Heard It on the Grapevine

Remembering Richard Carroll

Richard Carroll

1944-2013

Our brother Dick Carroll was a powerful intellect and lifetime learner. He got 1590 on the SATs. This earned him admission to Caltech, where he was active in the glee club and played intermural football at the Rose Bowl. He went on to extensive studies in math and psychology at UC Berkeley. Dick retired in 2004 as a self-taught programmer analyst for San Francisco MUNI.

Being a life-long bachelor, Dick was free to go where his interests took him. He was an ardent SCUBA diver and abalone fisherman. Long before sputnik, Dick was fascinated with space travel and astronomy. He attended Star Trek conventions in his wizard costume. He became a Super Trekie by publishing a star map of the heavens as seen from Mr. Spock’s home planet, Vulcan. (He plotted over 1,100 star positions with his HP-55 programmable calculator–cutting edge technology in the pre-personal computer era.)

The Lawrence Hall of Science in Berkeley allowed visitors to use an early artificial intelligence program called ELIZA. Dick wrote some code that was added to it.

Dick was a pre-digital photographer and a stop-motion animation pioneer. He employed the Kens Burns Effect–panning and zooming to bring still images to life­–while Burns was still in high school. One of Dick's films was shown at a Bay Area animation festival.

Dick took flying lessons and manufactured his own astronomical telescopes. He once discovered a new comet and claimed it as his own. Alas, a Japanese astronomer had reported it a few hours earlier.

Dick’s last enthusiasm was the video game Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Not simply a player, he reverse engineered the game to find many hidden facets and worm holes. Known as The Bug Scientist, he repeatedly shared his discoveries on the game enthusiasts’ website. He authored over 7,000 posts.

Dick played the tuba–as did we all. Here he is in 1989 in our only joint performance before the neighbors begged us to stop:

Being one of four brothers close in age, he participated in many family adventures. One was a film we made in 1967. Dick appears as the Second Hitchhiker, the taller one. The background music is “Freedom” by The Sons of Champlin. Click here to view the short film:

"The Scooter Movie"

 

Dick was a kind and generous soul. Requiescat in pace, Ricardo.

Coach Merrill Callow

Mr. Callow was my gym teacher, football coach and counselor. Here are some recollections of what he did for me:

§ Joining the team. I was the biggest kid in my junior high near Chicago that wasn’t married. So I went out for football in Walnut Creek before school started in 1956. When I picked up my pads, I was assigned practice jersey number 69 and locker number 13. When I asked if there was anything else, Coach Callow chuckled and replied, “Isn’t that enough?”

§ Saved me from the Latin teacher. Mrs. Dannenberg had this weird idea I should turn in the homework on time. Since my compliance was low, she insulted me daily in class and even changed my Latin name to Procrastinus. Being a sensitive soul, I shared my angst with my parents. Unbeknownst to me, they called my counselor, Mr. Callow. He had a word with Mrs. D., who apologized to me! Whoa, that was cool.

§ Gym class self-control. Being at the top of the alphabet, my tiny gym locker was next to the coaches’ office. It had windows so the coaches could observe our lack of progress at suiting up. There were a few larger common lockers for our street clothes. One morning I had put my pressed chinos and cool shirt into one, when another guy came by and threw my stuff out on the floor. “That’s my locker, a**hole,” he kindly informed me. Well, this sucked. I had learned in Illinois that fighting was not my forte. But one could not back down. I got in the perp’s face and almost decked him. But I controlled myself and did back down. As I walked away, I saw Mr. Callow in the coaches’ window, smiling and nodding his head in approval.

§ Miramonte game shout-out. I played middle linebacker on the freshman team. During the first half at Miramonte, our nose tackle submarined their center, exposing their QB, arm cocked, searching for a receiver. He was frozen in terror as I rushed in and slammed him to the ground. What fun. But we were behind at halftime, so Coach Callow had to give us a bit of a chewing. “You guys are awful,” he said. “Carroll was the only guy that made any kind of a tackle when he sacked the quarterback.” OK!

§ College recommendations. As my counselor, Mr. Callow wrote recommendations for my college applications. He must have done a bang-up job: I was admitted to UC Berkeley, Harvey Mudd, Reed and Dartmouth.

