Friend to the Friendless- Meet Bob

It was the summer of 1976.  Mom had a lot going on that year.  She was getting over her disastrous marriage from the year before. She spent the first three months closing down the welding shop. She then became a clown. She was still breeding Poodles, and was still posting ads in the paper nearly every weekend to sell things. In August, she placed an ad to sell one of our female Poodles, a beautiful show quality girl named Princess.

  Princess was pretty and sweet, but she had a gene for luxating patella, which meant that her puppies could come out crippled if the father dog had the same gene. She had already produced one affected puppy that had to be put to sleep. As a breeder she was worthless and needed to go to a pet home.

A woman called to inquire about Princess.  She said she was a nurse at a nearby hospital and wanted a pet, and would send her roommate to take a look at the dog.  Within half an hour, a small Datsun pickup with a camper shell pulled up in front of our house.  We had assumed her roommate was a woman, and we were surprised when a man got out of the vehicle, briskly walked up to our front screen door and knocked.

He looked to be in his early forties, short and plump, with black hair clipped in a military-style flattop. His face was greasy and he had a couple days growth of thick black stubble covering his face and neck.  He wore big oval-shaped tortoiseshell-framed eyeglasses that gave him an owlish expression.  His torn and filthy t-shirt looked and smelled as though he had been wearing it for days.  His jeans were similarly dirty and his steel-toed work boots were caked with dried mud. Mom gave me that look that indicated she really didn't want him to come inside, but in the interest of selling the dog, she was polite and invited him in.

He timidly walked into the living room, then walked back to the door as if to leave. He then turned around and took a couple of short steps towards us and staying near the door, he said,

"I-I-I-I- c-c-came to see th-th-th-P-P-P-Poodle. I-I-I- am B-B-Bob, P-P-Portia's roommate."

Clearly the guy was very nervous and shy, and he had a terrible stutter.

I brought out Princess, perfectly groomed and wearing pink bows.  She ran over to Bob and jumped up on him in greeting, her little puffy tail wagging happily.  Bob picked her up, looked her in the face, and then put her down.

"P-P-Portia will like her. Here-here-here is the m-m-m-money."  He took out his wallet and pulled out $50 in cash.  As he reached over to hand the money to Mom, I noticed Bob's hands.  They were hairy, and his fingers were blackened with greasy filth.  He wasn't just dirty from a hard days work in the garage.  His appearance and body odor suggested that he may not have bathed in weeks.  He was a weird, dirty, and all-around gross little man.  But, he was a cash-paying customer, and the sale was made.

Mom took down his name and address and wrote up a receipt.  He took the receipt, picked up Princess and without another word he abruptly walked out the door.  Mom commented on how weird and quick the sale went, and that was that.  We probably wouldn't have given Bob another thought, except one hour later his truck pulled up in front of our house again.  I figured that Portia didn't like the dog and was making him return her.  Bob got out of his truck, walked to the back, and opened up the door on the camper shell. Out jumped three shaggy little dogs.  Princess was not with them.  The three dogs followed Bob up our front steps and onto the porch where I stood, dumbfounded.  I asked him if they were his dogs.

"Th-th-th they're P-P-Portia's dogs," he replied.

I gathered the three friendly little Poodles up in my arms and looked at them. They seemed healthy enough, but they had not been groomed in several months, if ever. One was silver, another was chocolate, and the third was black and white.  Bob seemed very proud of them and introduced them as S-S-S-Socrates, Chi-Chi-Chi Chiffon, and Na-Na-Na-Napoleon. I couldn't let them leave Eagle Street in their current condition, so I opened the front door and asked Bob if he minded if I took them in the back and cleaned them up a bit. Mom gave me a funny, "why are you leaving me alone with this guy" kind of look, but then invited Bob to have a seat, and she brought him a can of pop and a brownie.  For the next 2 hours, while the matted dogs were getting clipped and bathed, Mom sat and listened to Bob and started to learn his story.

