checkered shirt.  Bobby passed his silver basketball and chain to me via our mutual friend Dianne.  Bobby and I had only smiled at one another 'til then. Now we became an item, and he was class President.  Our first 'date' was going with his parents to Forest Lawn Cemetery to see the beautiful gardens, monuments of important people interned there and the fine art works. 

I kept the important photos in an album which I had to return to him, along with his basketball, when he fell for a new girl the next year at High School. My heart was broken for at least one whole week, and I might add, I still have the chipped tooth that took place one day when I was running and the silver basketball hit me in the mouth.  Believe me a first love can be painful.

Girl Scouts

Since my father had taught me the rudiments of mountain hiking early on in life it was inevitable that I should join the local Brownie Scout Troop and thereafter graduate into the official Girl Scouts of America. My troop leader, Mrs Coffee had been a WAC during WWII and regularly put us through military type exercises so that we were probably the most physically fit troop in all of Los Angeles County. It just so happened that her mother owned a cabin at Mt. Baldy so it became our official Girl Scout Camp where we hiked to and from on a regular basis. 

One weekend we hiked up a really rugged trail to  a deserted cabin with every two girls carrying a bedroll between them in a team effort.  The handle on the cabin door was made from a deer's hoof and leg with the hair mostly worn away from time. The place seemed really spooky.  We spent the night huddled in shared bedrolls listening to the night sounds of a mountain stream, over rocks, down through the Pine forest.  Morning was a most welcome sight and after an apple for breakfast, a trip back down to camp was much easier. 

Since I played a trumpet, I was chosen as the official bugler for the troop so that I was always first up in the morning, last to partake of meals and last to bed at night.  It was all worth every minute of course.  Great memories and a special fondness for Mrs Coffee.

Clothes Lines

As an adult I actually miss hanging a laundry outside on a  back yard clothes-line and watching the gentle winds fan the wet right out of the cloth.  Since mother was in a wheelchair it became my duty, trained by my father, to hang the wash on the lower than normal lines and bring in the basket of dry items along with the carefully gathered wood clothes-pins.  It was important to shake the wet item as smooth as possible before clipping the strategic points to the wire with the pins.  I should also mention the first chore was to take a clean wet rag and wipe dust off every metal line before hanging the wash.

This chore was always a stretch until I grew taller which made it easier.  Earlier I just brought in the pile of clean, dry items and mother folded.  Then she eventually watched as I folded according to her designation.  Finally, I was adept enough to fold each item as I took it from the line so my basket was quite orderly and I must say I was proud to carry in the basket for mother's approval. 

Today, with our high technology for clothes-dryers we have to add that little piece of scented paper because the dried laundry doesn't have that fresh air smell that was especially swell for bed sheets and towels.  It might have been more work hanging clothes and bringing in the basket, however it was a moment in the sunshine, good 'ol vitamin-D soaking in, that made it very special. And, I might say that families were very proud of their clean laundry neatly hung waving in the wind.

Fire Drill

Can you imagine waiting for the monthly Fire Drill as a school kid?  Well, if you were lucky enough to attend Hamilton School, be one of the 'big kids' in a class-room on the second floor, you watched the calendar for Fire Drill practice.  Once the bell sounded you lined up at the teacher's instruction and followed (walked not ran) to the small door that opened to the metal-tunnel that you slid down to a sand pile.  The first kids sat on squares of wax paper to make the slid faster. Another teacher from one of the lower grades, with classrooms on the ground floor, stood at the bottom to pull each kid out of the way of the next one sliding down. Sometimes we landed on the kid in front of us or got landed on by the kid behind us. 

All in all it was great fun.  After lining up outside behind our respective teachers another bell sounded and we marched into our classrooms. Of course Saturday, for those of us who could sneak away from home for an hour, was a chance to bring along our own square of wax-paper, climb up the inside of the metal-tunnel (hands and feet stretched to the sides like spiders) and slide down from the top.  If caught doing this we were scolded and sent home.  It would be several Saturdays before we  had the courage to try again.  By the time I graduated from  High School someone  burned down the old Hamilton brick school.

Ralph the Snake

As a very small child snakes were something to be afraid of since they were often the 'bad guy' in stories told. My mother had a dear friend just two blocks west on Forth Street who was also in a wheelchair.  She was a young lady, long blond hair, ocean-blue eyes and known to love all creatures great and small.  Father took me to meet Jessica for an afternoon stay and an introduction to her snake friends.

At first I was reluctant to even touch the snake she held thinking it would be slimy.  To my surprise it's beautiful pattern skin was quite pleasant to the touch and soon I was holding the snake and finding it to be very friendly.  When father picked me up in time for dinner I had become a true friend of Ralph the Snake. 

