Still Crazy After All These Years!

I rarely blog about myself.  I’m afraid you all would find me very boring.  Today, however, I will make an exception because something extraordinary has happened.  For those of you who don’t know me personally, let me explain.

My mother died in 1957 when I was just a wee thing.  I have very vague memories of her and what little I know has been told to me by other people lucky enough to remember her.  My bereft father, who never expected to be widowed at such a young age, left me in the care of my maternal grandparents.  Our living arrangement may not have been conventional, but I grew up in a wonderful home filled with love.  The last time I saw my dad was fifty years ago—that’s right half a century.  As a result, it was also the last time I saw anyone from his side of the family.

Fast forward to 2010.  I was writing my book, Bringing Up Oscar, and I joined ancestry.com to aid in my research.  One Sunday afternoon, I decided to take a break from work and look up my dad’s family.  Lo and behold, I found them!  My dad and his brother, Bob, had both passed away, but I was able to contact my Uncle Bob’s eldest daughter, Janice, who not only remembered me, but welcomed me with an enthusiasm I never expected.  It seems my cousins had been looking for me for years, but I never knew it!

I have since met Janice and her sister, Kim.  Through them, I learned that my dad’s sister, Irene, and her children had relocated to the west coast.  My Aunt Irene (my dad’s only surviving sibling) is now in her eighties and I recently had the opportunity to see her again.  While traveling out west last month, I made arrangements to visit her daughter, my cousin Shelia.  I remember Shelia as the girl with beautiful long, dark curls that floated behind her as she played and her brother, Jerry, as the handsomest boy who ever donned a military uniform.

After a great lunch with Shelia and her husband, Dean, we visited the rehab facility where my Aunt Irene is recovering from a nasty fall.  Seeing them after all these years was nothing short of a miracle.  It was better than finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow!

 As for my cousin, Jerry, he moved to Oregon so I haven’t seen him yet—but don’t you worry, Jerry—I’m coming for you next when you least expect it—unless, of course, you make it to Michigan before I get out there!!

Me and Shelia  - 1956

Me and Shelia - today

 

Aunt Irene

Hi-Yo Silver! Away!

Recently, there has been lots of buzz about the new Lone Ranger movie starring Armie Hammer and Johnny Depp.  Most of us boomers will remember the old black and white television show with Clayton Moore in the title role and Jay Silverheels as Tonto.  The series ran from 1949-1957, but even before that, The Lone Ranger was a wildly popular radio show that originated in Detroit at WXYZ radio.

The Lone Ranger was the brainchild of ex-lawyer George W. Trendle (the ‘W’ stood for Washington) and writer Fran Striker (a man).  Trendle envisioned a western show with a wholesome masked hero that childen could look up to.  Stryker ran with the idea developing the characters and scripts.  The first installment aired on January 30, 1933 and was carried by several Michigan radio stations.  While Tonto was portrayed by senior actor John Todd for the duration of the series, the Texas ranger’s voice was originally provided by actor John L. Barrett and then another actor, George Stenius who briefly took over.  By May of that year, Trendle and Striker knew they had a bona fide hit on their hands and they brought in little-known actor Earle Graser in the title role. 

Graser, a graduate of Detroit’s Wayne State University, was born in Kitchener, Ontario, Canada in 1909.  A slight man, he did not fit the image of a western hero (see photo below) so he was told to keep a low profile in public.  Beginning on May 16, 1933 until his untimely death eight years later, Graser never missed a performance—all of which were broadcast live three days a week.  Graser lived in Farmington, Michigan (just up the street from me—honest) with his wife and daughter.  In the early hours of April 8, 1941, he was driving home from the radio station when he fell asleep at the wheel.  He struck a parked truck on Grand River Avenue in downtown Farmington and was killed just a few days shy of his 38^th birthday. 

For the next several episodes, a critically wounded Lone Ranger could not speak above a whisper and Tonto took charge until Brace Beemer filled the void.  Beemer stayed with the role for 13 years until the radio series finally ended on September 3, 1954. 

And just in case, you didn’t know, Trendle and Striker were also the men behind another masked hero, Britt Reid aka The Green Hornet and a descendent of The Lone Ranger whose real name was John Reid. 