Bob worked as a welder for National Steel and Shipbuilding Company. He lived in nearby Old Town with Portia the nurse from Sharp Hospital. He was born in Chicago, and his mother, who had wanted a girl but got a boy instead, died when he was a little kid.  His father, who could not relate to him and called him a sissy, subsequently married a woman who didn't like Bob either.  The two of them mocked him and put him down all the time.  He knew they did not love him or want him around, so he joined the Navy to get away from home. Now 43, he had never had a close physical relationship with anyone, not even his roommate Portia.

When I came out with his dogs, Mom had us pose a couple of them on the couch for a photo.

When he left for home, Mom told me his story, and said, "I don't think we have seen the last of Bob."  She was right, because the following weekend, Bob came back, this time with four MORE matted Poodles for me to clean up:  Ru-Ru-Ru Rusty, Il-Il-Il-Ilya, and two unnamed puppies.

And in the four hours that it took, he shared more and more personal stories.  Mom lent her sympathetic ear and kept the snacks and sodas coming.  Bob, who was so timid and smelly and odd,  felt comfortable and accepted in our house.  He instantly became part of our life on Eagle Street. For the next 10 years, he dropped by unannounced at least twice a week, and Mom became a friend to this friendless man.

One ironic twist to this story is about Princess.  She had puppies the following year for Portia, and when Bob brought them over for me to groom, I examined their knees and found nothing wrong with any of them.

After a few months, Bob let his guard down and got silly for this photo

Bob was a mysterious person with deep secrets.  But Mom enjoyed the challenge of drawing out stories from complex characters like Bob, and as years went by, we learned more than we wanted to know. His strange and sad story cannot be summed up properly in one article. Stay tuned for more.

Friend to the Friendless: The Story of Dottie

Mom did not like to socialize in the normal sense.  She wasn't into church and all the fellowship that came with it.  She helped with the school rummage sale every year yet kept her distance from the other moms at St Vincents School.  I can remember only a few bingo parties that she and Dad held at our house when I was very young. She occasionally turned on the creepiness with the seances that she hosted at our house with her psychic friend, the Reverend Cecil Cawthorne, running the show.  The only neighbor she allowed into our house was lonely Grandma Balistreri, the old Italian lady who lived across the street. Mom didn't want people knowing our business. Mom's oldest sister Amy, who lived in Ephrata, Washington, was her best friend and only confidante, and they talked long distance on the phone fairly often. But even though she didn't have close friends, she was rarely alone on Eagle Street.

Most of Mom's interactions with people came through her weekly sales and purchases.  Most of those transactions were one time deals, and we never saw the person again.  There were a few people, however, who answered an ad and then kept coming back.  And Mom was okay with it.  Normally, the person would call to inquire about something Mom was selling, they would come to see it, and usually buy it.  And then they would keep coming over, for weeks, months, and even years.  Usually these people were on the fringes of society, either down on their luck, or strange and misunderstood.  Mom filled their need for someone to talk to.  Mom was like a neighborhood bartender.  She would offer someone a comfy chair, a bottle of pop, and a snack, and before long, that person would share their entire life story. Their stories were never ones of success. Over repeated visits, we would soon learn of their dreams, their conflicts, and their disasters. Mom was a very good listener, and made these folks feel welcome in our home.  She was a friend to the friendless. There were many people who drifted into and out of our lives on Eagle Street. One such person was a woman named Dottie.

In July of 1974, Dottie answered an ad and bought one of our silver Poodle puppies for $85.  She was 50ish and had red hair.  She said she was a dog groomer and had a shop in Logan Heights.  A few weeks after the purchase, her puppy's AKC registration paper arrived in the mail. Mom decided to drive down to her shop and deliver it in person.  When we got to the National Avenue address she had given us, what we found was a vacant storefront with a small hand written sign on the door that said "Dottie's Grooming."  It was on a gritty, sad street in the bad part of town, surrounded by similar dirty old buildings.

