||This vintage photo of a young girl on the beach at Santa Catalina Island has been listed on EBay. Bidding starts at $9.99.
Larry Harnisch reflects on Los Angeles history
Tijuana Exile HopesThis is a further report on Roy Huerta, separated for the last 10 years from his beloved wife, Manuela, and their six children. Roy, 39, is a cook at a restaurant on Sunset Blvd. and lives with a brother on the North Side. His family lives in Tijuana.
Their enforced separation dates to 1949. They were living in Los Angeles. One day they took a trip to Tijuana. Returning, Manuela panicked and gave conflicting answers at the border and was detained. Born in Mexico, she speaks little English. She was later convicted of perjury and deported.
The frustrating case was first reported here Sept 13, 1957.
Three weeks ago a reader, Mrs. William Rosenblatt, wrote that since it was related here the story had disturbed her and she wondered if there had been any development. I got hold of Roy and he said the situation was unchanged, which was told here.
However, Francis H. Ohswaldt, deputy district director of immigration, saw the column and phoned.
IT APPEARED to him that the family could be reunited under Public Law 85-316, in effect since Sept. 11, 1957. The law provides that an alien spouse or child of a U.S. citizen shall be issued a visa under certain conditions, which Manuela apparently can meet.
The sad thing, he said, was that Roy and his wife didn't know that they probably have been eligible for this relief for more than a year. he was put in touch with Roy and he has alerted immigration officials at the border to expedite the case.
"Perhaps," Ohswaldt said, "immigration people won't be considered the ogres they are sometimes painted."
LAST WEEKEND when Roy went to Tijuana he took along his birth certificate and Army discharge -- necessary to prove his American citizenship. Monday Manuela went to the American consul there and filled out an application for a visa.
If investigation shows that the requirements have been met under the law, the Huerta family should be together in six weeks or two months.
"Gosh," Roy said yesterday. "I guess I better start looking for a house to rent for my six kids."
It's nice to be able to print a story with a happy ending.
AT RANDOM -- Tom Cracraft puts stickers on his letters with the slogan, "Get the lead out of your gas. Stop smog!" ... Cosmopolitan for May is one great big paean to California, mostly this area. Meanwhile, back among the natives here, the heckling continues ... No truth in the rumor, Martin Ragaway says, that Cadillac dealers are raffling off a hospital ... Descriptive line by barkeep Jose Sanchez: "She's the type that orders caffeine-free coffee laced with cognac."
YOU DON'T HEAR about it, but the six-year truce between the Communist North Koreans and the U.N. still presents uneasy moments.
Ed Fleming of KNXT spent several days at Panmunjom on his recent swing around the Orient and learned that incidents keep cropping up that require meetings between the opposing forces.
One time last winter Communist soldiers threw snowballs at Americans patrolling the border. And you know what those nasty Americans did? They returned the fire, only they allegedly put rocks in their snowballs. The North Koreans charged this was a violation of the armistice.
More recently they complained U.N. soldiers were throwing orange peels across the line and went through the ridiculous motion of charging another violation.
ONLY IN L.A. -- A lady called Aunt Hallie came up to photog Bob Martin at a family gathering and said she'd like to show him some pictures. She brought out a leather-bound book with the gold letters "S.O.G. with P.I.P." on the cover. Meant "Silly Old Grandmother with Pictures in Purse." she explained to baffled Bob ... One of the girls in classified took an ad from a man wishing to sell a sorrel mare, some black Angus calves and some "wiener" pigs. In the nick of time it was corrected to "weaner."
Murdering Your Wife a High Misdemeanor
In yesterday's editions he trod boldly on a topic which has been banned from respectable parlour conversation since as long as I can remember.
Which shows how keen my memory is. My family never even had a parlour. (And, if they did have one, they would have spelled it parlor, not parlour. They weren't folks to put on airs.)
In his usual breezy, frank, intimate manner of expression, the doctor discussed the pros and cons of murdering one's wife.
In an article headed "What Makes a Man Murder His Wife?" he began by pointing out that the questions is vital to every one of us.
"Perhaps you don't think the matter is especially pertinent to you personally," he prefaced his observations. But then he added, ominously:
"After you finish reading this article, then you can draw your own conclusions."
