Our Trip West (Click most images for larger versions.)
Once I discovered them, I loved going to the movies.
The cinema offered a form of escape, a window onto other worlds and times outside the confines of my own. When I was younger, I went to the movies to escape the harsh reality of our life in Brooklyn and to avoid the reach of my stepfather. But, as the Great Depression crimped our already limited life-style, I went to the movies to escape my sense of lack—a sense that, to some degree, would haunt me the rest of my life. But, the movies made all that stop for awhile, and my gratitude and love for them has been with me ever since. Even to this day I still experience a frisson of anticipation when the lights go down. [Click image for larger version.]
In New York, once we were an item, Bud and I went to the movies every week, but later in Santa Paula he didn't show as much interest in them. I don't know whether he initially went just to be with me or whether he enjoyed them, too. Once in Santa Paula, however, his interest faded. In fact, it seems I can only remember him going to one movie after the new Santa Paula Fox Theater was built: "Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines." By then he was an avid aviator, which is why he got up and walked out once he realized that the movie wasn't about the history of flight—it was a silly movie. At any rate, one of the movies we saw together in Brooklyn convinced us to "Go West!"
The film was A Star is Born, the 1937 release starring Janet Gaynor and Fredric March, about waxing and waning stardom in Hollywood. It showed a warm, clean, clear, beautiful Los Angeles, throbbing with color, adorned with palm trees and wide boulevards and orange groves and sweeping vistas with the Pacific Ocean as a backdrop. The effect was such a startling contrast and magical respite from the cold, dreary December waiting outside the theater that I felt a sense of loss mixed with claustrophobia when the film ended. Those feelings transformed into one of rebellion when the biting winter wind assaulted my face as we exited. I kept thinking, "It doesn't have to be this way."
We drove our new Chevy to the show, and in the car on the way home we both sat, cold and quiet, until I voiced what it turned out we were both thinking, "Just because we were born here doesn't mean we have to stay here."
And we didn't!
Isn't it odd? In a theater filled with people, we were probably the only ones moved enough by the film to move to California. How can I deny Fate or providence in the face of such unintentional motivation? Why us? It was just a movie, so what was it that gave us the courage to pickup and leave the only place we'd ever known, to travel three thousand miles with absolutely no prospects, to go with no idea of where we were going or what we would do when we got there? I told myself it was just chance, until I read Joseph Campbell. Then, as did Joe, I looked back over my life and saw how accidents, coincidences, missteps, mistakes and unexpected reactions to a movie decided my experience more than "I" did.
At any rate, so it was on a snowy New Year's Eve day, December 31, 1937, just weeks after our cinematic epiphany, that we left New York. First, however, Bud "appropriated" a nest egg of radio parts from Ted Simon's store to begin a business out West—that would come back to haunt us. Then, we crammed them and as many necessities as we could fit into our little, blue Chevy roadster with a rumble seat instead of a trunk—everything else went into storage. And, finally, we turned, waved goodbye to our apartment in Astoria, parted with our relatives and friends, and left.
Speaking of in-laws, and before going West, I'd like to share an anecdote regarding the Chevrolet's rumble seat, or "mother-in-law seat" as we thereafter referred to it. [Click image for larger version.]
My mother and her sister, Aunt May, joined us once on a trip to Jersey, sitting stiffly in the rumble seat, hands on hats. It was the only time Bud and I managed to talk them into the car, although in hindsight I wish we had left well enough alone. For, as Fate would have it, on the way back from Jersey it began to rain. Not having umbrellas, nor anything water-proof to protect themselves, Mother and May huddled together on the seat at the mercy of the elements. Neither would abandon the other to trade seats with me. So, Bud and I sat warm and dry in the car's small interior, cringing with guilt, afraid to glance back at the sodden women all the way home. I can't remember why we didn't stop and wait out the rain, but it was the last time a mother-in-law rode in the rumble seat so it doesn't really matter.