§ Appearance. Mr. Callow was unusual looking, with his close-cropped crew cut, thick glasses and thoughtful facial scrunch. He appeared to be thinking a whole lot, deciding the exactly right thing to say. (He looked a lot like my Grandfather Carroll who helped shoo the elephant out of Marshall Fields in Chicago. But that’s another story.)

Then I met his wife at a Las Lomas Amigos meeting. Wow, what a stunner. This guy must really be on the ball. My esteem for Coach Callow went through the roof. I learned a lifetime lesson: we are judged by the company we keep. And the women who pick us.

Thanks for every thing, Coach.

 

Chuck Carroll - Las Lomas 1960

(Student Body President )

The Elephant in Marshall Fields

My Grandfather Ed Carroll worked in the children’s shoe department at Marshall Fields in Chicago.  When I was very small he told a story over and over about an elephant that got trapped there.

For many years I searched for evidence that this really happened.  Then in 2011 I found the story below.

Author Doris Oxford had been wintering in St. Augustine, Florida.  She took a class in writing and this was the result.

This is a great example of capturing a special story that might otherwise be lost forever. 

 “Department Store Circus” by Doris Oxford

RIVER HOUSE WRITERS  •  MARCH 11, 2011 

Midway through World War II and during my sophomore year at Hyde Park High in Chicago, I worked part-time as a wrapper in the hat department at Marshall Fields. To this day, I recall the pleasure that I always felt upon entering the magical transition with a swoosh of the revolving doors from the din of State Street into the hush that enveloped me like a genteel cloak. Genteel and urban – that was Marshall Fields!

It was the very last place that one would expect to encounter an elephant. 

One afternoon, while I was enshrouding in tissue and cardboard a $350 mink hat for the wife of Judge “Much Money,” a coworker breathlessly ran up to me and said, “You gotta see it, you gotta see it. There’s a baby elephant on three! His name is Eddie, and he’s autographing books called Eddie the Elephant¹ in the Children’s Book Department.”

 “Well now, that makes sense,” I retorted, putting the finishing flourish to the package containing Madame Much Money’s trifle. Grabbing my purse, I headed for the book department on three.

A sizeable crowd, held back by a rope barrier encircling the spectacle, overflowed the cleared area and spilled over into adjacent aisles. Somewhere in front of me, a woman exclaimed, “Isn’t he adorable? Why he’s just a baby!”

Another, probably her companion, marveled,” Isn’t it clever how he holds that stamp in his trunk?”

Aha, I thought, so that’s how it’s done. Wiggling my way into the crowd, I had intriguing glimpses of Eddie. I finally made my way up to see him actually autographing books. Meticulously, almost daintily in contrast to his bulk, and with quizzical aplomb, he performed his literary routine of clasping the stamp in his trunk and pressing it unerringly upon the flyleaf of each open book that an assistant placed on the table. I watched in amazement.

The handler announced that Eddie must leave as he had an engagement elsewhere that evening. I followed Eddie and his entourage on their way toward the freight elevator. Although I long overextended my coffee break, I had to see Eddie leave.

As Eddie stopped in front of the yawning elevator, I pushed forward to see what was going on. During the ride up, it seems Eddie had developed an instinctive aversion toward that contraption. Either that or, as one whit quipped, “Maybe Eddie’s fallen in love with the literary life and doesn’t want to leave.”

There was considerable laughter, and even the frustrated handlers turned and smiled as they went into a brief huddle. Breaking out of the huddle, the handlers turned Eddie around and tried to back him into the elevator. But an elephant with his mind made up, even if he was a baby, said no!

Eddie appeared to be growing more and more incensed with the handler’s persistent tugging and prodding. Alerted by Eddie’s ominously lowered head and shuffling feet, I edged myself backwards into the crowd. Eddie’s handlers were struggling to hold him back, and I glanced around frantically for some possible avenue of escape.

At that moment, Eddie bolted and the spangled pendant between his eyes glittered malevolently, as he headed straight at me!

The crowd surged back, and I, twisting frantically around, flung myself into an adjacent aisle, tripped and fell in a face-down sprawl on top of someone who had been unfortunate enough to precede me, but who, fortunately for me, cushioned my fall.

