In celebration of summer, here's my slideshow of summers long ago - those memories that, for me, are bathed in sunlight, the aroma of coppertone and summer songs.
I suggest watching my slideshow with Astrud Gilberto singing a summer samba, "So Nice."
Bruce Gary (drummer of the Knack) and Doug Fieger (lead singer/songwriter of the Knack) were friends of my husband and mine. Bruce died in the summer of 2006 and Doug died just this past Valentine's day, February 14, 2010.
(Photo: Bruce and my friend Toni at Burton Cummings surprise 60s themed birthday.)
Tall lanky Bruce, with that great smile and frenetic energy, grew up right here in the Valley. Here's a nice tribute about his life and influences.
(Photo: The only photo I took of Doug with the Knack. I sat in the audience for the filming of Rock n Roll Fun House.)
Doug was a ferociously curious and intelligent guy, quoted Shakespeare, doled out the best advice, gave great support to anyone who needed it, always knew the best Italian restaurants. He had a head full of musical facts and his eyes lit up talking about music or anything else he loved. He had life down - and lived every minute as if he couldn't get enough.
It's hard to believe Bruce and Doug, two guys with such brilliant energy and passion for life, are no longer on this earth.
********************************************************************
While I can't imagine my childhood without the Beatles music playing in the background, I can't recall my teen years without the Knack. I hear "My Sharona" and I'm transported back to 1979, when disco was just waning and I wanted some music of my own.
(Photo: Me daydreaming in class)
1979, "Days of My Sharona":Just entering high school, I smelled of Love's Baby Soft, day-dreamed through school, scribbled boys' names on my Pee Chee folders, loved going to the beach, loved dancing and listening to music. One song I couldn't get enough of, couldn't sit still through and sang out loud, and badly, was "My Sharona". Thumping, heart-pounding rhythm and racy, pleading lyrics and harmonies - it was contagious.
(Photo: 1969, London, England. I'm spouting my mouth off on a soapbox at the Anarchist Forum at Speakers' Corner in Hyde Park. My parents said I even gathered a small crowd.)
Demure? Without opinions? Someone who doesn't question? That's not me.
Born only months after JFK’s assassination, at the beginning of the civil rights movement, my brain was formed on the cusp of an era of transformation. And while big things were taking place around the world, my own little world transformed too.
Almost everything that my curious and questioning four-year-old mind could absorb changed before my eyes when my parents sold our San Franciscan suburban home to buy a trailer in England. From there, our entire family – mom, dad, my little sister and I – would travel the world. Every day, every moment there after was something new to take in, something to question.
As we traveled the world from Turkey to Morocco, we saw true poverty, children begging in the streets and gypsies wanting our clothes. We’d made day-trips into the institutional bleakness and war-pocked Communist East Berlin, to emerge into the colorful and shining outside world upon leaving. Only later would I learn, while we visitors were able to come and go, the East Berliners would be shot if they tried to leave.
These experiences, whether I knew it or not at the time, became etched into my brain.
Upon returning to San Francisco in the early 1970s, we bounced around from my grandparents house in the Sunset District to a rental cottage in the Richmond and finally landed in Gatorville: San Francisco State University’s Family Student Housing. It was only a small community of sagging, dingy-white army barrack-style apartments, which surrounded a playground of tarnished metal swings and slides stuck into dirty sand, sand that served as a litter box for stray cats. The place didn't look like much. But it was.
It was a slice of pure 1970’s counterculture – a commune feel without the annoying rules and with the ability to live and let live. We kids dealt with things other generations might not have had to deal with.
The reason the place was so special to me: I wasn't alone.
Until Gatorville, many of us moved around, didn’t really have a chance to make friends, and might not have had patterns to our days. We kids of all races and ages - from kindergartners to teens - seemed to have the community to ourselves during the day. We'd come home, let ourselves in with the keys we kept on silver-beaded chains around our necks, and then we'd run off, totally free from adults. By the time the street lights came on, the apartments were turned over to the parents.