Mom parked the car and I got out to go take a closer look.  I looked through the grimy window.  There was just an empty dark space.  In the rear of the building, I saw a faint light.  Then I heard a dog bark, and saw our puppy running towards the window.  Dottie appeared from the back room and I waved to get her attention.  She unlocked all the latches and let us into the dim and empty space.  That was when we realized that she had no grooming shop.  She was living in the back of a dilapidated empty store, with just a dirty old toilet and sink.  She had a cooler to hold her food.  A suitcase of clothes and a blanket and pillow lay on the worn tile floor.  After getting over the initial shock, Mom invited her to come over for pizza that night. And that's how Dottie became a familiar face on Eagle Street for the next decade.

Over many visits to our house,  Dottie eventually shared that she had four failed marriages, with a child born from each husband. Her great love (and her biggest impediment to success) was Las Vegas. When she spoke of this mysterious place, her eyes sparkled, and she got very excited, the way we kids acted when we were begging mom to take us to Disneyland.  She admitted that her four divorces and four lost homes were due to her gambling addiction.  But she didn't seem to understand that she could change her life simply by staying away from Nevada. Her youngest daughter lived there and was a cocktail waitress at the Hilton Hotel and Casino, so there was always an excuse for Dottie to go back for a visit. She spoke of her oldest son and daughter, who sounded like responsible people and were living their own lives somewhere. I am sure they had tried to help their mom many times over the years.  Her youngest son Alan, who seemed like a really nice guy,  had just ended a relationship and joined up with his mom in the daily struggle to stay off the street.

Dottie and Alan handling some business in our cluttered Eagle Street living room sometime in the 80's. Alan was always pensive.  Dottie however, always remained positive that her big break was just around the corner.

As time passed,  Dottie and her son Alan bounced between Los Angeles and San Diego. They were always on the move, chasing some business scheme that never panned out. In San Diego they hopped around nearby neighborhoods of  North Park and City Heights, going from one rental to another, month after month. Back in those days, it was so easy to rent a place in San Diego. They could always come up with the first month's rent, but then things fell apart and they were hurriedly packing up their few belongings and moving on.  Eventually, Alan figured out he had one last chance to escape his situation. He was nearing the age deadline to join the military and at the last minute he signed up and was sent to Montana.  Alone again, Dottie scraped and hustled.  She rang the Salvation Army bell at Christmas and was able to skim enough change from the kettle to get by. She painted houses and did whatever she needed to do to earn some money.  She always remained cheerful, no matter how messy her life was. And no matter what, she always gravitated back to Las Vegas.

One summer day in either 1984 or 1985, Dottie called Mom to give her some exciting news.  After the conversation, Mom hung up and announced that Dottie had found her golden goose.  She had told Mom of her good fortune in meeting Ralph, an ancient man who was very hard of hearing and was almost 40 years older than she was. She met him on a sweltering hot day, while he was handing out religious tracts in front of a North Park grocery store. He was all wrapped up in a winter coat and wearing a woolen hat and muffler.  Dottie stopped to talk to him and discovered that he owned a little house on nearby Mississippi Street. She offered to go home with him, cook him a meal and do his laundry. That was an offer he couldn't refuse. She basically moved in with him the day they met.  Within weeks they were married and before you could blink,  the house was sold despite attempts by his worried adult daughter to stop him.

That was the last time we saw Dottie because the two newlyweds took the money and moved away to----yes, you guessed it---Las Vegas.  In July of 1986, one month before Mom passed away, she received one final call from Dottie, informing her of Ralph's death.  He was 100 years old.  Where Dottie ended up next is anyone's guess.  But she will always remain an Eagle Street memory.

