Rolls-Royce love, Part 2

HE AND GEORGE WONG became great friends and he visited “China Town” often. 

The conversations were about cars, especially Rolls-Royces. It seemed George knew the location of every Rolls-Royce is Riverside and San Bernardino counties. His own Rolls remained unrepaired. George said there was an ongoing lawsuit with the woman who caused the damaged fender. In all the years that he knew George, the fender remained damaged.

The time came to ask George for help in finding a Rolls-Royce. George told him there were three cars stored in a garage in Riverside, and the owner couldn’t pay the rent. George gave him the name and address ,and without delay he called on one James Johnson. After a brief discussion Mr. Johnson agreed to show him the cars.

Of the three cars, a big boxy Silver Ghost -- said to have belonged to Estelle Taylor, wife of the prize fighter Jack Dempsey -- was offered first as the best buy. It was in terrible condition, and a Murphy body convertible looked more promising. Later, he recalled he was very wrong. The Ghost chassis became more popular and valuable with time. But he liked the Murphy bodied car the most.

When he told George Mr. Johnson asked only $150 for the car, George nearly exploded. “*#*^x*#*, Mac, get bill of sale and pink slip. Hurry up!” So he paid the $150 for his first Rolls-Royce. He remembered the price rose quickly on the remaining cars.

After a few weekends of hard work, he was surprised how quickly much of the splendor of the Rolls, Number S287FP, had returned. He had the upholstery brought to life, too.  He found out his was a Springfield car, made in Massachusetts when Roll-Royce attempted an expansion into the States. (Fifty years later, the car was auctioned in Europe for a hundred and eighty thousand dollars and had spent 20 years in a museum.)

Murphy body Silver Ghost.

When the car was in order he went to visit and show it to George. He parked the car in the usual place and George came out. They chatted across the front seats, he remembered, George standing beside the car, facing the length of his property. Suddenly, without a pause in their conversation, George drew a revolver and fired past him at a group of people dumping trash at the west end.

The bullet had to have passed close to his left ear, he thought. Alarmed, he turned around to determine the target and hunch down below the door top. George said to him, smiling, “Don’t worry, Mac, barrel crooked.”

The old pistol’s barrel was rusty and six sided. He stayed seated on the running board to collect his thoughts. The group a hundred and fifty yards away seemed not disturbed. There was no telling where the bullet went.

George had a number of cars in almost running condition. He recalled Packard and Dodge convertibles both of the early thirties and an air-cooled Franklin of an earlier age. The Packard was  partly concealed by a fallen roof. In today’s market they all would have brought a fortune, regardless of their condition.

One day he brought his tiny young daughter to see George and she noticed chickens voicing their concern at their approach; George kept them principally as warning devices. She joyfully shouted, a long remembered, “Coo Coo George!”

Far from it, Sweetie, he said to himself, smiling.

Rolls-Royce love, Part 1

The unmistakable RR grill.

An iron-jawed bug bit him.

On a bright sunny day in Los Gatos, he was walking along with his friend Ladd Brown when a Rolls-Royce rounded a corner.  There was no coach on the car, just a chassis. The driver was sitting at the wheel on a wooden box. But even with no body on the car, he knew a Rolls when he saw one.

There was beauty just in the chassis. He asked Ladd if he knew the driver. Ladd had answered in the negative, but commented that whoever he was, he for sure had a great set of wheels in these Depression days.

The Rolls-Royce grill has glittered in his mind ever since, he remembered later. After all the schooling, the war, and more study, he settled down to enjoy the postwar dream with his wife and young family. On his trips home from the office, rolling past Riverside’s old Chinatown, he began to take notice of an old Rolls-Royce occasionally parked at the curb.

It was rather tatty, as the Brits would say, with little paint and a torn fender. But it looked like it was all there. He decided to go on the property and talk to the owner.

George Wong in the 1960s.