The Boy Henrietta Raised

Since this past week marked the 114^th birthday of legendary producer Irving Grant Thalberg, I thought it would be fitting to dedicate this blog to him and his early years:

Thalberg’s story began on May 30, 1899 in Brooklyn, New York.  William, his father, was a passive man who imported lace and often gave in to his ambitious wife, Henrietta, whose family owned a store in New York.  Disappointed in her husband’s laid-back attitude, Henrietta focused on her son hoping to transfer some of her drive onto him.  When doctors diagnosed the baby with a serious congenital heart defect, they warned that Irving probably wouldn’t live much past his 30^th birthday.  William resigned himself to Irving’s poor health, but Henrietta had other ideas.  Her son would not be an invalid. 

The young lad spent his first seven years in bed while his mother took charge.  She bathed, massaged, and encouraged him with the intent that one day he’d actually go to school.  When that day finally came, doctors cautioned against it, but Henrietta wouldn’t listen.  She firmly believed that her son had a special purpose and needed a formal education to propel him into the future.

Henrietta was right.  Despite his physical shortcomings, Thalberg excelled intellectually.  A fervent reader, he devoured books and came to understand the makings of a good story.  After a bout of rheumatic fever, which further damaged his already weak heart, Thalberg graduated from high school and enrolled in secretarial classes, which eventually gave him a one-way ticket to Hollywood.

After completing his classes, Thalberg hired in as a secretary at the Universal Film Manufacturing Company founded by Carl Laemmle.  Before long, Thalberg was promoted to the prestigious position of Laemmle’s own secretary.  In between taking care of his boss, scheduling appointments and handling correspondence, Thalberg previewed movies along with Laemmle who came to value his assistant’s opinions. 

With trouble brewing in the California studio, Laemmle and Thalberg headed west to settle the matter.  With three middle-aged executives in charge of the company, Universal’s bottom line was suffering.  Laemmle gave Thalberg the job of fixing it.  After six months, Thalberg’s answer was simple—have one man in charge, not three.  Laemmle gave Thalberg the job.  At the tender of age of 20, Irving Grant Thalberg was running Universal Studio.  Not yet of legal age, this sickly boy from New York who was still dependent on his mother was about to change the way Hollywood worked and create a filmmaking legend that has yet to be equaled.

 

 

A Word About Popcorn

Popcorn is an American staple.  We eat it by the tubful--especially at the movies.  As a matter of fact, we consume about 16 billion quarts of popcorn annually—that’s around 52 quarts per person.  But what do we really know about this tasty treat?

Popcorn probably came from Mexico where 80,000-year-old corn pollen was discovered 200 feet below Mexico City.  Although it was grown in China, Sumatra and India, the oldest known popcorn was found in central New Mexico dating back more than 5,000 years.  Columbus discovered popcorn when he landed in the West Indies, and the Aztecs served it to Cortez when he marched into Mexico.

Popcorn was originally cooked by stirring the kernels in hot sand until they burst.  Decorative pots, used for popping corn, first appeared in Peru around 300 A.D.  With one handle and a hole in the top, these primitive poppers got the job done.  Native Americans used clay or metal pots and they offered deerskin bags filled with popped corn to the pilgrims at the very first Thanksgiving.  The colonists were so impressed that they ate it for breakfast with cream and sugar—a form of puffed cereal, if you will.

The popularity of popcorn rose in the 1890s as portable popcorn machines designed by Charlie Cretors became available.  Now vendors could push, or have their horses pull, these machines taking popcorn directly to the people.  Charlie Cretors’ family still makes most of the poppers used today in movie theaters and other places of entertainment. 

Sales slumped briefly during the early 1920s when theater owners banned popcorn because of its loud crunch.  Once they realized that they were heading for financial disaster, they once again began selling the popular snack.  Sales boomed again when home poppers became available during the mid-1920s.  Then came World War II with sugar being used for the war effort.  With less candy made on the home front, Americans consumed three times more popcorn than usual.

During the 1950s, popcorn sales declined once more when television caused the movie going public to stay home.  This situation was only temporary, however.  Americans soon figured out that they could enjoy their favorite treat right in their own living room.  With microwavable popcorn produced in the 1980s, sales soared again and the crunchy treat has steadily stayed in the forefront of favorite snack foods to this day. 

So how would you like your 52 quarts this year?  Buttered or plain?