July 4th on Eagle Street

There are many ways people on Eagle Street celebrated Independence Day back in the 60's and 70's.  One family went sailing, others spent the day looking for a spare patch of sand at the beach. A few went on simple picnics at Presidio park.  There was the Del Mar Fair or Belmont Park for others who liked to visit crowded amusement parks. The general idea was to situate yourself early in a place where you could enjoy the fireworks later on that night. Mom wasn't into any of that kind of exhausting nonsense. We stayed home.

July 4th was usually a frustrating day for us kids, because all the other kids on the street were off having fun with their families and we had no one to play with. The worst part, however, was that we always wanted to see fireworks, but never could.  No amount of begging could get Mom to leave the house.  Our holiday was always spent at home, end of discussion. So this story is not about anything noteworthy. The reminders of Eagle Street July 4th celebrations are a bit subtle, but they still exist.

These things were always a part of our yearly celebration:
Swamp coolers
Swimming pools
Corn on the cob
Shasta soda pop
Watermelon
Temporary suspension of the Streetlight Rule
Road flares
Goodyear Blimp

July 4th was usually very hot. Someone in the family would have to go down to the scary basement to retrieve the huge old swamp coolers and then set them up in the front room windows for Mom. The wires were frayed, and the machines were old rust buckets.  But somehow, Mom and Dad were able to repair them enough to keep them going summer after summer. We had to keep the big machines filled with Mom's distilled water to keep them working properly.  They would blow damp, cool air into the front room where Mom sat watching TV.

We spent lots of time in the pool.  During most of the 60's, that meant splashing around in a little inflated kid's pool in the yard.  We enjoyed a huge upgrade in 1969 when the real pool was installed in our backyard.

By July 4, 1970 we were out of the kiddie pool and in the enclosed, 98 degree real pool. Jeff is on the slide and Tammy is climbing the ladder. We could swim like fish, but for the first year, Mom made us wear life vests and buoyancy belts.

Mom rarely cooked. But on July 4th she always served up corn on the cob.  It was the one day of the year that she would dig her metal pressure cooker out from the back of the cupboard.  That thing was terrifying. It made noise,  and Mom was always having to check the pressure gauge.  I didn't want to be in the kitchen with it because I was always afraid it would blow up. But it made really tasty cooked corn. I had no idea that there were other ways to cook it until I grew up and discovered a pot of boiling water works fine too.

Mom never strayed from her daily diet of Tab. But for us, she bought Shasta by the flat because it was really cheap. We returned to the fridge all day long to get our favorite flavors:  Black Cherry, Crème, Tiki Punch, and Root Beer.

An old newspaper ad from the late 60's. This was before we had aluminum cans. These cans imparted a slight metallic taste to the drink, and you could really screw up the pop top if you didn't pay attention while opening the can.

No Independence Day would be complete without watermelon.  This was before the personal size, the seedless and striped varieties hit our local grocery store.  Back in the day, watermelons were dark green, huge, and loaded with black seeds.  Mom loved watermelon. For herself, she would remove the rind and seeds, cut the watermelon up into small cubes, and eat it from a bowl.  For us kids, she would make huge half moon slices, rind and seeds intact, and make us go outside to eat it.

At sunset, when the street light came on, and the first star appeared in the sky, my little brother and sister and I would start hearing the first sounds of unseen fire crackers and fireworks. Mom would hand us our watermelon wedges and tell us to sit on the curb in front of our house.  Then she would go to the garage and get a road flare.

At 20 cents, a road flare, Mom's idea of Fireworks,  was bargain entertainment

She lit it and placed it in the street a few feet from where we were sitting. Normally, we were required to be in the house when the streetlight came on, or face swift punishment.  July 4th was the one and only day that this rule was suspended. We could sit outside to cool off in the dark and watch the flames without fear of the belt.