He knew it would be George Wong, because his name recently had been in the newspaper. Wong was the last denizen of the Chinese community in town and something of a character.  Whether you called it a junkyard or the remnants of Chinatown, everyone knew about George.

He got out of his car and hadn't walked very far before George Wong was beside his elbow asking him what he wanted, in not very easily understood English. After a few more words he asked his name. There was a pause. Then George's attitude changed slightly from gruff to reasonable. George instructed him to move his car, which he did, and after climbing out noticed he was standing between a falling-down restaurant and a bamboo patch with a sea of rusty cars beyond. Chickens pecked here and there.

Once again, George asked him his name. Then George blurted out, "I knew your father."

Site of George's property.
"Wong Way" was named for him
in 1961. 

This was incredible. His father had passed away in 1925 in Hollywood. How would they have met? But then George pinched his forehead and sawed a hand across back and forth as if playing a cello.

It had to be true. His father had played cello in a string quartet. He recalled that when his father was concentrating on the music, a vein would stand up on his forehead.

George said again, "I knew him."

Well, after this he knew he would get along famously with George Wong.

Now, about that Rolls-Royce.

To be continued.

Operator, operator

Coast Guard emblem ca. 1942.

Editor's note: We return now to the summer of 1942 and the narrator's dashed hopes for getting into the Coast Guard Band. The Coast Guard was now ready for its latest recruits.

After a few weeks of living in the garages of the California Yacht Club, the new barracks were finally complete and we moved in.  

The new Coastguardsmen, individually and in squads, were taken by boat down the Los Angeles Harbor channel to Watch Horn Basin in San Pedro for uniforms. He remembered he was equipped with a full allotment of clothing and a sea bag to carry the gear. When it was his turn he was also issued a Springfield rifle and ordered to carry out sentry duty on the pier until relieved. Off the watch he could sleep on a small yacht tied to the pier. 

This was more like it, he said to himself. He was finally in uniform and was carrying the same kind of rifle with which he drilled when he was attending a military school. He knew how to operate the rifle, but was shown how anyway.

PBX switchboard.

The moment for permanent assignment of duties came in the division of the Coast Guard then referred to as "Captain of the Port." He assumed all ports were protected by the Coast Guard with this organization during the war. At the morning muster he learned he was in a group whose duties included care and operation of the base itself. There was a need for an additional PBX (switchboard) operator of the office. A Chief Petty Officer asked for anyone who could operate a PBX to raise his hand. He had never operated a PBX, but he had seen a lot of them in action and punched out a lot of lights himself answering phone calls on the reservations board. He raised his hand.

Captain Frank Higbee was the Captain of the Port. The captain’s office (which the new coastguardsman would never see) was at the back, over the channel. The PBX office was near the front steps. 

El Centro's Barbara Worth Hotel.

After a briefing he was brought to Ray Worth, the duty operator, who was not glad to see a new recruit. Nevertheless, he showed him who belonged to which light on the switchboard. It was a simple operation. Later on when the new operator became more  efficient, Ray loosened up. Ray told him one of his aunts was the Barbara Worth for whom a well-known hotel in El Centro was named. Later in his railroad career, he became familiar with the hotel and recalled his days with Ray.

There were interesting tales floating around on the base concerning Capt. Higbee, he remembered. One said he was picked up at 3 a.m. in a dark part of the harbor dressed in rags and a large straw sombrero, rowing a small boat. The harbor patrol, it was said, was not amused. 

Another had Higbee's face clawed by a patrol leader as the captain, on a dark night,  tried to board a docked boat. The patrol leader’s excuse was the person coming aboard may have been wearing makeup. (This was close to Hollywood, after all, and the patrol boat’s commander had himself been an actor.)

Capt. Higbee, it was said, had finally stopped this peculiar kind of patrolling after he had attempted to grab a sentry’s rifle and was dumped on the ground. 

He had a distinguished war career and retired an admiral. Sometime later, Higbee was appointed by the Harbor Department to the position of Port Warden.