Looking over my shoulder, I saw no adorable baby elephant but an amok mammoth boom by on four massively thumping feet, missing my toes by scant inches. A stirring beneath me brought me to my senses. I scrambled awkwardly off my involuntary fall breaker and, with the support of a counter, managed to regain my feet.

One leg was beginning to smart from a nasty scrape just below my knee, and both stockings were ruined. It was a toss-up which pained me more, the scrape or the sight of those ruined stockings. Whew, that was close!

“Are you all right, miss?” Turing my head, I looked into the concerned eyes of a man old enough to be my father [Ed Carroll?]. Mussed hair and an askew tie were the only visible signs that he had cushioned my fall.

In the face of his polite concern, I felt a wreck and tried to compose myself, but the image of our joint headlong sprawl and its absurd intimacy defeated me. I stammered “I…think so, sorry, sorry, are you okay?”

Flustered, I looked around and saw absolute bedlam left in Eddie’s wake. Dazed, disheveled people were emerging from behind counters and adjacent aisles. One woman on all fours was retrieving the miscellany spilt from her purse. Another was hobbling around looking for a lost shoe.

“Good Lord, how did she manage that,” a man exclaimed in an awed tone, looking up over my head. I glanced around, raised my eyes and gasped. There, just under the lofty ceiling, a woman with tailored skirt and jacket, pill-box hat askew on her head, clung to the rungs of the iron maintenance ladder affixed to one of the massive pillars. It was such an incongruous sight to see a dowager type in that plight, that I laughed.

With our pillar-scaling grandma safely aground, I went in search of our department runaway. Following an obvious trail, led me to the candy department. I found him. He had succumbed to a sweet tooth – or sweet tusk, as one punster put it. A counter display of Field’s Choice Chocolates, Frango Mints, and mixed nuts, stopped Edie cold, proving the appeal of sweet blandishments. He munched away happily until corralled by his handlers and led away.

I heard later that Eddie was barricaded in a corner of the Oriental rug department which was then closed to the public for the remainder of the day. That night, a ramp was built down the service stairs. Eddie, of course, missed his evening engagement.

Back in “Wrapping,” after returning from the medical department, where my leg was treated and bandaged, my co-worker said, “About time. What did you think about Eddie the elephant?”

“They say elephants never forget. Well I’ll tell you something: I’ll never forget this day.”

 

¹Eddie Elephant. Written and illustrated by Johnny Gruelle; published in 1921 by P. F. Volland Company. A story of kindness and goodness, and of what happens when folk joyfully help each other. This is a remarkably touching and beautiful book. Gruelle is best known as the creator of Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy.

The Davis Connection

After the Army and grad school, I started a business in Davis, California. Being only 26, I experienced many formative adventures.  

In preparation I moved in with my partner Karl and his wife in nearby Woodland. Our plan was to rehab their run down Victorian and use it to fund our venture.

The plan took some effort. Karl’s home had been a rooming house for dirty old men. Seriously, a sign out in front read “No Women Allowed". It had not been painted since the 1930s. For a year we scraped and painted and saved the Italianate structure. Here’s the Old Girl at 422 Lincoln Avenue. Amazing that I did not fall off our homemade painting scaffold.

We loved motorcycles so we planned a retail shop. This was in 1968. 

We knew nothing about business so we went to the library. Books told us to get an attorney and a CPA. So we did.

We rented the old Davis livery stables at 139 G Street. Folks who knew Davis in the 60s might recall our building also housed a tiny Greyhound bus ticket office.

Since we had become quite the painters in Woodland, we painted the building inside and out. Inside we found the old Wells Fargo safe. It was 6 feet tall and weighed over 2,000 pounds. After stripping half a century of grime, we took it apart, worked out the combination, then used it every night to secure the cash.

Davis avoided the political turmoil of the 60s. It was known as a Hotbed of Apathy. But the social-sexual-drug stuff blossomed. Great place for a single guy…for a while, anyway.

[I remember my 10^th high school reunion. I was one of the few unmarried attendees and took my much younger Davis girlfriend. One male classmate checked her out and asked, “Are you liberated?” Well, sure!]