Over the years I have learned how to identify the snakes that I shouldn't touch, the ones I could admire from a safe distance such as the Rattlesnake.  I learned that Jessica had become paralyzed when turning the crank to start the engine of her Ford V-8 one morning. She had forgotten to put the gear-shift in nutral  and the vehicle ran over her legs.  She never talked about the accident and seemed very happy to be cared for by her parents and be surrounded with the creatures she loved, great and small.

May Day, USA

Where ever did May 1st go anyway?  I have great memories of 'May Day' while attending Hamilton Primary School in Pomona, California. Following Easter and into the last days of April, all the school kids were busy weaving May Day baskets out of folded paper. The teachers made colored streamers that were attached to the very top of the flag pole that was centered on the front lawn. 

For several days outdoor play-time was utilized for the precise practice of the 'May Pole Dance' where each kid would hold a different colored streamer and when given instruction by the teacher weave in and out with the other kids until we had reached the shortness of the streamers and had clad the flag pole in a rainbow of braid. 

So pretty, so much fun. On the first day of May the dance had been perfected.  Each child remembered to bring small bouquets from their home garden to fill their May baskets which were taken home at the end of the day to mothers, aunts, grandmothers and favorite neighbor ladies.  After graduating to Fremont Jr. High School, May Day celebrations were thence forward forgotten.  Very sad indeed.

More Than a Playhouse

Even though our family was poor by the Great Depression standards, so were all the other families of our Forth Street neighborhood.  No one had a garage, many not even a car and us kids were generally wearing hand-me-down clothes from siblings or cousins.  I wore cousin Shirley's outgrown clothes that mother lovingly altered to fit me.  My photos of that time might see me in a plaid skirt and a flowered blouse and I thought then that I looked perfectly alright.  Can you imagine that my father managed to find some used lumber and build me a playhouse in the back yard?
         
The design was such that one day it could be a miniature home for me and my dolls, another day a fort for the good kids to fend off the bad kids, Sometimes it became a grocery store filled with empty boxes and cans gleaned from our trash cans along the alley.  Probably the best part was when my cousin Horace, who lived just two houses away and was older than me and my friends, built a radio out of odds and ends that actually worked.  We set up an important spy outpost with that radio, a small table and various sturdy boxes to sit on.  Those were really happy, exciting days for not only me and my sister, but also all the neighbor kids who were willing to take on the character that we assigned them to be.
        
The little house also had an attached porch which was perfect for putting on neighborhood plays.  Since I was the owner-manager of the building as well as the star and director of the play it soon became apparent that if there was to be other days of other plays I would have to be far more democratic.  According to my cousin Shirley I was evidently somewhat of a "spoiled brat" at times and that was apparently why my friends and cousins refused to be in my plays. With a little coaxing on my part and an offer to share costumes, the plays continued for awhile, but not very successfully.  Oh well, I could still direct most of the time, but had to give up my hope, once again, of ever becoming a star.   

First Love

From the beginning boys were interesting to say the least.  Dickie lived right next door for a short while. He was meaner than sin and often chased me back home throwing rocks at my feet.  This one day I ran squealing up the steps to my front porch with Dickie fast behind me.  Just as I got inside the screen door he threw a rock that broke the window of the entry room  Mother called the police and things were quiet for a few days.  Missing the excitement I took a chance and carefully entered Dickie's back yard.  "You'd better leave or I'll pee on your foot".  Sure enough I just stood there with my dirty bare feet as he peed a warm trickle that left a white path across my foot.  I started screaming and ran for home.  He and his family finally moved away before any other incident.  I imagine he's still sitting in a prison somewhere.
         
By the time I reached sixth grade at Hamilton School I had fallen in love with Wayne: jet black hair, eyes black as coal, beautiful brown skin.  The only problem being that every other girl in the classroom also loved him.  We wrote him love notes (without our names of course) and it became evident that he was only interested in Norma who was already getting boobs.  Well, my heart was broken for one whole day until I began to notice there were a whole lot of other cute boys in the school who didn't care if I still didn't have boobs.  I even forgave Norma and we became good friends.

Barbara Ann Bread

I, like so many other kids in California, grew up eating 'Barbara Ann' bread, that white stuff that always stuck to the roof of your mouth, especially when eaten as a peanut-butter sandwich.  Sometimes it would take an hour to finally rid yourself of that layer stuck so tightly.  Of course, I loved the picture of Barbara Ann that adorned the package wrapper:  a little girl with blond curly hair, blue eyes and rosy cheeks. 

You might well understand that when my parents announced we'd soon have a new baby in our family I announced a baby girl should be named Barbara Ann.  Of course father really wanted a boy so they noted 'Bobby' would suffice, but that was not a consolation for me.  Finally I was sent to stay with my parents friends, Maggie and George who didn't have children, only a fluffy lap-dog who bit my finger on introduction. 

