Red Rock Canyon

During my childhood, my family liked to go camping.  It was cheap, “kinda” fun and got my parents out of Los Angeles for an easy weekend escape.  And we usually did it in the summer.

But one weekend—or it could have been Spring Break or some other holiday—we loaded up the Chevrolet station wagon and headed in the direction of Las Vegas. We were not going to Las Vegas; we were going to camp at Red Rock Canyon. 

My father put up the large, musty tent in the dark and my mother heated Dinty Moore Stew on the propane cook stove.  Dinty Moore Stew was a favorite of mine at the time, unless I got a chunk of beef that was more fat than meat. I loved the soft texture of the potatoes and carrots.  I don’t think I’ve eaten it since I was a child, but they still make it.

The next morning, I caught a horned toad and held it in my hands without either the fear or revulsion I’d probably feel now. Oddly, I grew up being afraid of the big alligator lizards and smaller relatives that seem to litter the streets with their dried up carcasses on the walk home from Ivanhoe Elementary School.  But for some reason, the horned toad—or horny toad as we called it—seemed like a cute little pet.

As the day progressed, the desert winds picked up.  Red dust began to swirl and howl around my family’s canvas enclave.  We ate a sandy dinner in the tent, gave up any notion of watching a clear sky for shooting stars and went to sleep in our sleeping bags lined with duck patterned flannel. The next day, my parents decided to pack it in.  I let the horned toad loose and we loaded up the car. 

On the way back to Los Angeles, somewhere in the middle of the desert, the car broke down.  My mother, sister and I decamped to a very rudimentary motel room.  I suspect it was in Barstow.  My dad organized a tow truck and I remember sitting in the front with the driver.

Funny, isn’t it, where some memories just stop.  I have no memories of getting home, or getting the car fixed.  But I guess some camping trips were not meant to happen.  And one horned toad went on to live a life of freedom. 

Pranks by Dad

Today is Father’s Day and thinking of my father I remember, among many things, the wonderful pranks he loved to play.

When my sister and I were young (ages concealed so as not to incriminate) we seemed to have trouble remembering to flush the toilet.   Of course, this could have been my sister….  In an effort to remedy this social faux pas on our part, my dad announced that if we forgot to flush the toilet ONE MORE TIME we would have to drink the contents of the toilet.

A few mornings later, our father entered our shared bedroom to wake us up.  He was holding two glasses of urine colored liquid in his hands.  In a voice which was dead serious, he reminded us of his earlier ultimatum.  “I warned you girls…”

He gave each of us a glass and told us to “Drink.”  As I reluctantly raised the glass to my lips, still sitting in my twin bed, I felt overwhelming relief when my nose detected the smell of apple juice.  I don’t recall if our flushing skills improved, but I’ve never looked at apple juice in the same way since.

On another occasion the prank was on my mother.   In private, she had commented to my father on the length of time it took him to pee.   So a few days later, probably after my sister and I were well asleep, he filled a large jug with water and sloooowly poured it into the toilet within hearing range of my mother.  She must have thought that he had the bladder of an elephant.

Lest one think that all of his pranks were toilet based, he chose a national park for another joke.  He took a container of cookies from our camping store and secreted it in a trashcan.  A few minutes later, as he and my mother walked by the trashcan, he lifted the lid, grabbed the cookies and began eating.  My horrified mother could only shout “OH Al!”

My mother had quite a few female friends who were rather uptight and conservative.  Many were unmarried schoolteachers.  My dad liked to shake them up a bit.

When I was an adult and living far away, one of my mother’s friends invited her to an all woman party.  By this time my father was retired and had plenty of time on his hands to concoct crazy ideas.  He went to the Goodwill and bought a most unattractive dress, Queen Elizabeth style handbag and wig.  On the day of the party, he stuffed his “front” low and full in a way reminiscent of Eleanor Roosevelt or British matrons in black and white movies. He put on the wig, a dab of lipstick and off my parents drove to Glendale and the party.  Alfreda Bagley was a huge success.