Wartime defense installations around San Pedro and the Palos Verdes Peninsula, 1940s.
Image from the Coast Defense Study Group, http://www.cdsg.org/home.htm.

On the downbeat

There's more than one way to fight a war.

“GOODBYE, MOTHER. I’ll write when I can.”

It was July 1942 and his draft number date was rapidly approaching. He’d decided to take the advice of a family friend and enlist in the Coast Guard instead of waiting to be drafted. But not to be a gob. He was the holder of not one, but two, brand-new degrees in music from the College of the Pacific, so naturally he was going to enlist in the Coast Guard Band. 

Like the millions of soldiers and sailors before and after, he was prepared to leave home and return … he knew not when. He packed and said goodbye to his mother, Jessica, at their apartment on Carlton Way near Hollywood Boulevard. With the shock of Pearl Harbor not yet worn off, Jessica didn’t think she was sending her son off to fight, she thought he’d be safely sitting out the war on a bandstand in an officers’ club somewhere.

Oscar Collins, a Pacific Electric trial lawyer and close friend of his mother’s, was a sort of mentor, helping him get a job with the Southern Pacific Railroad after he finished his classes in February 1942. He quickly climbed through the lowest of the office ranks, starting as a file clerk and currently working as a telephone reservation clerk. The lawyer, he recalled, had some dash. The Collins family had been associated with Wyatt Earp.

It was while on this undemanding job one day that Oscar called downstairs to tell him that the Coast Guard was forming an Eleventh District band. Oscar mentioned that the recruiting office was just a few blocks up Main Street from the S.P. building, and since he had been a trombonist for many years, why didn’t he go over to apply? This kind of tip wasn’t called networking then, but here was a very good idea. If he waited around to be drafted, he'd end up in the Army. Cannon fodder -- with asthma.

After saying goodbye to his mother, he had figured it would also be a good idea to do the same with his boss, Charlie Pestor, the district passenger agent at the S.P. Pestor was a really decent man, he knew, and the older man reminded him not to leave without first getting a signed letter from the company in order to have a leg up on a job when he returned.

So he headed out the front door of the S.P. building at Sixth Street without regret.  Anyway, he was more than a little tired of reading wires addressed: J M BARGER SP PULLMAN LOS ANGS.

Walking up Main Street, he saw that the recruiting office was in the San Fernando Building. He stepped up to the officer there to ask about the band and was promptly informed that everybody had to be sworn in first before any requests would be heard. So he lined up with the other ten or twelve young men there and was duly sworn into U.S. Coast Guard.

The great Jack Teagarden.

Now it was time to try for the Eleventh District trombone position. Sorry, the officer replied, all the positions are all filled, the last one by Jack Teagarden. Jack Teagarden! He knew Jack Teagarden was one of the best and most famous trombonists in the country! The last slot!

So much for the Coast Guard Band, he thought. He was now going to be a gob after all.

There wasn't much time to think about it. He and the others were ordered to report directly to the Coast Guard base in Wilmington, which turned out to be housed in what had been the California Yacht Club, tower and all. He and the other new coastguardsmen were shown where they would be bunking.  He was surprised to find that the accommodations were the former crescent of garages where yachtsmen kept their cars while they were boating.

The yacht club in Wilmington.

However, he also noticed that there was no bedding on the steel cots. He wondered if the recruiters thought there was not much, at the moment, for which to recruit. The Japanese, after all, were thousands of miles from the California coast.

Then a chief petty officer approached the waiting men. He listened with consternation and amazement as the petty officer told them there had been a "snafu." Not only were there no bunks, there were no uniforms. You might as well all go home, the petty officer concluded. Come back tomorrow.

No band, no bunk, no uniform… his military career was certainly off to a good start! And was his mother ever going to be surprised. He headed back to Hollywood.

-30-

The aviator

Taylor Cub in the 1930s.

IN 1940, HE DECIDED TO FLY.