Days later, when I arrived back home to meet my baby sister, I was shocked to see she didn't have a single hair on her head.  I said:  "Take her back. She doesn't look like Barbara Ann" although that was now her name.  After all, I had been an only child for six years, my parents had waited seven years for me to bless their lives and this new addition was not what I had expected.  In time "Bobbie" (her nickname) did grow hair: straight, red and she became worth keeping after all.

Bears, Oh My!

Father loved driving in the mountains and California was the ideal location for such adventures.  Annual vacations were divided between the mountains and the coast. This year would be the chance to drive through the famous tunnel cut out of a giant redwood tree.  A small log cabin was rented for one week although we spent much of the time out under the forest of trees having picnics.  Just as the sun was going down all the park visitors drove their cars over to where the big brown bears were fed the collected garbage.  It was a bit scary, but so exciting to watch, and the bears seemed to also enjoy watching the people.
        
When we finally returned back to our cabin for the night, we saw the front door had been pushed aside, the window over the sink pushed open and to our dismay a brown bear came loping out leaving empty dishes, empty boxes of Ritz crackers, and generally a big mess everywhere.  Father rounded up one of the Park Rangers who informed us we should've  locked the door, window and cupboard doors.  Once father had the cabin back in order and gotten us safely inside with door and window secure we finally settled down for the night.  I dreamed about big brown bears for several nights even after we arrived back home.  Father made sure I had a night light in my bedroom.  Can't say that I cared as much about 'Goldie Locks and the Three Bears' as a good bedtime story anymore.  Since then the only bears I've encountered are at the local zoo.
         
Probably my first story about a bear was told to me by my father's father, my wonderful grandfather who lived just down the street from our house.  When he would begin telling the story about his pet bear, Grandmother would retrieve the photo album from a drawer of her secretary cabinet and find the famous photo of her husband, a young Dwight Noble with a big brown bear towering over him as they stood by a huge Pine tree in Idaho.  As the story goes, he had found the mother bear dead after being shot by a hunter and nearby a very young bear all alone.  As the hunter hauled off his trophy with the help of his fellow hunters "very proud in deed and no consideration that they had orphaned the little bear" Grandfather scooped up the baby bear and took him home to raise.
         
Over the years the bear grew bigger and stronger.  And, over those same years Dwight had played and wrestled with the bear. "We were great friends, but neighbors in Boise were afraid the bear would get out of his cage and attack someone."  Needless to say, I was always eager to hear the story over and over again.  The somewhat sad ending was that eventually the bear had to be turned over to the Boise Zoo.  Grandfather said he visited the bear as often as he could and the bear always remembered him.  To this day some of my cousins insist it was just a tale he liked to tell.  But, I had never known my grandparents to be untruthful to me and my father insisted the story was in fact a true one.  I believed then, and I believe now that my grandfather and that bear had a fine time together for many years.
         
I will add that I lived and taught school in Pt. Barrow, Alaska during the winter of 1975-6 where Polar Bears roamed through the small town late at night.  We could see their huge footprints in the dry-snow that blew around like dust over the frozen tundra.  The bears seemed to especially prefer checking for any packages of food to fill their bellies before they settled down to hibernate.  Just to remind us, the Top of the World Hotel had a stuffed Polar Bear, in a lucite case, adorning their lobby.  A beautiful specimen that looked so alive and ready for a bear-hug.  Never saw an alive one while there.  Had to visit live Polar Bears at the famous San Diego Zoo.

Sunburned Feet

During WWII my father managed to be awarded extra gasoline coupons because of my mother being an 'invalid' ( a word she detested) so Sunday drives were our one escape from the neighborhood.  Each year father would save up enough coupons to take our family on a week's summer vacation.  He would drive us in our old Hudson, from Pomona Valley, past oil fields, watermelon patches, strawberry and Boysenberry farms with stops at every little town along the way.  Mother would've packed her potato salad, weiners and a box of Ritz crackers, lemonade and father's trusty coffee pot. Father packed a tent, folding cots, her wheelchair along with everything needed to survive the camp out.  Mother spent her time under the sun umbrella while father enjoyed body surfing and I played in the surf sun burning my feet.

No one "with any good sense" lived on the beach back then because everything rusted or smelled like dead fish."  It was necessary to avail oneself of the beach office, small store and the outhouse up on the hillside. I was old enough to go there  by myself, but not too happy about it. The second morning I ran out of that smelly place yelling:  "There's a dead man in the toilet!"  In no time at all police, father and the beach manager searched the women's outhouse only to find it had only been my wild imagination. From then on, father stood at the door for my protection. I can still remember what it felt like wearing sox in the surf and the scratchiness of the sheet over my sunburned feet at night. Of course, by the next summer I was ready to do it all again.

