Where were you when JFK died?

Students honor JFK on Nov. 22, 1963 on campus of South High School,
Torrance, California

It's been 48 years today since the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in Dallas. I was a 15-year-old sophomore in Tallmadge Wilson's English class when I heard the news. Here are my recollections:

The commotion in the hallway was the first indication that something was wrong that November 22nd morning in 1963. Students and teachers seemed to appear in the hallway all at once -- girls were crying and some were screaming  "the President's been shot." It was chaotic.

What a rude awakening from the pronouns and adverbs of my sleepy third-period class at South High School in Torrance, Calif. And what an introduction to the harsh and cruel side of life. Until then, my small world as a 15 year old had been surfing, playing music and having fun with friends and family.

After those initial moments of confusion and uncertainty on campus, we began to learn more details of events as they unfolded in Texas. Things on campus calmed down, but it all seemed so unbelievable . . . surrealistic. There were no televisions or radios in classrooms then, so details were passed by word of mouth and loudspeaker. We soon learned the president had died.

Not long after the classrooms were emptied. Students, teachers and staff gathered around the flagpole on the campus lawn. In the hush, the flag was lowered slowly to half staff in honor of President Kennedy. We stood in silence for many minutes, and then students were dismissed to go home.

Note: The photo above was taken during the flag ceremony . . . students circling the flagpole, many deep in thought with heads bowed. A colleague on the student newspaper "Sword and Shield" captured the historic event with his camera. (A flag ceremony on the OLCC campus on Sept. 11, 2001 was eerily similar to that day in 1963).

Schools were closed for three days while the nation was in mourning . Except for one or two religious movies, our black and white televisions showed non-stop assassination news, JFK’s funeral and then, the horrible on-camera murder of Lee Harvey Oswald.

Innocence lost, I guess. Just three years earlier, I’d pedaled my bicycle to the local Kennedy for President election office and picked up some campaign bumper stickers and buttons for my room.

I was really too young then to understand the meaning of it all, but I was aware that this was an important event in U.S. history.
 
I’ve been interested in the JFK assassination ever since and have read many books (and DVDs) on the subject.

Remembering Mom on her birthday

Shirley Palke with husband Byron, center, and on fishing trip.
Photos taken in 1940s and early '50s.

Today is Mom's Birthday. She would have been 86. I miss her.

Shirley Mae (Allen) Palke was born on Nov. 7, 1925, in Los Angeles, California. She died in July 2003 in Salem, Oregon. But these statistics only mark a beginning and an end. In between she lived life, and along the way had a profound influence on my brother John and me.

She and her brothers Ed and Paul grew up in L.A. during the Depression years of the 1930s when money and sometimes food were scarce. Her parents Gladys and Ed died young, so she was raised first by her grandparents, and then a loving aunt and uncle. The three Allen kids did odd jobs and the small change they earned went into the family coffers for necessities.

Mom was athletic and excelled at academics at Washington High School. A couple of photos of her at school show her hamming it up with classmates on the campus lawn. She met Dad (Byron Palke) at church during the early years of World War II.

It was quite a pairing. Mom was a city girl and Dad (nicknamed Bud) was fresh off a Nebraska farm. Their courtship was interrupted by a draft notice from the U.S. Army. Dad was sent overseas pretty quickly, serving in the infantry in the Dutch East Indies, New Guinea and the Philippines. He was severely wounded in action and they were married not long after he arrived home.

I was born in 1948 and John in 1951. Mom stayed at home until us boys were through school and on our own. In those early days, Dad took the family station wagon to work at the cabinet shop. It didn't matter anyway because Mom didn't drive. So when we went someplace with her, we walked, took the bus, or rode with Grandpa and Grandma.

Some of those walks were special. Like the time she clutched my hand walking those few blocks to Woodcrest Elementary School on my first day of kindergarten. Or the first time she waited at the curb with me to meet the Sunday school bus. Other times, Mom, John and I would walk to the nearby Daylight Market or dime store on shopping trips.

In 1958 she took us on the streetcar to see a Dodgers game at the Coliseum. Another time, we rode the bus to see Elvis Presley in the movie "Jailhouse Rock."