Back to my story. After Bud and I departed New York, we decided to skirt the winter weather as much as possible, traveling for two weeks along a southern route through Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas (with a side trip across the Rio Grande), New Mexico, Arizona, and finally, California. Along the way, we didn't take any pictures until we reached Texas, at least no others remain from before then; and damaged film seems to sound familiar. Also, along the way, I kept, if not a diary, then a sketch book of impressions—just a few words jotted down to describe things or the feelings they evoked, words to jog my memory later. My first entry: "Left NYC in snow; arrived in Philadelphia—clear," seemed to capture a sense of hope.
After a late dinner, we were too tired to wait for midnight, so we spent our first night, New Year's Eve, on the southern outskirts of Philadelphia in a small motor court or what eventually will be called a motel. It was a depressing area full of WPA signs, Philadelphia cops in unsettling grey uniforms (we were used to the New York beat cop in blue), and loads of black people—we didn't see them in our area of Brooklyn. I didn't think of myself as prejudiced, but I spent some time wondering at my reactions.
The next day, January 1, we entered Virginia. In Alexandria we saw the Masonic Memorial and red clay soil. I wrote in my "diary": "Southern girls plump—soft faces with little intelligence—do not wear girdles!" My goodness, why that seemed important to me I can't remember, except wearing them was not only the fashion in the City, but de rigueur. I also made a note to myself to "read up on Manassas," where we saw "a big hawk, 4 feet across!"
Driving through Virginia's Shenandoah National Park I wrote, "Skyline Drive—top of the world feeling as we are above the clouds and rain; woodsy odor—2800 ft. Ele.—twice the size of the Empire State Bldg."
[Picture taken from Skyline Drive.]
The next day we crossed into North Carolina and an even more depressed environment where poor people "use mud to fill in cracks between lumber." And, once again aware of the predominance of black people, I wrote: "Black Bird cabs and people."
Of course, some of my entries now seem mysterious and unsettling. For instance, still in Virginia: "Saw 2 cows standing very close together." Then, "Cow walks in front of car and takes his time and then looks around at us." Followed by, "...longhorn cattle of soft brown." Later, "Cattle guard; RR tracks spaced in such a way as to discourage cows." Neither Bud or I found it normal for cows to be loose and roaming the countryside—we had enough trouble just dealing with the countryside. I can't remember, however, why I would think it strange for two cows to stand close to each other.
The Chevy had a good radio, so interspersed throughout my notes are references to programs we heard along the way: "Listened to Arturo Toscanini; good. Heard Ave Maria on the organ. Listened to President Roosevelt's message to Congress; excellent. Listened to Gypsy Rondo by Haydn. Salisbury—listening to Caesar—warm sun, serene—RCA Hour on radio." Bud being a radio man, I guess a good radio was to be expected, and good reception was assured by the extra radio antenna he hooked up, which flew above the roof of the car like a fishing pole and line.
Some of my observations seem poignant now:
• People from Oklahoma, 7 and 8 in a car with their belongings tied on—farms blown away—wanderers trying to find refuge [Click image for larger version.]
• Black scorched timberland.
• Separate entrances for colored folk in theaters.
• Poverty—mill town—drab houses and drabber people.
• A white weather-beaten man, his wife and crying child huddled at his feet, asking for a lift.
• A woman nursing a baby at the road side.
• Texans in hats and boots—Mexicans instead of colored people.
And some poetic:
• Riding through a humid cloud on top of the mountain.
• Sunlight dancing in a water fall.
• Purple sunset through pine trees in GA; the sunset so colorful it hurt.
• New moon plus first star—Venus?
• A dark cluster of trees reflected in a long silver lake.
• Unreal...so much space here—the mind expands.
• Far off mtn. ranges surreal—gray, smoky, blue.
• 6500 ft. snow capped mtns., half moon above them, stars.
• Quiet rings in your ears.
• Saw Spencer Tracy in Big City—came out to a town on the top of the world.
[Big City is a movie about taxi wars in New York—click image for larger version.]