The road flare burned calmly in the street, as fireworks popped somewhere far away. We swatted away mosquitoes and competed with each other to see who could spit their watermelon seeds into the flame.  A road flare takes about an hour to burn out, but it kept our attention during that hour, because that was all the "fireworks" that we were going to get.  I watched it and daydreamed about all the places I would take my kids to when I grew up.  I had it all planned:  I would take them to the Fair, to the beach, to the park, and to any place where we could watch fireworks with everyone else in town.

As the road flare sputtered and began to die out, we heard the familiar low-pitched hum of the Goodyear blimp.  It flew overheard and its animated Super Skytacular show flashed colored lights that were fun to watch.  The blimp flew around and around our neighborhood.  Sometimes the lights created a waving American flag, sometimes the lights flashed stick figures, or hula dancers, or geometric patterns. We kids felt that the blimp brought the light show to Eagle Street just for us, since we were the only ones out on the street to see it.

After the flare died and the blimp drifted away, Mom came out to herd us inside.  Another July 4th in the books. Just like the year before, and just as the next year would be.  It was our simple way of celebrating the day on Eagle Street.

Send in the Clowns

Cherub and Angel

We didn't start out as a clown family. There was one year when big brother Skippy donned a clown costume and became "Beepo the Clown" for my 6th birthday.

Tammy and BEEPO

But that was a one time thing. My little sister was absolutely terrified of clowns.  Ronald McDonald was not someone she ever wanted to meet, even if he was giving out free balloons. She would scream hysterically if a clown suddenly appeared at a Sears sidewalk sale or a business grand opening gala.

So it seems a bit strange that we all ended up being clowns years later. Here is how it all began:

Mom had recently come out on the other side of a very bad relationship that ended in 1975 and had not only had left her broken-hearted but also broke.  She spent a good part of 1976 crying, talking long distance to her sister, and taking up with a parade of paroled felons who swooped in looking for  any spoils that my step-father Paris Young may have left behind.  There was a small window of time when she was in between bad relationships, from June until August.  With no man to occupy her time, she was free to spread her wings a bit and try something different.

School let out for the summer. It was the Bicentennial and the whole country was excitedly planning  patriotic celebrations.  The Summer Olympics in Montreal Canada was getting ready to take over my attention. And Mom decided to sign up for Clown College.

San Diego State University offered a 3 unit course in clownology. It cost about $90, not including make-up and costume, and lasted a couple months.  I don't know how Mom discovered it or why she decided to go for it. Starting in June,  she drove to SDSU for evening clown classes for the whole summer.  She would come home very excited, telling me about what they learned in class.  There are many things one must have in order to become a proper clown.  Make-up, costumes, and props are the big three.  One must think up a proper name, and then design a costume which reflects that name.  Mom, who was given the name "Angel" by the swindling, good for nothing, felonious man who had abandoned her the previous December, decided to hang on to the moniker, not only in real life but also for her clown name.

Mom met many very nice people who were also studying clownology.  In July she hosted quite a few parties, where her clown classmates would converge on the scene and practice putting on make-up.  I was pulled into the group, where they practiced on me too.

I was the make-up guinea pig

I was 15 and had other things on my mind that didn't include hanging out with a bunch of older people who wanted to paint my face and teach me how to make balloon animals.  But I didn't have much choice in the matter. I got to know these folks and was impressed by the things they did in real life.  There were dentists, fire fighters, doctors, artists, and business majors. Their enthusiasm was endearing and contagious.  By the time the class graduated, I was a clown too.  And soon after I was pressed into clown service, my younger brother and sister were pulled into the life as well.

The clown students went on many field trips during the summer. We all went to the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey circus, specifically to watch the clown acts. The students marched in parades. They visited nursing homes and mental wards. They hung out in Balboa Park. People loved the crazy group. It seemed like there was always someone wanting a clown for their event back in those days.