Mom was a great cook and loved to have the extended family over for birthday or holiday meals. Her specialties: roast beef and mashed potatoes, fried chicken, ham or fish, macaroni and cheese, barbecue, and a Mexican casserole. If we liked it, Mom would cook it.

She also loved gardening, reading, travel, camping and family. She was great at Scrabble. Mom could be feisty, but she was a kind and gentle person with a big heart.

Over the years, she influenced me in many ways. She shared her love of music and the big bands and offered encouragement during my piano lessons. Her enjoyment of baseball rubbed off on me; over the years I've loved playing and watching the game. And it was her suggestion that led me to a career in writing and journalism. I was on the high school and college newspapers and became a professional journalist. After she died, Dad gave me a scrapbook that she had filled with clippings of my early newspaper stories.

I remember and honor Mom for these things and for the thousands of little things she did over the years to make our lives more enjoyable. And I know Dad, her brother Ed and John feel the same way.

Seascape ever changing along Oregon Coast



California gray whale resurfaces in Pacific Ocean off Lincoln City in Oregon. Brown pelicans in flight, below.  (Ken Palke photos)

I love the ocean. The way it is constant, but constantly changing, especially at the Oregon Coast. On a recent week-long visit to Lincoln City, the mighty Pacific put on a new face every day -- calm and bright green one day, white-capped and slate gray the next, and then sparkling blue with white foamy breakers. Big and little waves affected by the incoming and outgoing tides. Rumbling surf and the smell of salt water.

I've been drawn to the ocean since I was a kid -- to surf, sunbathe, fish or bicycle along the shore. Now it's mostly for sightseeing and relaxation. The most important thing about the ocean, though, is that it's home to thousands of mammals, fish, birds and plants.

To me, that's the best part of visiting the coast. I often spend hours with binoculars scanning the ocean and shoreline for wildlife. This trip, I enjoyed watching several California gray whales (including a mother and calf) submerging and resurfacing with telltale blows -- feeding as they headed north. And each day, long skeins of Brown pelicans skimmed above the wave tops, wings outstretched, on patrol for silvery fish to eat.

These two ocean inhabitants have made a remarkable comeback along the Pacific Coast and elsewhere in the U.S. Thirty-some years ago I was writing news stories about their endangered status for the Palos Verdes Peninsula News in Southern California.(Note: Palos Verdes stretches along the coastline in southwest Los Angeles County)

Brown pelicans were considered endangered because DDT and hunting had seriously decimated the population. A federal ban on DDT in the early 1970s jump-started the Brown pelican recovery. California grays were in decline because of commercial whaling, but international protections have helped the species come back.

Steller sea lions are common along the Oregon Coast. Often you can hear them barking before you see them. They can be seen lolling on the sand at the mouth of Siletz Bay south of Lincoln City or crowding for space atop the boat docks in Newport harbor. Some sea lions, though, have become pests by swimming up the Columbia and other rivers to gorge themselves on salmon as they come off fish ladders at locks and dams.

First day in the Navy has its ups and downs

The damp Oregon chill had little trouble penetrating my jacket at sunrise on Jan. 30, 1967. It turned out to be one of the longest days of my life, which I began by waiting on the folks' front porch in West Salem. With a small duffel bag in hand, I was nervous and filled with anticipation . . . waiting to begin a four-year journey that would take me around the world -- and to war.

In minutes a gray government sedan pulled into the gravel driveway. Out stepped a burly veteran chief petty officer with gold hash marks down his sleeve (the recruiter). He greeted my folks and asked, "You ready to go, son? We've got a lot to do today." I was 19 years old.

That recruiter -- a submarine sailor -- may have embellished things before I signed the enlistment papers, but this time he was right. My first day in the U.S. Navy would be a busy one.

By the time that chief got to me at the recruiting office, he'd spent more than 30 years in the Navy, including service in World War II. That morning we drove north on Interstate 5 to the Armed Forces Examining and Entrance Station (AFEES) in downtown Portland. Since I was a captive audience in that car, the chief was happy to relate a few more sea stories until we arrived. (Note: a sea story is something like a fish story, in which the fish gets bigger every time the story is told.)