Our route took us through a slice of South Carolina into Georgia, where we had to turn our clock back an hour. Georgia was beautiful, but we mostly kept driving, making time, adding miles. We stayed at the Magnolia Hotel when we reached Montgomery, Alabama, and ate at Lee's Grill. My notes, however, were very sparse and eclectic there: "Goethe—wide streets—1 cent tax." On our drive to Mobile I noted: "Six baby black pigs...steer driven cart." And our southern strategy paid off: "So warm I had to take off my coat: palm trees!"
Our last stop in Alabama was Mobile, and I can remember the excitement I felt, after several days in the woods, when we caught our first glimpse of Mobile Bay through the trees. Such a comfort, it seemed, to be back at sea level. And then the smell of salt water filled my nostrils! Wonderful.
Crossing the Alabama-Mississippi border, however, my notes turned dark: "Brush fire in a pine forest; brown pig and 3 babies scurrying away." That's also when we met the weathered man and family asking for a ride—we didn't have room, but it left me down. Fortunately, we only had a short distance to drive through Biloxi and the southern tip of Mississippi into Louisiana, where my notes picked up right away: "Spanish moss in trees—sunset over the gulf of Mexico!" Then we were in New Orleans.
We spent the night in a motor court called Hollywood Cabins, and ate dinner at the Greyhound Cafe. The next morning we went sightseeing in New Orleans, but the conditions of their streets bothered me so much I only made notes about that: "Few traffic lights...narrow streets...no signs indicating bridges, curves, etc. Roads very bad—no center line in places: write a letter about it!" I think New York's organization and efficiency had me spoiled. At any rate, the only note I made regarding the French Quarter was: "French Quarters(sic)—net stockings on women."
After visiting The Cabildo—the old city hall turned museum, where the finalization of the Louisiana Purchase was signed—and the St. Louis Cathedral, we walked through Jackson Square and drank coffee with beignets at Café du Monde while writing ten post cards. I hate to admit it, but I thought the coffee too strong and the beignets too powdery—I inhaled some sugar! [Click image for larger version.]
After our tour of New Orleans, we crossed the Mississippi River and took "bad roads" (I seemed to have been obsessed with highway conditions) out of the State in pouring rain, the "orange mud running along the dike road" upsetting me. We spent that night in Raceland on Bayou Lafourche, but all I can remember is the mosquitos.
The next day, Thursday, January 6, we drove along Highway 90 most of the day, crossing the state line into Texas, and then stopping in Beaumont to eat. Along the way, my notes were erratic: "Sugar cane. Black birds. Desolate country." It started raining, however, before we reached Houston, so we stopped on the outskirts and spent the night in a terrible cabin, even though it only cost one dollar.
In the morning, I asked Bud to take a picture of a tree that enthralled me (our first picture on the trip...that I still have) [Click image for larger version]. I loved the fact it was the only tree for a mile in any direction, yet seemed so tall and proud. Then we left. As we drove my notes were laconic and offhand: "Swamps, rainbow, breakfast." My mood changed, however, as we entered Houston: "Sun out and warm—clean, wide streets—ok with me!" We ate, visited the opera house, briefly walked the business district, then got back on Highway 90 and headed northwest to San Antonio.
Along the way we saw: "Longhorn cattle...field of donkeys, field of soft brown wheat that had been threshed—leave straw out. Black soil of Texas. Kill hawks then hang them on fence(?)" Close to San Antonio I wrote: "Saw the San Jose Mission at sunset; peaceful and quiet." Once in the city my notes say: "Stayed at the Royal Courts. Mailed letters and cards."
The next day we visited the Witte Museum, browsed "Indian beads and moccasins," and picnicked in Brackenridge Park. Our next stop was the Alamo, as well as the Church of San Fernando, which played so prominently in the Texas Revolution. We also walked the Mexican quarter and read some of Sergeant Felix Nunez's account of "The Fall of the Alamo," wherein he talked of seeing "dead men with no shoes." I found that very upsetting, but I also learned that a W. Mills (Bud's mother's family name) was among the dead that day. It was 2:30 when we left for the Rio Grande and our own quick skirmish into Old Mexico!