This was long before Entrepreneurialism came into vogue. Being young and liberal, we were called Hip Capitalists. Here is the Davis me, disguised as an organ grinder:

 

We helped found a new Davis Lions club. Since it met for breakfast, we called it The Earlybirds. I was the charter bulletin editor. I christened the weekly rag “The Earlybird Droppings”. The wives loved my irreverent disclosures of our meeting shenanigans.

A few of us Earlybirds had bizarre business adventures. For example, Karl, I and the Lions Club president, Fat Fred, came close to buying Mousie's, a rock and roll beer bar. Boy, dodged a bullet there.

The Lions Club was always on the lookout for charitable activities and I wanted to promote motorcycling. So we put together The Picnic Day Motorcycle Races.

Organizationally, this was complex. I was the president of a competition motorcycle club, The Hustlers. It was sanctioned by the American Motorcycle Association. But only University of California-Davis organizations can participate in Picnic Day events. So we repurposed The Hustlers to be a University club. This was possible as many members were Davis students.

We filed as a 501(c)3, then put together a joint venture agreement to promote the race with the Earlybird Lions. The University allowed us to use land across the freeway on Putah Creek. Using borrowed ag equipment, we carved out a new dirt track.

Our first Picnic Day race drew 100 riders and over 1,500 spectators. My partner was the starter, our wives and girlfriends handled the scoring, Miss Yolo County was the trophy girl and I announced the festivities.

Alas, this was so popular we sucked visitors away from other events, especially the thrilling sheep dog trials–yawn. So the University put the kybosh on future races.

I left the business after a few years, our shop soon closed and the building became a series of restaurants.

The old livery stable was torn down recently and rebuilt as a modern restaurant. We had lunch there this Spring, sitting in the space that was once our motorcycle showroom.

Fiction Reading Idea

Googling will produce a wealth of information about these authors. Enjoy.

My current favorite is Norwegian author Jo Nesbø.  Scandinavian cop fiction, well plotted. Nesbø also writes children’s books and all the lyrics for the Norwegian rock band “Di Derre” (Those Guys). He resembles British action star, Jason Statham.

Michael Connelly writes SoCal cop fiction with great economy of style.

Michael Dibdin’s Aurelio Zen series. Italian cop fiction.

James Lee Burke. Bayou sheriff fiction. Great example is The Tin Roof Blowdown set in post-Katrina New Orleans.

Walter Mosley.  SoCal crime.

I tend to see life as absurd.  So the humorous writing of Carl Hiaasen appeals.

All of these authors owe much to Elmore Leonard.  Anything by him is good. Many of his stories reached the screen:  Hud, Hombre, 3:10 to Yuma, Get Shorty etc.  The TV show Justified is based on one of his stories.

Going back…

John MacDonald’s Travis McGee stories.

Agatha Christie.  Everything.  Great commentary.

Two books I read without stopping: Joseph Heller's Catch 22 and Dan Barry’s Big Trouble.  These are both comic novels.

Don’t be afraid to revisit Steinbeck.  Two favorites are Cannery Row and Tortilla Flat.

Sleeper: Tom Rachman's The Imperfectionists: A Novel.  What at first appear to be well-crafted short stories turn out to be the arc of a disappearing industry: newspapers.  Highly recommended.

What is the common thread here?  Great story, well told.  Human characters who often learn something along the way.  Plenty of social commentary, especial about the idiocy of government.

Dislikes:

Lee Price.  Too S&M-y.

Steve Berry.  He reads like a wordy travel writer.

Robert Ludlum.  Identical formulae like he is “cranking the typewriter.”

Guilty pleasure:  Clive Cussler.  I know, I know–I am ashamed.

Walnut Creek’s First Public Art is Coming Back

Perhaps by year-end, Bene Bufano’s “Hand of Peace” will be installed in Walnut Creek’s Civic Park.  In 1967 it was installed at the Quail Court Office Park. That makes it the first public art in the city.

This piece is huge. At 32 feet tall it towers over viewers who approach. It is copper, mosaic and stained glass over a steel framework. Similar construction was used in The Statue of Liberty.

Shortly after the United States entered World War I, Bufano accidentally cut off his right index finger. He decided to mail the "trigger finger" to President Woodrow Wilson as a protest against the war. He allowed a legend to develop that he had intentionally severed the finger for this purpose.