Most of us seemed savvy beyond our years. Maybe it was because the parents acted childlike. Maybe it was from seeing so much change in so little time - our surroundings, the culture, the way adults dressed and spoke - everything was far-out, groovy, out of sight or a bummer, which I always thought was so odd because none of them dressed and spoke that way when I was younger. It was all a little unsettling. Question was: what could I depend on if styles of living came and went?
Early on, I looked at the world around me with a sideways glance, always a little skeptical.
Many of us were kids of divorce, most (if not all) were latchkey kids, kids who worried about parents pot smoking (and having one kid announce this parental pot-smoking in class to the third grade teacher in front of the entire room of children!); kids fending off the neighborhood child-molester and being savvy enough to call him a “pervert!” but not savvy enough to avoid going with him to a porn theater with him; kids so free we took the Muni (city bus), roamed the city, seemed to build our own society, all with the backdrop of great music – funk, soul, great rock and roll (now called “classic”). The experience was yin and yang, making the sun-filled long summer days only brighter when it all came to dark and abrupt end.
We were told by San Francisco State we’d have to leave Gatorville, because the university wanted the area for some other use. But we fought, and kids led the way. We protested “Hell no, we won’t go!”. “My dad put a huge sign above my apartment porch:“We Stand Together”. I called local news stations and asked to speak with my favorite (I was a news junky even back then) anchorman: Van Amburg. Once he came to the phone, I told him how we were being forced from our home, would have to move from our friends and our school. We refused to leave because we had rights, I said. Intrigued (or more likely humored), Van Amburg told me he would send a news crew out to interview me. I took a shower, put on my best dress and waited on my porch at 97 Campus Circle. But no news crew ever showed up.
In 1976, we left Gatorville behind. But it’s always been with me - just as my experiences of having traveled the world have never left.
Throughout my life, the people I meet and the experiences I have continue to create new grooves in my brain - raising my child, running a business, and meeting people who’ve left repressive regimes, for instance, have made an impact.
I edited film for a business associate who grew up in Havana, Cuba. He wanted me to edit his photos of 1930s through 1950s Havana along to his favorite Cuban folk songs; the film was going to be a Christmas present for his adult children. My friend had wonderful memories of growing up surrounded by the turquoise waters and balmy air of Havana, something his children would only know through his stories. After the Communist Revolution in Cuba, three of Fidel Castro’s thugs came into my friend's home, removed him, his wife and two sons, then confiscated all of their belongings and his business. They put my friend in prison. He and his family escaped by a mere fluke in timing and paperwork. They fled to America.
Another friend fled Iran with his life. His story is similar to my Cuban friend’s experiences - all of his money, his business, his home and belongings were taken just after the Islamic revolution. He, too, fled to the United States with only his family and his life.
Having looked into the eyes of these men who've had their hopes and freedom taken by dictators is something I'll never forget. The emotional impact of their stories, along with my own memories of seeing the world as a child, have made me all the more certain of my own fortune in life, a life of freedom I will never take for granted.
Because of what I've learned in my life I don't have the luxury of ignorance or apathy.
There are now many, even those oh-so rebellious flower children who constantly yelled "Question the man!" when I was a kid, who now compliantly believe whatever the media or political groups tell them without questioning. They vote for candidates based on cool icons and snappy bumper stickers.
And there are many younger people who are coming out of universities, degrees in hand, without the ability of critical thinking and lacking wisdom. A huge portion of society no longer questions what they're told and they don't go looking for answers.
I recently met a thirty-year-old college grad who, after someone flippantly used the word communist, said: "What's so bad about communism? Isn't it like the Israeli Kibbutz?" Oy! How does an adult get a college degree and yet think communism is merely a large commune (i.e., you bake the bread and I'll grow the tomatoes and we'll get along just fine.) No, communism throughout history always requires repression of humans under violence - firing squads, genocide, gulags, interment camps. It's not peace, love and happiness.