Highway 90 brought us to Del Rio [Click image for larger version], a small border town 154 miles west of San Antonio. The Del Río-Cuidad Acuña International Bridge connects the two small towns and provides easy crossings. We crossed, then "spent time looking at International Bridge and country for miles around." Unfortunately, our wandering drew the attention of Mexican soldiers who came down from their garrison and frightened us off. My notes were a little shaky as we drove into Cuidad Acuña: "Spanish soldiers came down; didn't speak any English. Frightened us; told us to go away."
In town, we went to a curio shop where I purchased a blue-glass vase that I still have! We also sent cards to family and friends so they would have a Mexican postmark—how "Cosmopolitan" we thought. The town wasn't much, however, with muddy roads, a few bare-bulb electric lights hanging down the center of the main street, kerosene lanterns every where else, and a very disturbing smell that we thought might be raw sewage. There were no flush toilets. Houses' front doors were right on the road; no yards or stoops. And at the mercado, meat was hung out in the open with flies landing on it. I was nauseated. There was a neat plaza in the middle of town, however, with white-painted benches, palm trees, and lots of friendly people enjoying the sun—it had been raining recently.
Part of the reason we made the trip was so Bud could visit radio station XERA, the first of the so-called "Border Blaster" stations with very strong signals illegal in the States. (The station would be famous years and years later for broadcasting Wolfman Jack's first show.) As we left the station I noticed a darker side of town and wrote: "Bars on windows of better homes; liquor signs and cantinas; dirty pool halls." We were glad to get back to the U.S., where the "Custom officers were nice." Our round trip across the Rio Grande cost sixty cents and a few grey hairs.
The next morning we left Del Rio—still on Hwy. 90—and crossed the Pecos River, stopping long enough to take a picture of the deep gorge, unlike anything we had seen...so far. [Click image for larger version] From there we started climbing up to the Santiago Mountains in Brewster County, Texas, where I wrote: "...no trees, only sage brush. Piles of sand; rocky, white glare, sun came out." We also spotted: "A dead coyote on a fence. Sheep in desert." It was in the Santiagos that I jotted down: "New York, Broadway, Wall Street and Bankers Trust seem very far away, not real...so much space here...far off mtn. ranges unreal: gray, smoky, blue."
We ate lunch at the Holland Hotel in Alpine, elevation 4483', and I wrote that lunch was "swell," but also wrote about the Texans in hats and boots treating Mexicans like colored people. As our trip continued, I became enthralled with the desert and the muted colors and the way light changed as we drove. I wrote: "Clouds shadowed on mountains causing effect of moving light and shadows over subdued landscape." I liked it so much we decided to stop in the Wylie Mountains and take pictures. Afterwards, we decided to shoot.
Bud was into guns and target shooting, so we had several handguns with us (although, I can't remember mentioning them at the border crossing...): an Army .45 caliber, a .32 revolver, and a .25. Bud put a target on a fence post and fired 20 shots with the .32. Then, I fired six or so bullets from the .25—we left the target on the fence. The whole time we were firing not one car drove by. When we had finished, Bob packed away his arsenal and we continued on to El Paso. [Click image for larger version]
Just to get a taste of home—and after turning our clock back another hour—we ate at Walgreen's Drug Store in El Paso. We got a room in a little hotel—I didn't write down the name—and spent the next morning looking around, buying personal items, and eating a long, leisurely breakfast, as there really wasn't that much to see, tourist-wise. By 12:30 we were ready to leave and, on our way out of town, drove by The Texas State School of Mines and Metallurgy, which I described thus: "College of Mines right in the hills."
It took half-an-hour to reach the New Mexican border, and in my journal I wrote: "Fields of cotton, mix of mud and clay for homes (adobe)—idea brought from Mexico. Cattle, horses, corn, fertile ground."
We stopped for coffee at an old and famous geothermal spa resort called Faywood Hot Springs , near Silver City, NM. I had heard of it and, when we saw the sign, wanted to see it. There were several outdoor public and private soaking pools, and private cabins, as well as tent sites, a covered eating area and a large dining room where we had coffee and pastries. [Click image for larger version]
Our visit to Faywood delayed our arrival in Magdalena, New Mexico to 6:30 pm. I wrote in my journal: "6500 feet elevation!, snow capped mountains, stars, half moon." The temperature was a bone-chilling 10 degrees!