I was almost afraid to read on. But I did.
His point, as I get it, is that maybe my marriage, or your marriage, has had the symptoms all along and we've just overlooked them. Taken no positive action, if you know what I mean.
And don't give me that high-and-mighty look. You know what I mean.
The basic symptom, according to the doctor, is a nagging wife.
A study made by two psychiatrists whom he quoted revealed that most men who rub out their spouses were sober, likable individuals before they took the vows.
Average Joes just like you an me.
"There were certain great weaknesses in their personality," he admitted, "but these might have been kept from coming to the surface if the marriages had been different."
Trouble was, the wives simply didn't know how to manage their husbands. Instead of using constructive methods to improve them, they nagged.
Day in, day out.
Until finally, PFFT! No wife.
When I got that far along in Dr. Popenoe's frank discussion, I began to realize that he was performing a perilous but necessary public service.
If those were the only symptoms, it's time people were made aware.
In my personal case, fortunately, there's no problem. I'm not the type of man who lies around the house and lets his wife nag him.
In fact, I seldom go home.
But you. I'm worried about you. Any one of you is liable to have a murder rap hanging over you head tomorrow.
And this thing could spread into a very unpleasant epidemic.
Dr. Popenoe obviously deserves our thanks for bringing this touchy matter into the open.
How You Can Beat the Rap
And he's gone a step further. He also points out that not all husbands with nagging wives end up doing time. Some just slip out and drive to Reno. It's up to each reader to figure out his own solution.
But while you're thinking it over, Dr. Popenoe generously offers to supply you with the name of a thoroughly competent marriage counselor near your home. Write care of The Mirror News and enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope.
And if that doesn't work, get in touch with me. I know a guy who knows a guy from out of town who works fast and clean and cheap and keeps his mouth shut.
The city made a special effort to examine and celebrate its past during the opening of Union Station. Officials mounted a much more elaborate "parade of progress" than I suspect we would see today.
Primitive semi-humans called the Lingoo in "Tarzan."
||This 1908 postcard of Angels Flight has been listed on EBay. Notice that it was originally next to the 3rd Street tunnel. Also notice the lookout tower at the top of Bunker Hill. Bidding starts at $3.99.
A mother received a call recently from a woman who said she was with an advertising agency, which she named. Her son, she was told, had won a two-week trip to Honolulu. If the mother would furnish his address the tickets would be given to him.
The mother said he had been unemployed but had gotten a new job out of town and didn't know if he would be able to make the trip. The caller said the tickets or the equivalent in cash were his anyway, but had to be presented personally.
A meeting was arranged at their home, and the young man drove down from Fresno for his prize -- only to have his car snatched. Seemed all this was a ruse. There is no such advertising agency. The address is a loan firm. The young man was several weeks behind on the monthly payment on the car.
So, sadder and wiser but not happier, he took the bus back to Fresno.
ONLY IN L.A. -- Adam W. Truty took an elderly friend into a deluxe saloon. He ordered beer, his friend ordered coffee. The beer was 45 cents, the coffee 25. High. They didn't complain, but another elderly customer did, delivering an eloquent lecture on ethics. The bartender snapped, "You're 86! No more drinks for you!"
Whereupon Adam's friend jumped up and said to his new-found advocate. "Are you 86? You don't look it! I'm 86, too!"
NO DISCOVERER, I
So they can't find the cap from that nose cone?
Now I feel somewhat less of a boob
When I can't, though I look all over,
Find the cap from my toothpaste tube.
-- RICHARD ARMOUR
LET'S FACE IT, North Young, Malibu artist, has a talent for eliciting secrets from the most reticent of his rather odd friends. One of them, a cemetery caretaker named Moss O'Learn, last week confided this tale:
On Jan. 1 of this year the box was opened and found to contain 300 dahlia tubers, each wrapped in tissue and all in excellent condition. With them was a note asking that the corms be planted all around his grave. Relatives sent the box to Moss O'Leam, who planted them.
That very night people passing the cemetery were astonished to see the inventor's headstone bathed in light although there was no artificial illumination in the vicinity.