During the Vietnam War, the AFEES was a bustling hub of activity for newly enlisted -- or drafted -- soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen from the Pacific Northwest. At the loud behest of a non-commissioned officer, I was ordered to go mingle with a bunch of other recruits in the Navy processing section.

After a long and tedious wait, a couple dozen of us were told to assemble behind a row of white screens, strip to our undershorts, and wait for the doctor to administer our physical exams. I was seventh or eighth in line, and when I heard that doctor tell the guy beside me to "turn your head and cough," I knew I was next.

When done with more tests, paperwork and recovering our clothes, we assembled in rows to be sworn in. An officer in a crisp white uniform -- properly somber for the occasion -- asked us to raise our right hands. After vowing to defend our country against all enemies, foreign and domestic, we were sailors.

Five or six hours later, we were bused to Portland International Airport. My first airplane flight was on that 707 jet bound for Lindbergh Field in San Diego, Calif.

I discovered that flying is wonderful. But that night when we arrived at the naval training center, I was in trouble. The training petty officers were shouting out directions and telling us where to get what -- but I couldn't hear a thing. My ears were still plugged from the flight.

But it all turned out OK. We got to bed about 2:30 a.m. Plus we got a bonus . . . they let us sleep about three hours before waking us up for our first day at Navy boot camp.

Favorite songs conjure up memorable moments

Heard Linda Ronstadt singing "Long, Long Time" on the radio recently and that song carried me back 40 years -- to the Port of Call tavern near the ocean in south Redondo Beach, Calif. I was just out of the Navy and for a time that little tavern with the nautical decorations was a gathering spot for a bunch of friends. Our Cheers, you might say.

I pumped a lot of quarters into the Port's jukebox, mostly playing Ronstadt's lonesome lament and Joan Baez's lilting version of Dylan's "Love is Just a Four Letter Word." The whole world was ahead of me then.

It's amazing how songs on the radio can transport you back to a time in your life --sometimes an exact moment. For me these time-traveling songs are tied to moments of discovery, immense joy, a woman, sometimes sadness and loss . . . and summertime.

There's a Sara Vaughn song, "Broken Hearted Melody," that transports me to the summer of 1959. I'm smiling as I hear Vin Scully's mellifluous voice calling L.A. Dodgers games on my little transistor radio. Vaughn's  song was big then and so were the Dodgers who went on to beat the White Sox in the World Series.

When the radio plays Del Shannon's haunting "Runaway" or  the Four Seasons' "Sherry," I see classmates and remember the fun and personal discoveries of eighth grade at Seaside School. Nothing like Frankie Valle's falsetto lead to get my toes tapping. I love the Tokens' "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."  When it's on, I'm carried back to my first dance party at Jane Haney's. The lights are dim, the girls are pretty and the music is so fine. Ahhh.

The Beach Boys' "Surfer Girl" was popular when I was learning to drive and Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" makes me think of meeting at Nollenberger's house after class. Sometimes when I hear the first notes of Ray Manzarek's organ on "Light My Fire", I'll remember driving from Oakland across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco with that long Doors' tune blasting from the radio, a musical jambalaya of organ, guitars and Jim Morrison's raging voice.

I was in the Navy in the South China Sea when I first heard Cream's "Sunshine of Your Love" coming though a tiny speaker in a compartment aboard the USS America. I'd been overseas for months and loved hearing fresh music from home.

Toots and the Maytals' joyful "Reggae Got Soul" was played over and over during some wild dancing with Cedars of Lebanon nurses at one of Glen Coburn's famous parties in Hermosa Beach. What a song. What a night!

And years later on a family vacation, we were headed south from Oregon to sunny California when Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine's catchy ballad "Words Get in the Way" came on the radio. It was a big hit. And before that 2,000-mile round trip was over, we heard that song a couple of dozen times more. I call it the Summer of Gloria.

I can think of other tunes that are tickets to the wayback machine. Maybe you can too. That's the magic of music.