We stayed at Helen and Sam Servis' cabins, and I think I was related to one of them somehow...or maybe she was a good friend that moved west? The memory fails. But, it was there that we saw the movie, Big City, and Helen and Sam went with us. After the movie, the four of us talked until midnight. It was swell. And the next morning, Helen rode with Bud and I to Kelly, a deserted mining town located on the flank of the Magdalena Mountains. Sam and Helen recommended we go, and I found it fascinating. In it's heyday the population was 3000, but when we went there it was a seven-saloon ghost town, but with most of the buildings still intact. A strange feeling to walk among those abandoned structures.
I loved talking with Helen, and the more I think about it, she was a coworker, not a relative. After Kelly, we went back to her cabins and ate chili con carne and salad for lunch, all the while discussing New Mexico and Old Mexico; the availability of inexpensive art; U.S. Indians and their turquoise, silver and copper jewelry; and a "Captain O'Hay, one of 7 soldiers of fortune," although, I can't remember now who he was or where he "fortuned." Helen also told us that the sun had shined every day for the last three years, with only 3" of rain during that time. Remarkable. [Click image for larger version]
We left Helen and Sam after lunch, and reached the Arizona border at 4:30 pm. We stopped for the night in Holbrook, staying at Miss Farrow's cabins, where she sold "arrowheads, petrified stones, and rock candy." We also joined up with the historic Route 66 there. Anyway, we left at 10 am the next morning, Wednesday, January 12, and visited the Painted Desert, although I wrote: "only slight coloring." I expected something more vibrant to warrant "painted." Then, after seeing the Petrified Forest, I wrote: "not impressed." Maybe I was in a blue mood, missing Helen, I don't know, but for me Arizona left a lot to be desired...so far.
We stayed on Route 66, driving through "forests of pine trees" and passing the snow-capped San Franciscan peaks, which stood 12,600 feet high. They were the tallest mountains we saw. Farther on, we stopped to eat lunch at the Black Cat Cafe in Flagstaff. [Click image for larger version] There was a pharmacy next door where I purchased some sundries; and an ice cream parlor where Bud and I ate hot fudge sundaes for dessert! (You know how I love hot fudge sundaes.) We liked Flagstaff so much that we almost took at room in the hotel next to the Black Cat, but after some debate, we decided to push on north to the Grand Canyon.
We couldn't believe it. It was too big to take in, to "grand" to understand—several Pecos River gorges would fit in it. We stood on the southern rim, awestruck, our citified brains stretched to their limits. The fading sunlight made it very dramatic, but twilight rose in the east, the canyon filling with pools of darkness, and it grew terribly cold. I remember my lips were blue as I stood as close to the rim as I dared, while Bud took my picture.
[Click image for larger version]
Still, I think the Canyon changed my mind about Arizona, well, that and the hot fudge sundaes at Lily's! Finally, we were unable to withstand the cold any longer, so we left, turning the heater up as high as it would go. The highway looped around to rejoin Route 66 a little farther west of Flagstaff, and we spent that night in Williams, trying to stay warm.
The next morning, we left Route 66 and took Highway 89 south to Prescott, Arizona, where we ate an early lunch. Past Prescott, we drove through a mountain pass that took us to a winding, mountain road with sheer precipices on one side and sheer drops on the other; I wrote: "Pine covered mountain; like a blanket of olive green; road steep!" Dropping down from the heights of Prescott, we finally came out on the desert, joining Highway 60, before turning west toward California. At one point we stopped to take pictures and I wrote: "crossing desert - 3 pics of cacti, stones, sample of bush cacti - very warm. Quiet rings in your ears." I don't know what happened to those pictures, but I was beginning to understand there were different types of deserts.