For my mother’s 70^th birthday, my son dressed up as Alfred Bagley Junior.  The pranks continue.

The Italian VIsit

Another summer had arrived at Angus Street and, as was the custom, my father picked us up on the last day at Ivanhoe Elementary School and took us horseback riding in Griffith Park.  This terrified my mother who had a fear that we would be bucked off onto Fletcher Blvd, or worse, the nearby freeway.  We survived every time.  But the year that I was around nine years old we were greeted at home with fascinating news.

My mother told us that her good friend, and former and fellow Burbank School District music teacher, would be coming to visit with her husband and two children.  They would be taking the train all the way across the country from New Jersey.  Priscilla and John had a son about my age and a daughter just a touch younger than my sister.  I was excited. 

When all the sleeping arrangements had been made and the house cleaned, we finally drove down Sunset Boulevard, past Olvera Street, to Union Station.  I now know it as a beautiful retro building seen in many movies, and, at the time, I must admit, I had never been to such an opulent train station.  The little Atwater station was nothing like it.  Union Station was not the sort of place that you put a penny on the tracks to find it flattened.   And, frankly, we didn’t know any people who traveled by train.

We waited at the tracks for the train to pull in, and I can only image now how tired the family must have been.  My first and very vivid memory was of the father, John.  He was wearing a navy blue, double-breasted suit.  My dad dressed more “Mad Men” and there wasn’t a single double- breasted suit in his wardrobe, let alone anything navy blue.

The two families quickly melded; the adults talking and the kids playing.  There was the de rigueur trip to Disneyland where Priscilla mouthed to my mother that the Magic Castle was a “J.I.P.”   But I was in pig heaven.  We probably went to Marineland too, but I have no memories of that.

The one two-family expedition that I vividly remember was when Priscilla took us back to her old neighborhood in Burbank/Glendale.  I can still see the sycamore trees and the 1960’s bungalows that lined the street.  This is where the story gets fuzzy.  Do you remember the TV series in the 1950’s called “December Bride”?  Well, Verna Felton, a character on the show (a show that I had watched when I was home sick) had been a neighbor.  But the visit on that neighborhood trip that really wowed me was to the home of the widow of Babe Ruth.  I was impressed.

Then one day during the stay of the New Jersey family the father, a violinist, announced that he would like to make an Italian meal for all of us. 

Now—my mother was a good cook.  But “regional/ethnic” cuisines were a bit lacking and supplemented a great deal by Lawry’s packets of spices and MSG.  So for the Smithson family, spaghetti meant pouring a packet of Schilling spices and powders into tomato sauce, simmering it, and dumping it over spaghetti pasta and topping it with Parmesan cheese from a green cylindrical container.  Trust me, this didn’t happen often as my mother had a great fear of us getting FAT.  To my mother, pasta equaled getting FAT.  This is why I love macaroni and cheese.  But I digress from the story.

John took off his navy blue double-breasted suit and started to cook.  Smells like I had never experienced wafted through the Angus Street house.  Oregano, basil, garlic, and rich tomatoes simmered into a sauce.  And when the dinner was served, I was rather shocked.  THIS was not the Italian food that I had known. 

There was music too.  The daughter played a memorable version of “I am climbing Jacob’s Ladder” and, though I don’t recall this, I am certain my parents must have played their guitars and sung their repertoire of folk songs.  Perhaps John played his violin.

Year later the New Jersey family would return.  But that is for another story.

Diamond Jubilee: The Queen's Skin Redux

I spent the summer of 1974 working in a pickle factory in Regensburg, Germany, having finished my studies in Stockholm.  Now it was on to Glasgow, Scotland.  My boyfriend drove me as far as Strasbourg where we shared one twin bed in a hotel the night before my departure.  They next day I set out carrying literally everything I possessed.

I had a backpack, suitcase, duffle bag, money hidden in the bid of my overalls and a passport. I boarded the train and did the Hollywood style farewell from the window.

The train chugged across France to the English Channel and I decamped to an overnight ferry.