These 1950s jazz albums tops in my book

When a new jazz CD arrives at the house, I usually pop it into the computer to create an mp3 version. Several versions, really. One in Windows media format (computer, portable mp3 player and cell phone) and another in I-Tunes QuickTime for the I-Pad.

Portability is the key in today's music world. We can have 1,000 or 2,000, or even 5,000 or more tunes at our fingertips. A whole jazz universe for the choosing in our earpieces.

Things were a lot different, though, when musicians were recording some of the greatest jazz ever for long-playing records. In the 1950s, the LP format allowed jazz artists to stretch their music beyond the three-minute limitations of the shellac records of the 1930s and '40s.

Here are a few of the best jazz recordings of the 1950s and several are standouts in any era.

1. Kind  of Blue (1959) - Miles Davis - One of the best jazz albums ever. It all comes together for legendary trumpeter Davis and company in this brooding yet mellow classic with Bill Evans, piano; Cannonball Adderley and John Coltrane, saxophones; Paul Chambers, bass; Jimmy Cobb, drums; and Wynton Kelly on piano for one number. A five-star gem.

2. Time Out (1959) - Dave Brubeck - Well into his 80s, pianist Brubeck is still playing concert dates. This album was a cool jazz trend setter and made stars out of Brubeck, saxophonist Paul Desmond and drummer Joe Morello. The classic tune "Take Five" was a chart topper and is still heard on radio today.

3. Art Pepper Meets the Rhythm Section (1957) - Art Pepper - Great cool sounds emanate when alto saxophonist Pepper is joined by regular Miles Davis sidemen Red Garland, piano; Paul Chambers, bass; and Philly Joe Jones, drums. "You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To" and "Birks Works" are standouts.

4. Somethin' Else (1958) - Cannonball Adderley - Alto saxophonist Adderley and trumpeter Miles Davis trade solos, featuring Art Blakey on drums and others. This classic bop recording features delicious treatments of "Love for Sale," April in Paris" and others.

5. Giant Steps (1959-60) - John Coltrane - Saxophonist Trane hits his stride as a front man with some great playing on the title tune, "Naima" and others. Trane's musicianship is solid here and builds a foundation for his innovative work of the 1960s.

6. Chet (1959) - Chet Baker - Trumpeter Baker is smooth as silk playing standards in the laid back West Coast style. His session men include piano great Bill Evans, Herbie Mann on flute, and Kenny Burrell on guitar.

7. Sketches of Spain (1959-60)- Miles Davis - This is a stellar Latin-tinged big band excursion by trumpeter Davis and conductor Gill Evans. The album is moody and atmospheric and is a good companion piece to Kind of Blue.

8. Jazz Giants of 1958 (1958) - Stan Getz - Saxophonist Getz swings from start to finish with these West Coast "cool school" jazz standards. Sidemen include Louie Bellson, drums; Oscar Peterson, piano; Ray Brown, bass; and Gerry Mulligan, sax.

9. April in Paris (1955) - Count Basie - The swinging Basie big band is in full stride with upbeat versions of the title tune, "Didn't You" and others. Thundering arrangements and top-flight brass section. Holds up well after 56 years.

10. Lester Young with the Oscar Peterson Trio (1952) - Lester Young - Superb classic jazz with Peterson's melodic piano and Young's rich sax. Standards "On the Sunny Side of the Street" and "Back Home Again in Indiana" really swing.

11. Lionel Hampton Quintet (1954) - Lionel Hampton - Legendary vibraphonist Hampton developed his musical chops with swing great Bennie Goodman. This album is ear-pleasing classic jazz, with a wonderful 17-minute version of "Flyin' Home."

Of course, there are many great jazz recordings from all decades -- including more to come -- but these discs are cornerstones in my collection. Let me hear some of your favorites.

Niece starting high school recalls early days at South High

My 14-year-old niece Brittany is starting high school in a couple of weeks and can hardly wait for things to begin. Like the rest of us, she'll find out that high school is a four-year roller coaster ride with plenty of emotional ups, downs, twists and turns. And I'd guess most of the life lessons she learns won't be in the classroom either.