There are a plethora of books he could read and plenty Information just a click away about what really goes on in Cuba if he were at all curious. But that seemed to be his problem, his lack of curiosity and (from what I could tell from the rest of our conversation) an amazing ability to parrot professors, the media and politicians without question. The man spoke in prepackaged phrases, even calling me a racist for questioning Obama on a few specific issues, ie Card Check and his meddling in Honduras. This dude nonchalantly calling me a racist was so ridiculous and thoughtless, I didn't even get angry. I actually felt sorry for this guy who spent years in college but seemed to have no ability to think for himself.
Because so many are misinformed and indoctrinated rather than truly educated, I find it even more necessary to watch, to learn, to educate myself and to always question. And when I see things that get me angry and that are obviously wrong, I stand up on my soapbox, like I did as a five-year-old in Hyde Park at Speakers’ Corner, and I shout out.
No one can tell me the: "The debate is closed!". I don't go silent and cower when told to shut up and stop questioning. I never have and never will.
Here's a goofy website (When Things Were So Bad They Were Good) I created (and need to tweak) as an assignment in my web design class. If you click on it and the Kodachrome navigation buttons don't light up, can you please tell me? Thanks! Sometimes they don't work in Internet Explorer.
As I said, I'm still working on it; it needs more text and meta tags, etc. And the theme is completely useless other than to humor myself. But, these days, humor is one thing I can still afford.
While going through slides, I discovered a theme in many photos from the '70s involving my parents and their friends: the ever-present (or nearly always present) jug wine - there it was at house parties, diving days, beach outings, camping trips... and even at a kiddie party at the San Francisco zoo. No wonder whenever I see memories of the 1970s in my head, those bottles always seem to be clanking around there somewhere.
I guess you could say jug wine was to the 1970s what Scotch was to the 1950's Rat Pack crowd; what Martinis were to 1960's cocktail parties or what Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers were to the 1980's. Yep, jug wine is just as '70s as mood rings, shag rugs and Pong. The combo just somehow went together - like Sonny & Cher, the Captain & Tennille, Shields and Yarnell... Okay, I think I've taken that whole thing too far, haven't I?
Hey, let's play Find the Jug O' Wine (You might have to click to enlarge in order to see... I guess the "wine" in each photo might give away the answers, huh.) -
LA Daily News published this piece of mine, originally titled "American Idol and the Deluded."
Yes, it's true. I sang out in public without shame. See this photo on the left? I'm dancing and singing, as I often did. And from the big hand gestures, I'm guessing the number I am assaulting everyone in my vicinity with is Age of Aquarius.
Being the delusional child I was, I mangled many songs of the 1970s: Olivia Newton-John's Have you Never Been Mellow; Minnie Riperton's Loving You, and so many more, including (as I mention in the Daily News) Debby Boone's You Light up My Life.
And if I had more room in the Daily News, I would've included how I, as a Freshman (who should have known better by then), sang Linda Ronstadt's Blue Bayou to my entire high school. Yep, it was just me singing acapella - standing in the middle of the auditorium during a school rally... even blue-eyed-Bob-with-the-perfectly-feathered-hair was there to witness this event. I know, because he mentioned it to me four years later. Ugh!
So, yes, I was truly delusional... I say in the past-tense, while typing about my life into cyberspace as if anyone gives a damn. Some things haven't changed.
Any San Franciscan knows that It's-It Ice Creams - once sold only at Playland-at-the-Beach - are as unique to San Francisco's history as the Buena Vista's Irish Coffees, Hippie Hill, Carol Doda of the Condor Club and sourdough bread. And while many San Franciscans remember missing It's-Its after the demise of Playland in 1972, and then joy at seeing the ice creams re-emerge in markets not too many years later, they probably don't know the entire story.
The missing piece to the It's-It tale involves my mother Nancy and her friend Priscilla; their contribution to the ice cream treat's history even got them recognition from Herb Caen in one of his columns and labeled "the It's-It Girls" by another writer.