And so it was that on Thursday, January 13, 1938, at 3:30 PM, we "Crossed into CALIFORNIA," and were "Examined slightly" by the border patrol—they reminded us to turn our clock back yet another hour, and we were now three hours behind New York. It was an odd feeling, knowing New York was ahead of us, and I felt a twinge of homesickness, thinking we would always be behind, trying to catch up. I think it made me blue because I applied that feeling of retrogression to art, society, culture, etc. New York was still my talisman—"Do we know what we're doing?" But, my mood was short-lived.
That evening was warm by our standards, the temperature "50 deg!" And there was a "sweet smell in the air" at the Riverside Court Motel where we spent our first night in California. [Click image for larger version] The motel was clean and neat, and we were so excited, looking forward to finding work and starting our lives in or near Los Angeles. Bud bought newspapers and we marked prospects, trying not to let the small number of marks deflate us.
Following that first night's euphoria, however, our first week only filled my journal with angst and despair: "Entered bowery section, depressing—went through downtown—quite large, foreign feeling—rained. Went out to Florence; nowhere to stay. Rec'd. mail; didn't know where to go. Felt miserable. Bud went after job; a flop. Went to Dictograph, Bank of America, filled out applications. Bud went around different places. Felt blue."
After our disappointing attempts to find work or a place to stay, plus some poor experiences with people in general—during the Depression, out-of-staters weren't welcomed—Bud and I grew very depressed, nursing a sense of failure; it was a low point. We were just beginning to admit that we might have to return to New York. In fact, we were discussing just that, walking through Los Angeles' Westlake Park (it was renamed in 1942 to honor General MacArthur), when completely by chance we ran into Chet Staires, a radioman who worked for Bud at Ted Simon's store in New York.
What synchronicity! An hour's difference either way and we would've missed Chet and probably returned to New York. It's still amazing to me how, once again, Fate so clearly stepped into our lives in that park. It was synchronicity because the very next day, January 30th, Chet took us North to look at "Radio property" that belonged to his uncle, Mark Staires. Mark was going East to "raise cotton" and "had a radio service store for rent." [Click image for larger version]
Chet helped us negotiate our way to Highway 101. We followed it northwest about sixty miles through what I romantically called "ranch country" to Ventura, a pleasant town on the shores of the Pacific. There, we turned East on Telegraph Road, also known as Highway 126, and fifteen miles later found Santa Paula, population 9,250, an island of quaint stores and homes in a sea of green-leafed, fruit-laden citrus trees.
I still remember the exultation I felt as we drove along that narrow country road. Everything was bathed in a warm January sun, whose light occasionally streamed through rows of tall eucalyptus trees growing between orange and lemon orchards that stretched away as far as the eye could see. The air was fresh and redolent of citrus and eucalyptus. The colors were so rich, the mountains so grand, the heat so welcomed, and the glint of ocean in the distance behind us so promising that it all echoed my exhilaration while watching "A Star is Born."
We entered the little town and slowly cruised Main Street with its tight cluster of store fronts gathered around and under the silver-domed clock tower. [Click image for larger version] I hadn't envisioned settling in such a small town, but then I saw a splendid, ivy-covered brick library, which eliminated one of my concerns. And in the next block we passed a large movie theater, which eliminated another. In fact, the more I saw of Santa Paula the more I liked it.
Following our brief tour of town, we drove to the radio shop Mark Staires was renting. It, too, was on Main Street about three long blocks west of the clock tower, standing by itself with a driveway on one side and a small vacant lot on the other. Bud and I both liked the little store and decided on the spot to rent it. My journal notes: "Bud rented his store, paid license fee, rented a furnished flat complete with utilities for under $100."
The way I remember it, Bud paid Mark Staires the first month's rent, $25. Then we rented a furnished apartment with utilities in a building close to the shop for another $25 a month. And finally, Bud purchased his business license at city hall for $10. We were in business, just like that. After the funk we'd been in the day before, we were now greatly relieved and elated—life's ups and downs can follow so close on each others heels. [Click image for larger version]
Okay, to sum up: we left New York, crossed the United States, found a town we liked, a furnished apratment, and started a business all in one month!