High school is about fitting in. I'll admit to being a nervous freshman that first day walking through those gates to South High School in Torrance, Calif. It was about four times bigger than Seaside Elementary and there were hundreds of kids I'd never seen before. Some of them seniors, too. And when you're 14 years old, there's a wide chasm -- physically, mentally . . . and socially -- between you and someone who is 17 or 18.

But things turned out OK when I saw a group of Burnout Beach surfing buddies sitting on a brick wall near the outside lunch tables. I wasn't alone. And some of those guys were sophomores and juniors . . . "experienced" scholars no doubt.

Soon those first days morphed into a routine that varied little for the first couple of years. Get up, eat a bite of Mom's breakfast, grab the books, wait on the corner for Mark Patton or Steve Rink, and walk two miles up and down a couple of big hills to the campus of red brick buildings, trees and green sports fields.

School backpacks hadn't been invented yet, so we carried our books curled awkwardly under our arms. My schedule included PE, English, social studies, German, history, math, journalism and woodshop. Teachers of the latter two classes left a lasting impression on me. Mr. Rische for inspiring me to become a writer and Mr. Maley for confiscating a guy's cigarettes and cutting them up on the band saw.

High school is about socializing. At South, the best time for visiting was before class in the outdoor locker bays, the 20-minute snack  period or lunchtime. Mom usually packed a lunch of sandwich, apple/banana, chips and cookie (wrapped in wax paper) in a brown bag and I ate on the outdoor benches. Rarely did I venture into the cafeteria.

There was lots to see and do while dining al fresco in the mild southern California climate. Watching kids playing intramural basketball or volleyball, taking photos for a journalism assignment, and greeting buddies -- or girls as they strolled by in their dresses. Yes dresses . . . pants or shorts wouldn't be allowed for girls (except on Bermuda day) for years to come.

Dances, football games and other school events also drew kids together. Dances in the gym were pretty good with bands like The Challengers, but the Spartan football team was lackluster at best and only won a couple of games the entire four years I was there.

High school is about rejection . . . and opportunity. In high school, there's almost nothing worse than having a pretty girl say no when you ask her for a date, or even a dance. Of course, I was too shy to ask very often. But when I did and heard the word "yes," it was like hearing a Beethoven symphony.

So Brittany, let me tell you what an old guy named Charlie Parkening once told me. "Kid. You're at the end of your troubles . . .  the front end." Have fun and hang on. That roller coaster ride is about to begin.

L.A. detectives quell crime -- one novel at a time

                            

Hundreds of novels have been set in Los Angeles. My preferred genre is the hard-boiled detective mystery featuring tough-as-nails private cops such as Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe. Or Michael Connelly's street-smart veteran Los Angeles Police detective Harry Bosch.

Former LAPD detective-turned-author Joseph Wambaugh writes good fact-based fictional stories about the personal lives and on-the-job adventures (misadventures?) of Los Angeles detectives and beat cops. His The New Centurions (1971) and The Blue Knight (1972) became movie and television hits. The Choirboys (1975) depicts the raucous side of off-duty cops.

Wambaugh penned other fiction and non-fiction works over the years, recently returning to familiar City of Angels turf with a series about L.A. cops in Hollywood. Hollywood Station (2006) has likeable characters, is fast paced and full of anecdotes gleaned from working officers. The series includes Hollywood Crows (2008), Hollywood Moon (2009) and Hollywood Hills (2010).

Author James Ellroy examines the gritty underside of 1950s L.A.in four gripping police mysteries, The Black Dahlia, White Jazz, The Big Nowhere and my favorite, L.A. Confidential, also an excellent movie starring Russell Crowe, Kevin Spacey and Kim Basinger.

I enjoyed the movie Devil in a Blue Dress (Denzel Washington), based on the 1990 detective mystery of the same name by Walter Mosley. It's one of his Easy Rawlins books about a Black detective in Los Angeles during the 1940s, '50s and '60s. The series includes Black Betty (1995), A Little Yellow Dog (1996), Cinnamon Kiss (2005) and others.