Enchanted Hill

When William Randolph Hearst decided to build a vacation home high above San Simeon, he didn’t let a little thing like location get in his way.  Camp Hill, the site he picked, rose 1600 feet above sea level with five miles of winding cattle paths connecting it to the village below.  With the Pacific on one side and the Santa Lucia Mountains on the other, it was an isolated spot that wouldn’t take kindly to development.

It all began in 1865 when George Hearst bought the Piedra Blanca Ranch for $30,000.  The 40,000 acres were located 200 miles south of San Francisco near San Simeon Bay.  The ranch became a favorite campsite for George, his wife, Phoebe and their only child, William Randolph.  As a man, the younger Hearst took his own wife and sons to the ranch whenever he could.  There they stayed, with as many as 50 people, including guests and servants, in a complex of tents.  Despite the remote location, the Hearsts entertained with style throwing lavish dances and elaborate parties. 

By the time, Hearst reached his mid-fifties, he decided it was time to get rid of the tents.  He envisioned a permanent vacation home high atop Camp Hill, now referred to as Enchanted Hill, overlooking the Pacific.  He first met with architect Julia Morgan n 1919.  Choosing a Mediterranean style, Hearst and Morgan made plans for the main house and three smaller guesthouses.  Before construction even started, however, Morgan had her work cut out for her.

Getting materials to San Simeon was next to impossible.  Forced to come by ship from San Francisco, a waterfront strike delayed deliveries.  Finally, in December 1919, the first shipment of lumber, nails and tools arrived on an old freighter.  Next, Morgan had to get the supplies and equipment up the hill.  She had the five-mile road rebuilt and found trucks powerful enough to haul everything to the top.  She also reconstructed the pier so larger ships, carrying more materials, could dock and unload in San Simeon Bay. 

Morgan’s job wasn’t limited to the buildings.  The grounds were rugged and not in keeping with Hearst’s Mediterranean theme.  First, the rocky ridge had to be terraced with some particularly stubborn areas requiring dynamite.  Next, topsoil was hauled up the hill and the terraces leveled.  Water had to be piped down from natural springs in the surrounding mountains.  Once the ground was ready, trees, plants and shrubs had to be shipped to San Simeon, and then carted up the five-mile road before being planted in their designated spots.

By 1921, the Hearsts were staying in Casa del Mar, the largest of the guest houses.  It took another five years before they moved into the main house, Casa Grande, which was only partially complete.  A passionate collector of antiques, Hearst filled the place with historic items from all over the world.  He even bought European castles, as well as a complete Spanish monastery stone by stone across the Atlantic to incorporate into his estate.  His love of animals moved him to build a private zoo.  His menagerie included ostriches, llamas, giraffes, lions and an elephant named Marianne.  The descendents of the original zebras still roam the ranch today and are often spotted by motorists driving along the Pacific Coast Highway.

Although, Casa Grande was never totally finished, Hearst called it home, affectionately referring to it as ‘the ranch’.  In his later years, when his son, William Randolph Hearst, Jr., questioned why he built such a fabulous estate in such an odd spot, his father replied:  “I just wanted to.  Period.  I loved the place.”

The Very First Barrymore

Herbert Arthur Chamberlain Hunter Blythe was born in India in 1849.  His father , a British citizen, worked in Fort Agra as a civil servant.  Growing up in the shadow of the Taj Mahal, Herbert later boasted that in deference to the local sacred cows, he was raised on goat’s milk.  That, he often told his friends, caused his children’s odd behavior.

As a young man, Herbert shocked his family when he traveled to London and took up boxing.  He was so good in the ring that in 1872, he won the Marquis of Queensberry Cup, which was awarded annually to the best amateur boxer in any class.  He also found work in the theater.  One evening his boxing prowess, along with his desire to act, joined forces when he came across the stage comedian, Charles Vandenhoff.  The entertainer was trying to protect his girlfriend from two attackers.  Herbert stepped in and saved the day with his fancy fisticuffs.  Vandenhoff was so grateful, he gave the young hero a job in his stock company.  To save the Blythes from any further embarrassment, Herbert then changed his name to Barrymore—Maurice Barrymore.  Legend has it that he saw the name on an old playbill hanging in the Haymarket Theater.  Wherever he found it, the extraordinary name he chose was destined for distinction.

