Road Trip 2

Where did I leave us? On California 152, coming into Watsonville. There is a brief lovely descent down the west slope, which gives a long view of the great salad bowl that runs from Watsonville down through Salinas. I knew nothing of that in 1960, being too young to read much Steinbeck. We went north on California 1 for a bit and found the way into Aptos.

In later years, my Aunt Fran became a favorite, then an icon, Then she was a welcoming lady, going with the flow as her kids and others came and went. This easy acceptance both awed and frightened my father, who liked things orderly. The area was beginning to develop then, but I remember looking out over fields of berries or something and at least having a sense of where the ocean was, about a mile and a half away. Now it's all built up, although still lovely, and all you can see out the patio door is the fence and the top of the next house. My oldest cousin, Bruce, was not there that I remember, and the next, Mary, may have been around briefly. I remember especially Carol, a few months older than I am, and Roger, a couple years younger, and I think I'm still most fond of them. Jean was very little and I don't think Peggy was even born; she has powered her way into my heart from a delayed start. Uncle Bob, who died in early January of this year, also grew in my estimation in later years: I hope that I can age out half as well as he did. This family will receive a better tribute in some other entry.

From this house, we visited San Francisco. This involved going up the east side of San Francisco Bay to San Leandro, where we met up with my father's old Marine Corps buddy, Stevie Kelso. We drove into the City, and I went on my first pub crawl. I am just now remembering something about a Marine Corps Club. We stopped at the Tahitian Room of the Fairmont Hotel, which had drinks with umbrellas and a little "tropical shower" over a little "lagoon" in the middle of the room. We went up to the "Top of the Mark" Hopkins hotel, a lovely room with a view. Paul Fix, who portrayed the sheriff Micah Torrance in "the Rifleman" TV series, was there in a tux. Wow.

Then we went to Fisherman's Wharf for dinner. We ate at Alioto's Fish Grotto. I neither knew nor cared for fish, so I ordered a hamburger. The Wharf itself looks very much the same today, although the area, including Pier 39, has developed a lot. We made it back safely.


From Aptos we went down to Los Angeles. Yes, Disneyland was open by then, and yes, we went. I remember Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and the Dumbo ride, both in Fantasyland. No Pirates, no Haunted mansion, no Space Mountain in 1960. We also went to Knott's Berry Farm, which was more competitive then because it didn't have to do as much to be cool to a kid.

The reason for going to LA was to visit Uncle Chet. My mom's uncle, actually; many of the relatives I knew whom I called "uncle" or "aunt" were actually my parents' uncles or aunts. I had Uncle Allan (Dad's brother) and Aunt Alice, and Uncle Ralph and Aunt Ginny (Mom's sister), plus the aforementioned Uncle Bob and Aunt Pep (Fran; Pep was a nickname my dad had for his sister). My parents had Uncle Chet and Auntie Jen (Chet the brother of my mom's mom), Uncle Francey and Aunt Corey (Cora) (Francis the youngest brother of my mom's mom; there will likely be more about these wonderful folks at some point), and Uncle Harry and Auntie Hortense (honest!) (Harry the brother of my dad's mom). I also met Auntie Grace, the widow of my dad's dad's brother, but she wasn't part of the regular discussion. Then there were my parents' friends, especially my dad's friends: Uncle Dick and Aunt Lil, the Fullers (no relation) and Uncle Bob and Aunt Stella, the Colletts (no relation).

Uncle Chet was an oil millionaire, Then he wasn't. Then he was again, and donated a building to Upper Iowa University in Fayette, Iowa (I've been to see it). Then he set up the family trust, and hit the deepest dry well in California history (meaning then, he wasn't). The December 1949 issue of The Saturday Evening Post wrote him up. I'm still an heir of the oil well trust: last year I got about $100, mostly from settled lawsuits and lost trust members. I had met him at my grandma's, and he was really something: tall, with a prominent nose and hawklike visage. And he snorted at me, which made me howl with laughter, and he used to steal my oatmeal. By 1960 his hair was white and he must have been about 70, but he was still a powerful presence. He and Auntie Jen lived in a home in the Hollywood Hills. I remember talking baseball with Uncle Chet, and losing to him at checkers. My mom's cousin, her husband and their boys were around, but I recall absolutely nothing about any of them. Wendy and I visited Chet and Jen in 1978, and also got to know mom's cousin Helen and husband Wayne, but Auntie Jen was lost to Alzheimer's and Chet was almost a shell. But you need to know this: they lived in a mobile home next to Helen and Wayne's home, and much of their beloved furniture was in there. When I walked in, Uncle Chet rose from his chair, fixed me in his old man's gaze, and said, "I used to SNORT at you." We laughed, and it was a good thing.

We did manage to find the Grand Canyon on the way home. I think this was also the trip that took us to Durango, Colorado, and over the Royal Gorge bridge. We headed east into Kansas, but turned north into Nebraska to find a motel with a pool (Kearney): it was too hot to talk about, and even my dad would pay for that luxury. I believe I took up reading the AAA guides on that trip.