These days, though, it's Michael Connelly's  detective mysteries that earn most wanted status for me. Connelly is a former Los Angeles Times crime reporter and his books are well researched and crisply written. He has a feeling for local geography and character development and gets police and court procedure right. I've read half of his 16 Bosch novels and the others await on my bookshelf. Bosch also appears in other Connelly works. Three books to get you riding along with Harry Bosch are Angels Flight, The Concrete Blonde and The Black Echo.

Other writers of "Angelino" detective/crime fiction include Ross Macdonald and his Lew Archer private detective series and James M. Cain of The Postman Always Rings Twice fame.

If it's good reading about some bad people you want, these books can be a place to begin.

Mom, John and Me -- a day with the L.A. Dodgers

John, Shirley (Mom ), and Ken Palke

            It was early summer 1958. With Dad off to work, Mom took brother John and me to the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum for a day of major league baseball with the newly arrived Dodgers. It was my first game and it kindled my long-standing love affair with our national pastime.

            The team had just moved west from Brooklyn, N.Y. and was playing in the Coliseum while construction of Dodger Stadium was under way in nearby Chavez Ravine.

            I applaud Mom for her grit and determination in just getting us to the big oval stadium in Exposition Park, about eight miles north of 110th and Vermont in southwest L.A. where we lived. I was just 9 and John 6, but she herded us onto the old yellow and green streetcar (see photo), dropped three tokens into the fare box and we were off, the wooden car creaking and groaning along the steel tracks.

            We arrived at the Coliseum early. It had been built in the early 1920s, hosted the Olympic Games in 1932 and was set up for USC and UCLA football games. When the Dodgers arrived, it was configured for baseball during the summer months (see photo).

            After stepping off the streetcar, we were greeted by the cacophony of vendors yelling "scorecards . . . . get your programs here!" The pre-game excitement mounted as several Dodgers in street clothes marched through our small crowd, disappearing into the players gate. Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, Carl Furillo, Pee Wee Reese, Jim Gilliam and others would soon be putting on their white flannel uniforms, trimmed in blue, with the red front number. These were famous players from New York, but now their blue Dodger caps carried the letters L.A. instead of B for Brooklyn.

            We climbed the Coliseum's steep stairs to our seats and watched the players warm up -- shagging flies in the outfield and taking turns in the batting cage. Drysdale, Koufax, Erskine and the other pitchers running wind sprints. Pretty soon the game began. I don't remember too much more, or even how we got home. It was a lot to take in for one day.

            I'm sure my love of the sport developed from that very first game. I played Little League and Pony League baseball and have attended hundreds of Dodgers, Angels and Mariners games since. Ironically, my son Kevin's Little League team was named the Dodgers.

            These days, Pam and I enjoy going to see the minor-league Salem-Keizer Volcanoes at a ballpark close to our house. 

Hot fun in the summertime

Summer.

The season of smiles, sunshine and being outdoors -- especially in Oregon. And it's becoming more evident in my yard with blooming rhododendrons, geraniums and daisies.

School's out and kids are everywhere. On bikes, walking along the street in twos and threes, and shooting basketballs through curbside hoops. All of this got me thinking . . . mostly about the summers of my youth. How long ago, but yet so near in my mind.

When I was 10, growing up in Los Angeles, kids seemed to have the run of the neighborhood. Mom would shoo us out the door in the mornings and off we'd go . . . sometimes across the street to watch Billy's backyard rabbits or chickens, or to explore the vacant lot a few doors down, or to hang out until our neighbor George the Iceman got home and we could purloin a few ice shards from the back of his truck. How refreshing on a hot afternoon.

Some days, I'd cut through the alley to Grandma and Grandpa's house three blocks away to be rewarded with a frosty glass of lemonade.

A year or so later, the folks moved 15 miles closer to the beach . . . to Torrance. A typical southern California suburb in many ways, but a place that broadened  my teenage horizons. New friends, playing baseball, a 10-speed bicycle, new schools, summers at the beach . . .  and surfing.

Dad always had a long list of chores for brother John and me, mostly of the yard work variety like mowing, edging, trimming, weeding, etc. That made my free time all the sweeter.