Somersaults

For my fifth birthday, father bought a movie camera - a big splurge just coming out of the depression.  He arranged, with my best friend's parents, to take we two girls to a nearby freshly plowed farmer's field that morning and have us turn somersaults over and over again heading directly toward his hand held camera.  It was great fun, dirt in our blond hair and sun suits.  Of course, arriving back to our homes in such disarray we were less than a welcome sight to say the least. 

Although I never once heard any disruptive discussions between my parents, it was obvious that there was a problem due to the fact that mother was very rough shampooing my hair at the kitchen sink. That was after father had stripped me down to my underpants and hosed me off in the back yard.  I later heard that my little friend had experienced much the same treatment. She did quote her mother saying: "That's the last time you go anywhere with Jean." 

Later that day a really terrible thing happened.  Her older brother, while cleaning his car engine parts with gasoline, stepped back to light a cigarette.  Her little brother was standing nearby.  Gasoline fumes allowed fire to go up his pant legs  before being doused in an old bathtub of dirty rainwater. After days in the hospital he returned home to a makeshift tent of dining room chairs and a sheet because he couldn't stand for any fabric to touch his skin.  He didn't die.  They did move away.

Fish Pond

Me by the Fish Pond

The first house I lived in still stands as a monument to my first four years, custom built for my mother's wheelchair, a Spanish style stucco with red tile roof.  Before having to move out due to The Great Depression meltdown, my father built a fish pond in the front yard of concrete with a rock surround and a bridge.
         
Mother, always handy with her hands to make up for the lost use of her legs, was a marvelous seamstress. Proud of her costume design for my 'Little Dutch Girl' tap dance routine, father had no choice except to take this photo of me standing on our fishpond bridge.  It was a very hot summer afternoon as you can tell by my squinting eyes.  Can you imagine putting a small child in all those layers of clothes and having the child stand in the hot sun for a photo?  Amazing that kids survive their adoring parents.
        
Again, showing her sewing skills mother fashioned a winter white wool suit, pleated skirt and jacket for my go-to-church Easter outfit. Father stood me on the bridge, with my hair done in Shirley Temple curls, for an Easter photo as my proud mother watched from the arched bay window.  Once the photo shoot was finished I stepped back and fell into the fish pond. However, I was saved by father as mother looked on in horror. It was a cool day in April and the water in the pond was just plain cold. Brrrr!
       
As you might suspect, the wool suit did shrink, my curls did unwind in straggly tendrils and we were late to church. My Godfather Charlie, as usual took me by the hand and apologized.  He had to ring the church bell by himself.  As long as I could remember it had been my job to climb those stairs with him early every Sunday morning. He would stand me on a wood stool and count the number of times I would need to pull the rope to ring the bell.
       
I might add that by the end of the day the fish pond was filled with dirt and flowers.  Not sure what happened to the gold fish.  You would think that would've been the last fish pond that father would build. Nope.  Since I was four going on five when we first moved to 1175 West Fourth Street in Pomona, he probably figured I was old enough to not risk falling into a fish pond again.  Besides, this time he omitted the bridge.
       
Though wouldn't you know, after we moved down the street to another house and my paternal grandparents moved into the other house, my little sister was born. I had turned six.  Then, three years later, exactly six years after I fell in the Sixth Street fish pond, little sister tumbled into our grandparent's fish pond.  Although by this time grandfather was 'legally blind' and walking with a white red-tipped cane, he did hear the splash and rescued her from the depths. He then walked her home. She looked like a drowned kitten.  However, my sister wasn't the least bit concerned.  It was a warm day and she was "playing with the fish and got all wet." 

This time the pond remained intact since grandfather had proved to be such a good life guard.  Over the years, Uncle John brought home Bluetail fish to add to the Goldfish and it became a very special pond with Gold blue-dotted fish and Blue gold-dotted fish.  Go figure.

Feet First

My Father & I

Since all stories have a beginning, lets start with the fact that I was literally plopped into life here on earth feet first to the dismay of my parents who had expected an at-home birth.  Having heard the story so many times I'm almost positive I heard my cousin (there to assist in a natural birth) scream: "Something's terribly wrong! I can see the baby's feet!"  After a phone call for an ambulance I managed to appear under the operating room's spotlight with the assist of an alcoholic doctor who later that day died in a car accident. 



To make things even more interesting, be it known that my mother had been paralyzed from the waist down due to the Polio epidemic of 1916 and had chosen not to have a doctor during her pregnancy since she had been advised she could not bear a child. She certainly proved the medical profession to be wrong and I proved it possible to slide into life feet first.  There began my first journey of a lifetime.