As we neared the white cliffs of Dover—and well before I would hear that song in my mind when listening to those words—the ship’s P.A. system asked all non-British persons to report to a certain area to deal with customs.  I stood behind a youngish American, the type that didn’t have the savvy to put a Canadian flag on his backpack.  The customs agent asked him a question and his answer was “Hunghh.”  He was immediately rebuked.  “In this country, sir, we say ‘pardon’.”   This was my introduction to a country I would live in for several years.

The ferry took us across the channel and I re-boarded a train to Victoria station.  From there I took a taxi past Buckingham Palace to Euston Station and finally a train to Glasgow,

It was one of those trains where two people sit facing another two people over a laminate table. Riding in trains was something I had never experienced until I went abroad.  In LA we had our cars.  I was also not aware of the types of magazines women read in Britain.  This was well before PEOPLE and magazines of that ilk. 

Across from me was an elderly woman reading one of those inexpensive women’s magazines that promise good sex lives, answers to problems by an “agony aunt, ” and tricks to stretch one’s wardrobe. I think the title was WOMAN’S OWN.

 I watched out the window as London quickly disappeared and a rural landscape took over.  The woman was very friendly and asked about me and my trip.  I explained that I was going to Glasgow to do graduate work at Strathcylde University.  As we reached the Lake District, I saw sheep—tons of them.  And they were spray painted with different colors.

The train chugged along as the elderly woman read her magazine.  Suddenly she looked up at me and said  “Doesn’t she have beautiful skin?”  She held up a page with a picture of Queen Elizabeth.

I was a bit taken aback.  I have never found Queen Elizabeth to be a “looker.”  And now I had to be polite to my friendly passenger. I was in my early twenties, the Queen in her 50’s and the woman in her 70’s.  I believe I muttered something fairly kind.   But what that comment taught me was the utter devotion of some British to the Royal Family.  I am married to a Scot who abhors the royals.  I do suppose that not having to get up at all hours to go to work, having someone put toothpaste on your toothbrush and seeing your face on all the stamps and money will make for good skin.  I’ll never know.

Addendum:

I did see Queen Elizabeth II in person three times.  Twice she was being driven down Edinburgh’s Royal Mile for a stay at Holyrood Palace—site of Mary Queen of Scots’ lover’s assassination--and the upcoming garden parties.  The third time, was when I scored tickets to the Order of the Garter ceremony at St. Giles Cathedral.  I plunked on a simple straw hat and stood with the best of them. But I never thought her pancake covered skin looked “lovely.” ZCYY6H

Scratchy

I suppose that each holiday has its up and downs; the positives and the negatives.

Thanksgiving requires eating, if you are a kid.  But when you are the adult host it is a different story entirely.  There is the slaving in the kitchen and trying to make a Martha Stewart performance meal.  And always the question of what to do with that little icky bag of giblets inside the turkey.

Christmas is a wonderful event if you are a kid.  But if you are the mom it means buying and decorating the tree (plus dealing with an irritable husband whose patience is tried three fold by the time he tries to straighten the fir for the fourth time.) Then there is the buying of presents—and wrapping them—hanging the stockings and buying the stuff that will go in them, cooking the meals for both Christmas Eve and day.   Oh, and Christmas cards.

No wonder I want a glass of champagne as we open gifts.

Easter is another story.  It was always tied up with church and scratchy dresses and silly hats.  Was it some odd Puritan thing that kids needed to be uncomfortable in their Easter Sunday best in order to get the chocolate? If truth were told, I would much rather have had black licorice and wear jeans.

Lay odl lay old lay hee hoo

I grew up in a family of music.  My mother taught it.  My father played it. I listened to it.  And I was forced to attempt playing it with the piano, guitar and flute.

 My parents sang in embarrassing harmony during church services and played their guitars for Boy Scout gold dinners.  Unfortunately, it went no further as American Idol didn’t exist in those days.