Some critics have felt Bufano depicted his injury--as a peace statement--in the sculpture.

Developer Bill Swigert paid $50,000 to place the sculpture in Quail Court. He outbid Fox Plaza and Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco.

The Chang family bought Quail Court a few years ago. They sent the sculpture for restoration to Artworks, a Berkeley foundry.  [A web search shows Artworks to be a fascinating place.] The Changs are covering all costs, including installation. 

The work is scheduled to be on extended display for 25 years. Welcome back.

San Francisco Super Tour - January 17, 2013

On January 17^th, our bro-in-law Tom Whelan [Mr. San Francisco] toured us around San Francisco. We being Mary and David Baker plus Nannette and moi. Here we are:

After hooking up at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, we tried to get to the Top for lunch. No luck but many adventures running around inside.

So we hopped onto the cable car and rode to La Boulanger at foot of California St. Outstanding lunch. Local men noticed Tom & me in our hats. We must have looked like Trolling Bait.

Toured private bank next door. Designed by Julia Morgan, best known for Hearst Castle. Great murals and coved ceiling.

Walked by Hyatt Regency to Justin Herman Plaza. Tom explained SF rules for street artists: items must be local handicraft.

Crossed hyper-dangerous Embarcdero to reach Ferry Bldg. Had Worlds’ Greatest Cappuccino at Blue Bottle Coffee stall. Beans roasted locally just the day before.

Inside Ferry Building are large stalls a la Seattle Market.  But much cleaner with wider aisles.  All kinds of specialty food: salted pig parts, mushrooms, olive oils, etc etc.

Toured Vaillancourt Fountain in Justin Herman Plaza. First super-modern SF outdoor sculpture.

Walked through Embarcadero Center above surface streets. Tom explained that architecturally it was the beginning of the “Manhattanization” of San Francisco.  Along with Union Square and the old Jack Tarr Hotel on Van Ness, this was the filming location for Gene Hackman’s favorite movie role, The Conversation, directed by local hero Francis Ford Coppola.

Wandered up Commercial to Leidesdorff, near the TransAmerica Pyramid. The Russian lunch shop on the corner used to be a hamburger place in 60s run by a retired Jewish boxer. I used to go there for a lunch of a rare burger and 3 scotches. OMG.

Then up Commercial past Station J, site of Whisky a Go Go. My office was right next-door on the corner at Montgomery. We used to hear Johnny Rivers rehearsing in the afternoon.

Stopped by the original San Francisco mint. Strange little hidden museum.

Onward to Chinatown. Peeked into dusty doorways to see animals being prepared for restaurants. Few dogs and cats were on the streets.

Stopped at Sam Wo’s tiny restaurant, now closed. Tom explained how maître d Edsel Ford Fong would usher in the diners, insulting as many as possible. In the early 70s he chastised the glamorous young Nannette with a loud “You still not married yet? What the matter with you?”

Ambling up Grant Ave we bumped into Tom’s artist friend, John Mattos. “Say,” he asked, “Would you like to see my studio?” So up two flights and he gave us the tour. Turns out John designs US Postage stamps!  He said it was the sane part of his work, as he “often goes too far” with his other art. His wife sells it up the road in a little shop. We promised to look in later.

We crossed Columbus and moved from China to Italy. Stopped for another hit of Blue Bottle coffee at Station SF.

Then Tom explained Francis Ford Coppola’s Zoetrope Building. Coppola removed years of paint to expose the ordinal copper sheathing. To get the aged green patina, Coppola hurried things along the old Italian way: generous slatherings of horse urine.

Then we ducked down Jack Kerouac Alley to the Vesuvio Café and City Lights Books. Nannette and I stopped there on one of our first dates. Lawrence Ferlinghetti still reads poetry upstairs, and against all sense he still drives and bikes in The City. He is 93.

Further up Columbus we pass La Flora, a fine tiny restaurant we have visited several times, once with the Ritzes. Next-door is the Mattos’ gallery, The Picolo Press.

We spent a pleasant half hour chatting with John’s wife Laura and Scottie the guard dog.  Graphic art of the highest level was for sale. One can Google John Mattos to see many works.