Over the next week or so, after a little more research, I'll write in more detail about how my mother and Priscilla became the "It's-It girls." But for now, I'll post these photos (taken in 1973 or 1974) of my mother (the brunette on the right) and Priscilla (the blonde on the left) standing in the It's-It booth my father made and hand painted. The little girl is Priscilla's daughter, Jocelyn. Hey, she's eating an It's-It...That was one of the perks of being an It's-It girl's kid. (Photos contributed by Priscilla)
Thanks to ex-San Francisco resident (but always a San Franciscan) Pondering Pig for reminding me about my It's-It memories. His great San Francisco posts always get me remembering.
As a kid, this was one of my favorite campgrounds on the Russian River in Guerneville, California. So when I pulled out this slide, I actually gasped to see what it really looked like through adult eyes. To me, this place was paradise.
What more could a kid want? Hot lazy Coppertone-scented days spinning in a big, skin- burning, black inner-tube in the cool waters of Russian River; hot dogs and marshmallows heated on twigs over a campfire until they got charred; Communal movies shown on a big white bed sheet at the front of the campground; of course, this elegant swimming pool...and!! Just across the street was a pee wee golf course with a super slide. It was kid Heaven!
So, to see the campground pool now - the water the color of algae, surrounded by weed-strewn cement and a trailer - is a little shocking; not that it seemed to matter to me at eight-years-old. The way I'm lounging on that blue raft, head resting in hand, I don't think I could have been happier if I was in the turquoise waters of the Bahamas.
I found this on Youtube. My husband's the bass player.
Our friend Marv e-mailed this Youtube video, circa 1983, he found of Burton Cummings (American Woman, etc.) with Del Shannon. The video opens with Burton and Del talking, but then the video fades into them on stage playing Runaway. Look for my husband (dressed in a blue shirt and tan pants) playing bass behind Del Shannon's head. Also, please note, the sweater Burton is swearing is just like one I used to wear with a white mini skirt that same year.(Photo: My husband and Burton)
My husband, Ian Gardiner, played with Burton from the mid 1970s to the mid 1980s. When they weren't touring, Burton often had TV specials on the CBC. Below is a youtube medley someone put together of one those shows. My husband is the bass player dressed all in tan standing on the upper-level. The drummer is Jim Gordon; he co-wrote Layla with Eric Clapton, oh, and - due to the strange voices in his head - bludgeoned his mother to death. Now he's in prison. He obviously needed help. It's a sad story.
Here's the video, which also has Randy Bachman and the Manhattan Transfer.
Now I just need to find some of the Midnight Special videos they were on.
Here's another video where my husband's playing bass
No Campground Fees and a Baptism as a Bonus!
Here my sister (on front of the horse) and I (the one with the goofy face) are with some little red-head girl on the porch of a religious commune. Why are we there?
My father was (he's gotten better) a tight-wad. His struggle to hang on to coins often got us into many interesting situations, like the time my entire family was held at gun point by a gas station owner in Belgium. My father refused to pay their "ridiculous" prices after filling up our gas tank. Even before this, my father already considered the Belgians the world's worst drivers. Which is probably why he finally paid the gas station owner by throwing the money at him and yelling, "I can't wait to get out of your scum country!" (That's my father's opinion. I actually liked Belgium.)
Anyway, back to the commune...and why we were there. My father took any opportunity to save money. No matter what that entailed (and sometimes guns were involved.)
So when we travelled to San Diego to go camping, and my dad met some guys on La Jolla beach who invited us to stay at their religious commune, he jumped at the offer. Even if he referred to people who went to church as "Jesus Freaks," that didn't matter. To him, taking the offer was a chance to avoid the campground fees.
The week we were there, the kids taught me to pray (something I hadn't done since our days in the suburbs.) So I prayed for a bowl of Cheerios (their food was not good) and that my parents would still be the same after they were baptized. I had some odd idea that their personalities would change.
Yep, he got baptized; even though the only thing my father's ever been religious about (other than penny-pinching) is the environment. I guess he figured, Why not? It's free.