"How do you account for the phenomenon?" the caretaker was asked.
"No phenomenon at all," he replied, "just those danged 300 Watt bulbs."
REMEMBER the Finn twins, George and Charles, who have been at war with the government for six years over possession of an Army surplus plane and who have a penchant for making citizen's arrests?
Things are likely to liven up any week now.
AT RANDOM -- E.N. Brandt, fiction editor of the S. E. Post, was in town briefly, trying to lure local writers into the short-story fold. Said there's a shortage. Of course, he meant the Post type of story. He also revealed that the Post pays 50% more for a short story than for an article ...speaking of which, the new Erle Stanley Gardner serial in the week's Post has an L.A. locale.
Pinball Machinery Tilts in El Monte
I'm no crime-buster.
But every now and then I come up with a morsel about some slightly illegal activity being conducted under the noses of some slightly more than indifferent officials in our cozy community.
And, going on the theory that the officials can read, I print details of the violation.
And, ever so gently, I suggest that maybe somebody with a little authority ought to open his eyes.
Buried deep in the archives of The Mirror News there's a yellowing copy of one of my penny lectures to public servants. It's in a column dated Nov. 12, 1957.
The column dealt with a pinball-machine syndicate which was operating with no apparent interference in a dozen cities throughout Southern California.
The pinball games were nothing more than thinly disguised slot machines, capable of gobbling up a workingman's pay check in the space of a couple hours.
In the column I listed the names and addresses of some bars and cafes in the town of El Monte, where the machines were doing land-office business.
An assistant of mine toured a few of them and proved how simple it was to drop $26 in two hours. He came back to the office with the additional observation that adults weren't the only ones who were feeding nickels, dimes and dollars to the syndicate.
High school kids -- lots of them -- were dropping their lunch money and allowances into the machines.
My column was strictly a reflection of my public spiritedness.
And, naive boy that I am, I figured that's how the city fathers of El Monte would take it.
They were incensed, all right. But not at the crooks who were taking money from the kids in their town.
Instead, the solons got mad at me. Me! I never did nothing to nobody (except hit them with a double negative if they weren't looking).
One city councilman pointed out to me a few days later. "Let's face it. Gambling is here to stay."
And a second council member added that he was positive that there weren't any payoffs on the machines. "I asked some of the men who owned them," he said.
El Monte's police chief stood before the councilmen a week after my column appeared and begged them to outlaw the machines:
"I know they pay off," he said, "but I just don't have enough men to police every place that's got one."
But the majority of the city fathers were apparently very fond of the pinball operation. Staunchly, they did nothing.
About a month later, though, some citizens started putting the heat on. Why they demanded to know, was the City Council in favor of such a crummy operation which could do nothing but hurt their town?
Neatly, the councilmen about-faced. They didn't do anything so bold as to ban the machines, as lots of other cities have done. But they did vote, 4-1, to put the issue before the people.
There the matter rested until November of last year. Then, in a sudden reversal of course, they brought it up again and voted, 3-2, to let the machines continue to operate.
Finally, the people of El Monte took the matter into their own hands. Church groups, PTA's and other civic organizations began passing petitions early this year demanding the removal of the pinball games.
Things May Work Out
They had the support of Mayor Dale Ingram, who's always been against the machines. Two days ago, a group embracing many of the game operations found a technical flaw in the presentation of the citizens' petitions, but, with Mayor Ingram's help, the people of El Monte finally convinced the City Council that private citizens should have a voice in what kind of corruption they want in their town.
On June 23 a special election will be held -- and, at last, the people will be able to decide for themselves whether they want their kids to contribute their allowances to a gambling syndicate.
I'm not too worried about the outcome.
||At left, 1964 Nashville is the latest destination of Mary McCoy's Cooking With the Junior League blog. (Mary, the entertaining voice of This Book Is for You, is spending a year preparing meals from Junior League cookbooks).
Mary writes: Published in 1964 by the Junior League of Nashville, Nashville Seasons has a split personality. But then again, it was the 1960s, an interesting time in the American culinary landscape where home cooks were quite over casseroles and post-war convenience foods, but hadn’t yet remembered what good food actually tasted like. As a result, good food was often confused with fussy food.