Then off to the top of Nob Hill to retrieve the car. As one of us huffed and puffed up Powell Street, a cable car went by. I recalled that some 40 years before Nannette and I were great joggers. At this same place we ran uphill to catch a passing cable car. After we jumped aboard, all the other passengers cheered our success.

The good old days.

Captain Z-ro has blasted off for further adventures in time and space!

The Drive-In

Drive-in speakers–earbuds for the car. In fact, is not my iPhone simply a pocket sized motor movie?

One stormy Illinois night the whole family piled into a repurposed military Ford. Probably around 1948. We were provisioned with Kool-Aid, potato chips and extra blankets. Since air conditioning had not been invented we had all the windows cranked down. The blankets protected us from mosquitoes. As the sun went down the sky got still and a bit greenish. This lent extra character to the feature. “Look out, Dorothy! It’s a tornado!”

In California, our destination resort was the Pleasant Hill Motor Movie. More than once we employed the sneak-in-via-the-trunk ritual. This was in Carolyn Kelloway’s ’39 Buick. The trunk lock was jammed so we had to yank the back seat open and slither in that way. No idea how two of us fit in there. It was great preparation for being tunnel rats in Vietnam. An experience I thankfully avoided.

My personal vehicle was Barry Bertani’s 40 Ford coupe. Nicely hot-rodded up, it provided that “American Graffiti” feel to dates at the Motor Movie. By some twist of fate I also acquired Barry’s girl friend, Debbie Dean, in the bargain.

Debbie was a sweet girl, always ready go by herself to fetch set-ups from the snack bar, while I fished the plastic gin flask from under the seat. She was also as tall as I, making me a gender equality pioneer in so many ways. Or maybe she just triggered a life-long obsession with leggy super models. [“Hello. I know you are taller than I, but let me buy you a drink. I’ll just stand on this chair.”]

During my Army days, my female companion took me to the drive-in for the new Beatles’ film “Help!” We went in her Nash Metropolitan, a car far more dangerous than any Corvair. Then it rained like an SOB, fog developed inside the tiny stupid car and we had to hang our wet heads out the windows to see the screen. I am not kidding. By the time Ringo got his ring back, the Metropolitan was one of the few cars still there.

During the Hippy-Dippy days I remember taking a Flower Child I met at a Davis, Calif. smoke-in to a movie. When we reached the theater, she was pleasantly freaked out. “You mean you’re taking me to a Walk-In?”  OK!  I was a hero that night. She had a neat car, but it was not Drive-In material: a Triumph Spitfire Coupe.

There was a Drive-In connection in Davis, however. When I opened my motorcycle shop in 1968, I ran an ad every night for a year at the local Drive-In. The last picture showed my mustachioed physiognomy, 30 feet high on the outdoor screen. This raised my local hero quotient even higher.

Now all the Drive-Ins are gone. Or are they?

Next month I’ll be visiting my wife’s people near Niagara Falls. The Transit Drive-In in Lockport New York has operated more-or-less continually since 1952.

In 2011, an AARP story said there were 371 drive-ins in the United States, though it is unclear how many of these are traditional versus ad hoc “sheet-in-a-field” venues. ["Catch a Sunset Screening", AARP The Magazine (Washington, D.C.): 10, ISSN 1541-9894]

PS. My wife is as tall as I am.

Blackhawk Museum – April 1, 2012

Before the band played, I captured several cars.

1963 Thunderbird was my 7^th car. While not this show car version, mine had the 390 cubic inch V-8 and the leather seats weren’t cracked too badly. Think I paid $200 for it.

Jaguar XK-SS. 1 of only 16 ever sold. Actor Steve McQueen bought one in 1957 for $4,000. Another sold in 2005 for almost $2 million.

Wood-bodied car. Would not an accident cause serious splinter wounds?

Fatty Arbuckle’s Pierce Arrow is almost 7 feet tall. Arbuckle was the first movie star to make over a million a year. When he attended a three-day party in San Francisco, an actress died. Arbuckle was tried for her murder but quickly acquitted. He should have stayed in his car.

Here is Fatty:

Rolls Royce. Years ago in a land far away (Ft. Lauderdale, Florida) a friend had access to one of these. We drove up and down passed the infamous Elbow Room. We three couples felt so cool, until an identical Rolls pulled up next to us at a stoplight.

Can't wait until next year.