The class made front page news. Angel is under the giraffe head

Mom spent a lot of time and money on her costume.  After a few false starts, she ended up with a square dancing-style dress and added petticoats, wings, and a halo.  There were lots of rules to learn if one wanted to be a proper clown. Some of them I remember were:  No smoking or getting drunk.  All body parts must be covered, either with makeup, wigs, hats, gloves, or clothing.  No bare hands allowed. One must never copy another clown's facial make-up.  And they all had to take a pie to the face. That was part of the final exam.

The Graduation ceremony was held on campus.  I remember that Walt Disney Studios was there to film some of it.  They planned to use some footage in a future Mickey Mouse Club episode.

Graduation Day

Angel with her diploma. There were lots of film crews there

Angel and her classmates, and me

Tammy, Poco, and Angel

In the end, Mom really didn't enjoy clowning too much. She took a few jobs here and there, but we three kids always had to accompany her and do most of the work.

Getting ready to get in the Clown camper to go to a job.  Sadsam, Sunbeam, Angel, Cherub, and one of our tiny Poodles

An inner city street fair

Oktoberfest 1976. Making balloon animals for the kids

We eventually figured out our costumes, make-up, and names. 

SadSam and Cherub

I became Cherub, Jeff was SadSam, and Tabatha was Sunbeam.  I had learned from Poco (the dentist) how to juggle.  I learned from Dr. All-Thumbs (the doctor) how to make balloon animals.  I did not have a pump to blow up balloons.  Back in the day, you had to use your lungs. Jeff learned a few magic tricks, and Tabatha could ride the unicycle really well. I also brought Poodles with me to some events.  We had a tiny blue Honda Civic with an 8 track tape player.  Mom had a tape of calliope circus music, and she blasted the stereo on our way to the gigs.  Kids would come running out of their houses because they thought it was the ice cream truck! They would instead see a tiny car with four clowns waving at them.

Tabatha, Cherub, and SadSam with Nephew Darwin David, and Nieces Samya and Jennifer.  I may be smiling, but I also had a horrible toothache that day and later had to have a molar pulled out.  

Within a few months, Mom was pretty much burned out. She figured out the clowning was not really much fun at all.  Her costume was heavy, thick and hot. It was exhausting work. You had to be upbeat, flexible, and willing to put up with crazy, screaming kids. You also had to be able to work through illness and pain. By the summer of 1977, Angel the Clown had retired and was sending Cherub, SadSam, and Sunbeam out to do the entertaining.

SadSam, Sunbeam, Angel, and Cherub (and Poodle) with nieces Sara and Becky

During the summers of 1977, 1978 and 1979, we worked with Vernon the Old Fashioned Clown (a retired Ronald McDonald) to provide entertainment at huge company picnics. These affairs took place at a Western-style venue in El Cajon called The Big Oak Ranch.  El Cajon in the summertime is miserably hot.  It usually exceeds 100 degrees.  And Saturdays and Sundays found us out there in full costume, make-up and wigs, sweating until our costumes were soaked. I did a juggling act, then inflated balloons and twisted them into animal shapes as quickly as possible for long lines of kids. Sunbeam unicycled to disco dance music on the stage,  and SadSam pulled off rudimentary magic tricks.  Vernon usually handed out candy. We would spend five sweaty hours dealing with hundreds of wild and sometimes bratty kids, watching everyone feasting on BBQ and wishing we could be having fun instead of having to work the party. Then it would finally be over and Vernon would drive us back home and hand us a check to give Mom. We would then spend the next couple of hours scrubbing all our greasepaint off. It was not a fun way to spend summer weekends. We kids truly hated it.

I still have Angel's clown badge 

I learned alot about hard work during our three years of clowning.  You must be patient and you need  to have a good sense of humor. You must be able to work through the worst of days. If you have a cold or, as I often did, a toothache, too bad--the show must go on.  If you are depressed and sad, you must nevertheless act happy. As much as I disliked it at the time,  I appreciate what clowning taught me.  The Eagle Street Clown Crew existed a mere three years, but the work ethic lessons that clowning taught me has lasted for a lifetime.