It was part adventurous youth and part patriotism. Around the time he started flight school, the Nazis invaded Denmark and Norway and were on their way to the Low Countries and France. The country might need pilots.

Besides, he was enjoying just being alive.

Tularemia

In 1939 he had come down with a fearsome disease, missing the fall semester at Modesto Junior College. Tularemia, found all over the world but named for Tulare County, is spread by small animals. His dog had killed a sick rabbit, and the next thing he knew he was very, very sick.

In those days, tularemia was eighty percent fatal, so he was lucky to recover. His mother, Jessica, a nurse, knew a thing or two about doctors. She fired the first one, who had lost a patient to tularemia, and found another with more experience with the disease. After a long convalescence, he returned to school for the spring semester and decided to enroll in pilot training. 

Modesto Airport and neighborhood, 1940. Photo by Dorothea Lange.

The federal government staffed the Civil Pilot Training Program at Modesto Junior College, a year-old program created with the idea of stimulating interest in private aviation and boosting sales of small planes. The admission requirements closely matched those of the military, so trainees like him had a fast track into the armed air forces if they chose.

He knew that the program was a Depression-era stimulus, but in the back of his mind was the distant war in Europe.

The ground school class was held in the evening with about a dozen students. He and his classmates -- who to his surprise included a young woman -- learned basic meteorology and the dynamics of flight. It was serious curriculum and there were a lot of exams. After a few weeks of ground school at MJC, they began meeting at the Modesto Airport.

The class was drilled in inspection before taking off: checking gas level, the general condition of the craft. The planes they were going to learn to fly were Taylor Cubs, bright yellow in color and well maintained. Somebody was taking care of them, but the students never saw a mechanic. 

Into the cockpit

The day arrived when it was his turn to climb into the passenger seat, parachute strapped on, and eager to be off the ground. At the time, he didn't realize the instructor at the controls was also checking out his reactions in taking off and flying. The instructor just said they were just going to fly around and land and that the students would take the stick later. 

It was exhilarating, the thought that he was actually going to fly this thing. The thought of crashing and dying was as distant as the war. He'd nearly died a few months ago anyway. What was the difference?

The lessons piled on until he was ready to fly the Cub himself, sometimes being ripped apart by the instructor for being slow or stupid. The instructor had a large vocabulary of curses. 

But he learned standing fast and soloed in just eight hours. In fact, no one in the class flunked.

Oddly enough, the one time he remembered being afraid was not for his own safety. Nearly the whole class was standing near the airport office watching Betty Fitch, their female classmate, soloing for the second time. Suddenly, when she was at about five thousand feet directly over the field, her engine quit. They all stopped breathing. But Betty circled the airport, gradually descending to the level of the  flight pattern, came around and made a perfect dead-stick three-point landing.

They all cheered, both with relief and impressed with this fine demonstration of airmanship. Later, he talked about it with Betty. She said she sweated some.

The aviator's career

After a few more weeks they all received their pilot’s licenses and were credited with a hundred solo hours.

Then, for him and three other newly minted pilots, it was off to Castle Army Air Force Base at Merced to see what might develop toward a flying career. To his surprise the welcome mat was out. Way out. Although Pearl Harbor was still a few months away, hundreds of certified civilian pilots were signing up every month with the Army and Navy. A year later, nearly 7,500 program graduates would be in the military.

When it was his turn for the military physical, the M.D. started asking questions and looking at his nose. Perforated septum. More questions. Did he have asthma as a child? Affirmative. Out.

His proposed military flying career ended at that moment. He'd "augured in” before he really got off the ground. 

But the exhilaration was worth it. He went back to "real" school to finish the rest of his education.

The Los Gatos Playing Field Disaster

The 1929 Chevy.

PEGGY STANFIELD LIVED IN THE LARGE HOUSE on the northwest corner of the intersection of Glen Ridge and Hernandez Avenues. He easily recalled this because they shared the same piano teacher and this was where a recital was  to be held -- and where it all started.