These years later, it's the simple things I recall with the greatest fondness. Like those dawn walks to the beach, barefooted and balancing a surfboard atop my head.  The orange sun rising,  warming the cool ocean breeze. The smell of morning dew, salty sea air, and new-mown grass. And the anticipation of paddling into the glassy Pacific Ocean. What times.

I hope those kids outside are having that much fun

"Water for Elephants" and my world of circuses

Sara Gruen's superb novel "Water for Elephants" has rekindled my interest in the circus.

Her gritty Depression-era tale follows a nearly bankrupt circus along the rails as it plays one small Midwestern town after another. It's a different world . . . of high flying performers, roustabouts and shady management, each with different roles, customs and language. The story's lead is a young veterinarian who joins the troupe (a First of May in circus vernacular) and finds love, trouble and tent loads of adventure along the way.   

My first encounter with the circus in the mid-1950s was just as exciting to an eight-year-old. The billowing canvas big top. The smell of sawdust. The distinctive sound of circus music. Clowns. The glitter and parade of animals. Sensory overload. I'd never seen anything like it.

It was the Clyde Beatty Circus and the tents and menagerie took up almost an entire vacant city block in downtown Los Angeles. We had arrived there -- nine of us -- packed tight as could be in Dad's '53 Chevy station wagon.

I remember the string of agile gray elephants. What really sticks in my mind 54 years later, though, is that pith-helmeted lion tamer with cane chair in one hand and bullwhip in the other, keeping those big cats at bay -- and jumping through a ring of fire on command. I was mesmerized watching him through the tall bars in the center ring, my attention broken only by the crack of his pistol shot into the air . . . a warning to some misbehaving lion.

I've attended about a dozen circuses since . . . from Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey "extravaganzas" in auditoriums to the smaller, intimate tent shows of Circus Vargas and Carson-Barnes.  My favorite memories: seeing the legendary Gunther Gebel-Williams and his trained tigers, laughing at those little cars filled with clowns, and being in the front row under the Circus Vargas big top -- so close to the action that the performers -- human and animal alike -- seemed just beyond arms reach. What a thrill.

Although less compelling than the book, there's the movie "Water for Elephants," with fine cinematography that captures the sawdust and greasepaint of a 1930s traveling circus.

Note: The photo montage above is taken from an 8mm movie I filmed in 1975 on the Circus Vargas grounds in Torrance, Calif.

Where have they gone?

It is not a good day when you find out another old friend is dead.

Larry Nollenberger died in 2005, but I just found out. I'd been Googling his name for years and this time got a hit . . . with the words "In Memoriam" after his name. I knew that couldn't be good.

Larry and I went to high school together in Torrance, California. Surfing trips, double dating . . .  drawn to each other by music, guitar playing and singing. Dylan, Donovan, and songs we made up . . . often at the beach, sometimes on the Redondo Pier with guitar cases open for coins -- or in a small band at parties and a few tiny bars. Once we even auditioned at a big studio in Hollywood.

Later, we served in the U.S.Navy at the same time - on different ships -- and carpooled from San Diego to Redondo Beach on weekend liberties. Our ships took us to the South China Sea and Vietnam in 1968-69. On the way over, we met in Hawaii for a great three-day liberty on Oahu. I'm smiling now as I recall Larry's laughter over our second pitcher of Primo beer at a Honolulu club.

After discharge, Larry and I attended El Camino College -- carpooling on some days . . . with discussions of professors and homework from mutual classes. At graduation, I continued journalism classes at Long Beach State and Larry went on to teach guitar lessons.

We joined up regularly over the years for guitar playing, camping, fishing and family get-togethers. We attended each other's weddings. I moved to Oregon . . . he remained in southern California. Time went by and I lost touch.

When reading the recent Google entry, I learned that Larry had been a professional photographer living in the wine country of northern California, His work included beautiful land and seascapes from all over the West. Some photos on Larry's blog were accompanied by his cheerful music. 

Larry was 58 when he died. Too young.

Just like other close friends who died too soon. . . Josie Cabiglio, Ronnie Cocks, Steve Rink, Toot Fluke, Bob Judge, Bruce Horton and Ray Latham.

I miss them all.