Eventually, the handsome actor came to the United States where he found great success on the stages of New York.  He also found a best friend—actor John Drew.  Drew brought Barrymore to his mother’s house In Philadelphia.  The family matriarch, Louisa Lane Drew, a popular actress and manager of Philadelphia’s Arch Street Theater, disliked Barrymore immediately, but her daughter Georgiana was smitten.  After a quick courtship and against her mother’s wishes, the couple married on New Year’s Eve in 1876.  Their first child, Lionel, arrived on April 28, 1878. 

Georgie soon found herself expecting again.  Unfazed by his personal responsibilities, Barrymore, left his pregnant wife and infant son in the care of his mother-in-law and went west with a traveling troupe.  Unfortunately, the actor crossed paths with an outlaw and was shot in Marshall, Texas where he underwent extensive surgery that saved his life.  Upon his return to Philadelphia, Georgie delivered a girl, Ethel, on August 15, 1879. 

A recovered Barrymore continued working in the theater.  His good looks and quick wit earned him matinee idol status, but by the time their third child, John Sidney, was born on February 14, 1882, Barrymore was spending less and less time at home.  His drinking and philandering put a strain on the marriage.  Nonetheless, when Georgie died from tuberculosis in 1893, her death hit him hard—for a bit.  He soon found comfort in a much younger woman and married her without even telling his children. 

Eventually, Barrymore’s hard living caught up with him.  Divorced from his second wife, he began acting irrationally.  Always a quick study, he experienced difficulty remembering things and then became delusional often falling victim to rages.  Doctors diagnosed him with end-stage syphilis for which there was no cure at the time.  The disease ravaged him both physically and mentally forcing his children to commit him to the Long Island Home in Amityville.  Originally given six months live, Barrymore lasted four years in the sanitarium.

Barrymore passed the time feverishly writing.  He filled page after page of foolscap paper explaining to anyone who would listen that he was penning a new play.  Upon closer inspection, his handwritten words revealed the phrase ‘It was a lovely day n June’ written over and over again.  Finally on March 25, 1905, Maurice Barrymore died and his children buried him in the family plot in Philadelphia. 

The Purple Gang

The Five Points Gang ran Brooklyn while the Northside Gang ruled Chicago.  Philadelphia claimed the Boiler Gang.  But the City of Detroit was home to the baddest boys of all—the Purple Gang.  Their supremacy over the Motor City began in 1918 when the State Prohibition Referendum (a forerunner of national Prohibition) banned alcohol in Michigan making Detroit the first major city to go dry.  While some folks saw this as a problem, the Purple Gang heard opportunity knocking. 

Troublemakers from an early age, Abe, Ray, Joe and Izzy Bernstein formed a street gang who terrorized local merchants.  Supposedly one shopkeeper described the brothers as ‘tainted’ like bad meat turned purple.  With the state’s alcohol ban, the young Purples tried their hand at rum running.  Driving cars with false floorboards and second gas tanks, they headed south to Toledo, Ohio where legal booze was plentiful.  These sordid trips, however, were just practice runs for the real deal, which began in 1920 with the advent of national Prohibition. 

American laws were meaningless in Canada, and with only the Detroit River separating Windsor from the Motor City, rum running came naturally for the Purples.  Not only did the Bernstein Brothers and their bad boys control liquor prices in Detroit, they became the major supplier of illegal booze to the New York and Chicago underworlds.  For the next five years, the Purple Gang ruled with a strong arm and deadly bullets.  Known for their violent methods, even Chicago-boss Al Capone didn’t dare cross them.  As much as he wanted to expand his territory and cash in on the liquid loot, he held back.  Capone knew better than to risk the rage of the Purples. 

The Bernsteins wasted no time taking over most of Detroit’s blind pigs and cabarets.  They never thought twice about shooting up a joint if a proprietor refused to cooperate.  They even perfected a method of cutting liquor.  For every bottle of smuggled whiskey, they produced two and a half bottles of diluted brew.  By 1928, there were over 100 cutting plants operating in Detroit.  The illegal liquor trade became second only to the city’s auto industry.  While the Purples cashed in, their booming business also caused their downfall.

Stressed by the huge demand of their customers and the government’s crackdown on the city’s criminal element, the Purple Gang slowly unraveled.  In 1931, their infighting resulted in a triple killing known as the Collingwood Manor Massacre—one of Detroit’s worst gangland murders.  Three Purple leaders were convicted and sent to Marquette Prison in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula with life sentences.  Although they remained a relatively strong force in Detroit’s underworld until 1935, the national crime syndicate eventually absorbed the remnants of what was once the powerful Purples.