Prior to leaving his home he had been admonished by his stepfather to come home directly after the recital. He walked up the street, noting the moonrise and enjoying the cool night air -- and also being in a slight swivet over the coming performance. He believed he was no musician, and never would be. He had agreed to take lessons to satisfy his mother, who was apparently of the opinion he could be a genius composer like his late father.

Where it started.

As he entered the Stanfield house he glanced at the small audience. He immediately noticed Bob Bedford. Bob was a neighbor, and his presence at the recital indicated he was probably up to no good. Bob was never up to any good, he remembered. He was a prankster. Beside Bedford sat Jeanne Kretsinger, a mutual neighbor and classmate at Los Gatos High School, and a good friend.

The recital went well, he recalled. No one made a bad error or stumbled into embarrassment. He believed he himself had done fairly well. He had learned his piece by ear. On the way out Bedford said they were going to a place in San Jose for a soda or shake and invited him to go with them. He remembered getting into the car without thinking about his stepfather’s advice.  Reflecting now with the wisdom of age, he imagined it was exactly what any other 15-year-old would do.

Peggy Stanfield was his companion in the back seat. In San Jose they had stopped at a drive-in burger stand, and he remembered they also had ice cream sodas all around. That was all. The trip back to los Gatos was uneventful; just chatter, he recalled. But when he finally looked at his watch, he really broke  into a sweat. He’d been gone a long time. He'd ignored his stepfather. It wouldn’t have been a good idea to ask Bedford to speed up, either.

Bedford was driving his father’s '28 or '29 Chevrolet sedan. He drove it when his father, a marine engineer, was at sea. The next few minutes were a blur until he realized the car was on the playing field of the high school. He remembered yelling at Bob asking him what he was doing and the answer was “I’m going to try a skid on the grass.” He remembered saying to himself Uh-oh as the maneuver failed. Instead of a skid they were in a roll, and forever in his mind he would remember watching the grass coming up to him and the car slowly tilting until it was resting on its top.

In his memory, he could recreate the whole scene: the Chevy full of kids, the green grass in the bright moonlight, and Peggy screaming and screaming as the car went over.

Peggy was still screaming at the row of houses that lined the field as they all crawled out. No one seemed hurt so, just as in the movies, he slapped Peggy and told her to shut up. She did. He lay on his back near the still slowly turning right front wheel, collecting his thoughts. He watched the moon as it  periodically appeared through the hole in the disk wheel that provided access for filling the inner tube. He later recalled the moon must have been in a  perfect alignment with his eyes and the turning wheel for this to occur.

He recalled the brief, extreme silence and thinking at the same time about how to get Peggy home and what his stepfather was going to do. Then he made another mistake. Instead of asking Peggy to call her parents to take them home, he had decided to call his stepfather. Bad plan.

Later, although he could remember the episode on the playing field in detail, he didn't remember the scene when he arrived home. It was bad enough that his usually kind stepfather didn’t speak to him for weeks. He endured many, many dinners that ended in the same chilly silence with which they had begun.

Somehow, though, things eventually got back to normal. His memory fails him now with regard to the whereabouts of Bob Bedford, or how Bedford got his father’s Chevy back on its wheels, or what happened after that. He never spoke to Peggy Stanfield again. Perhaps she was mad at being slapped.

No great loss, he decided … he was busy with Hester de Lisle.

-30-

Obituary for Hester

HE STOOD AND STARED DOWN AT THE CURB. How many times, so many years ago, had he crossed this curbing of Glen Ridge Avenue on the way home from school? He was standing on a low shelf allowing him to see across the valley. Somewhat obscured now but most of Los Gatos visible. He turned and looked at the house behind him. Still much the same, he mused. The outside plumbing had been removed but the main features were still in place. Two smaller windows had replaced the single wide one in the front south corner. What a view he had from the room behind that window. It was the best bedroom in the house for viewing. He loved Los Gatos. A small town when he had lived in the house. Few people, relatively. It was now smothered in Silicon Valley.