My sister and I were taken to Pasadena to see Florence Henderson in the Sound of Music.  We went to The Man From La Mancha, Mame and A Chorus Line at the Schubert Theater in downtown Los Angeles.

When we got our first “hi-fi” console at Angus Street my father mysteriously disappeared into the hallway closet that had a secret hatch into the attic space.  My sister and I were prudentially warned NEVER to walk on anything but the beams up there.  In a short while my father had carved out a pretty cool music system by placing speakers into the ceilings of the bedrooms.  Frankly, I was rather impressed.

And so it was that on varying holidays my sister and I would be awakened with the appropriate music.  On Halloween, for instance, it was Dans Macabre or Night on Bald Mountain.  Much better than an alarm clock.

One day, sitting in the New Room, (check out an older post) my dad and I were looking at his collection of LP records.  Amidst the Elaine May /Mike Nichols and Bob Newhart sketches and a record made by a woman who made her fame by singing off key (which is surprising difficult if you have a good “ear”) were his favorite singers. He told me whom he liked and why and, other than Burl Ives, he was right.  There was Pete Seeger—who my parents took us to see at Idyllwild.  I’m sorry to say that all I remember of that trip was the swimming pool and an old man with a banjo.  Patty Paige, Julie London, Ella were other favorites of my father.  HE went for the sultry.

 My mom’s records tended toward Leonard Bernstein…and yes, my sister and I had to sit through his Young People’s Concerts. (Bernstein always reminded me of my Uncle Max—and now I know why.) She also liked Matt Munro and anyone singing light opera, especially Rogers and Hammerstein. There was the sound track to Flower Drum Song and musicals that I had never heard of.  My mother also had a thing for tenors. 

Fast-forward many years and this explains why, when driving across the Dolomites in southern Europe with a (thankfully) long gone boyfriend, I suddenly burst into song:

“High on a hill was a lonely goatherd- lay odl lay odl lay hee hoo.”

Beans

Dill Beans

In the early 1980’s we became friends with a woman who lived in a cabin in the Washington woods, taught the deaf and was one of the best cooks I’ve ever known.  When we would arrive at her cabin on the Kitsap Peninsula, we would be greeted with a Bloody Mary that always had a dilled string bean in the glass.  The beans, and the drink, were memorable.

Despite working in a Regensburg pickle factory, I still love a dill pickle. Despite spending six weeks smelling of vinegar and dill and shoving cucumbers into a jar, I feel fortunate that the Hengstenberg Pickle Company made crap pickles.  Therefore, I am still able to enjoy a good pickle—ala Hub Mart’s deli—or more recently, Bubbies. 

Our friend was kind enough to give me the recipe.  I remember when my mother once asked someone (who lived on Los Feliz Blvd. and thought she was the bee’s knees) the woman declined.  My mother was shocked. There are those sorts of women who leave out the key ingredient so that even if they share the recipe, it’s never quite the same.  I can understand if your recipe is from some award-winning restaurant, but in Silverlake,….come on.  Mrs. B.—you should be ashamed.

The making of dill beans became a summer ritual.  First in Seattle, and then in Honolulu.  I grew dill and bought the beans.  Usually I would invite a coterie of women and round up my son and his friends.  We would sanitize the jars, boil the vinegar and salt, boil the lids of the Mason jars and wash and cut the stems of the green beans.  Often it was a domestic assembly line:  one person washing, another cutting, someone else stuffing the jars and another pouring in the brine and sealing the jars. 

I did this for many summers and included many friends.  All of the friends have moved elsewhere.  Then I stopped. 

But this summer I saw a small dill plant and bought it.  It has grown strong and produced many of the heads that are perfect to put in the bottom of the jar of dill beans.

And so, now in my kitchen, there are eight jars of dill beans.

My son visited last week, and the first thing he noticed was a jar of dill beans.  We opened one and, for the first time, shared them with my grandson.  He loved them too.  My son ate too many and even drank the juice.  I ate a few.  We all woke up with swollen eyes from all the salt, but it was worth it.   Thank you, RF.