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.