Los Gatos High School was far different from the public schools he had attended in Los Angeles. He had thought about this from time to time and come to the conclusion that it was the quality of the teachers. Apparently there was something about teaching in a small town that produced a closer relationship, teacher with student. He noted that he could recall the names of the Los Gatos teachers, but couldn't remember any who taught his classes at Fairfax High or Le Conte Junior High in L.A.

It hadn't taken him long to make friends at the new school. Ladd Brown became his best friend and often picked him up and dropped him off with his father's hand-me-down 1930 Ford convertible.

And then there was Hester. She had told him she was a direct descendent of Roget de Lisle, composer of the French national anthem. Some girl, he thought, must have been all of 14 years; a charmer. He had found her interesting and attractive, mature for her age, carrying herself and thinking like an adult. He recalled, of course, he was of a tender age himself when he entered Los Gatos High School, and still had the Page Military Academy brace. After L.A., life in Los Gatos was like being in a kind of paradise, he remembered. There was always a freshness in the air. The climate and ambience were very near perfect.

His thoughts returned to Hester, remembering that as a couple they were more like pals, companions, than high school sweethearts. Rummaging through his memory, he believed their companionship was more intellectual than anything else. Young enough to be playful, too. He recalled with pleasure the now-unbelievable wrestling matches they carried out on the carpet in the front room of her home in Saratoga. There was no fooling around, he recalled. Hester just tried to pin him down. And no smooching – or whatever smooching is called these days, he said to himself.

He would never forget, he thought, the pleasure he had in Hester's company. There was dancing at the Colony Club in Saratoga, group trips to the City to dance in the Peacock Court at the Mark Hopkins. School affairs, the beach at Santa Cruz, calling in the summertime. On one excursion he had stayed in the water too long and missed the ride back to Los Gatos. Hester and a few other girls were staying at a house with a chaperone near the beach. It had gotten late, and he did not relish the thought of hitchhiking home in the dark, so he had gone to the house hoping his need for a place to sleep would be recognized and answered. It was. He phoned his parents – collect – and bedded down on the living room carpet. The chaperone gave him a blanket and Hester, after things had quieted down, came running out in her nightgown from wherever she was to sleep, bent down and kissed him goodnight, and ran back to bed. He was surprised, and a little stunned. He never mentioned the event to any of his friends.

It was all too good to last, he told himself. His stepfather had to move to Modesto for business, and hot days and hot nights were in prospect. The change was difficult to manage, but he had to do it.  Looking back, he had believed at the time he was moving from the heaven of Los Gatos to the inland hell of Modesto. Ladd Brown kept him informed. Hester de Lisle had entered Stanford University. Ladd was also at Stanford and had asked Hester to marry him. She declined.

Time certainly moves on, he mused. New people came into his life and old times were forgotten – but not his Los Gatos years. In his old age he considered contacting old friends. Ladd had died early on, so he began researching Hester. He had used Stanford's Quad yearbook, meeting via the internet some engaging people. He found she had married Sam Beard, a classmate, in 1942. Hester graduated from Stanford cum laude in 1944, gave birth to a boy in 1950, and died in 1991. Since she had been born in 1921, she lived 70 years and was married for 50 of them. He found she had lived in Carmel Valley and died in a Monterey hospital. He found she had been involved in a publication named Inside San Jose for a short period.

He discovered that Hester de Lisle Beard's name will forever be found on the web for her contribution to a book listed in WorldCat.org, in which she told of her great-grandmother's experience crossing the Great Plains.

But in spite of a diligent search, he found no obituary for Hester.

Hester de Lisle Beard sleeps in the verdant and shady Madronia, he knew, because she had been a resident of Saratoga. The cemetery is open to people of accomplishment or fame, he remembered, turning away.