‘Ben-Hur’ Premieres in Benefit for USC

Nov. 25, 1959: Los Angeles' population reaches 2.4 million.

Parents pose with newly adopted children in a program of the Adoption Institute.

“Ben-Hur” premieres as a benefit for USC. Gore Vidal worked on the script for “Ben-Hur?”

William Wyler, "whose extremes are as often matched by subtleties, has more nearly bridged the centuries between Christ's and ours than any other moviemaker. 'You are there,' " The Times' Philip K. Scheuer says.

Hey, Keith! Is this the “Home Run Derby” with Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays?

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 23, 1959

Note: Standards have changed since Paul Coates used "wetback" in this column 50 years ago. Today, words like this are acceptable in The Times only if they appear in a quote and then, only after consultation with top editors. Although such words are sometimes appropriate, if Coates were writing this column for us today, we would ask him to change it. But Coates, who died in 1968 at the age of 47, wasn't writing for us but for the readers of another generation. And so we're left with the choice of making the changes ourselves or killing the column, both of which are greater offenses. I should also note that I deleted the headline that originally appeared with the column because it struck me as being needlessly inflammatory and wasn't written by Coates but by someone on the copy desk.     Ricardo Sarate Perez's story differs from that of the average wetback in two major regards.     First, in purpose.  Ricardo didn't come to the United States in search of the American dollar.  He came in quest of something we take for granted here: an education.      Secondly, when Ricardo began his several-hundred-mile journey to Mexico's northern frontier, he was only 11 years old.      One of several children of a  railroad worker, Ricardo left his family's three room dwelling in San Luis Potosi at 8 a.m. on a  chilly winter morning in 1955.  He carried a  paper bag with two extra shirts and an extra pair of pants, plus the 25 pesos (two American dollars) which he had secretly saved for the trip.     He had earned the money working with his father on the railroad.     With three years of schooling behind him, his aim was to get more -- to learn English like the tourists spoke it, then return to get a "good" job in a hotel.     This goal has been altered somewhat by the passing of time.     The trip from San Luis Potosi, to Guadalajara, north through Mazatlan and Culiacan, and finally west to Tijuana, took 21 days.     A boy on the highway in Mexico -- even a small one -- generally can keep moving by exchanging his services, loading and unloading trucks, for free transportation and, occasionally, a meal.     In Tijuana, the 11-year-old spent two days learning about the border -- where it was, how to cross it -- and hearing stories about American jails before working up courage to sneak across.     His was an ingenious plan.  And it worked.  Waiting for the late afternoon influx of Mexican workers to cross from the U.S. side back into their country, he slipped among them.  Then, walking backward as they walked forward, he passed unnoticed into the United States.     His success, however, was short lived.  Border patrolmen caught him in San Diego and returned him to Tijuana.  He tried once more.  Again, he was caught and sent back.     For his third attempt, the successful one, he traveled east, all the way to Nogales.  He crossed ankle-deep in mud through a storm drain.     And with the kind of luck that sometimes accompanies determination, he began his move northward and westward.     Walking, stowing away on trucks and freight trains, sometimes boldly hitchhiking or going by bus, he kept on the move because he didn't know what else to do.  He kept from going hungry by catching a day's work  where he could -- generally washing dishes in a Mexican restaurant.     He reached L.A., took one look and decided there were too many policemen.  So he caught the next freight north, where -- a week later -- he hit the jackpot.  In Sacramento he found a family which took him in, fed him and sent him to school.     Again, luck was his shadow.  Although he spoke no English, school authorities accepted the family's claim that Ricardo was born in Texas.  The family was poor and Ricardo helped out, spending weekends and summer vacations in the fields or slaughtering poultry.     Two months ago, however, the family told the boy he'd have to leave.  Because of illness, they would be forced to go on welfare and they were afraid of what might happen if he were discovered. Found by Church Worker     He left and came to L.A.  Sitting in a pew, praying, at Plaza Methodist Church, he was found by a church worker.  The boy told his story, illustrating it with a few tears and a few laughs.     Then some other people heard the story of the little wetback.  Dr. Richard Brooks, president of Gardena's Spanish American Institute heard it.  He said he'd accept Ricardo in the home-school for boys if immigration problems could be worked out and the $75-a-month minimum tuition could be met.     The Ladies' Plaza Club came up with $10 a month.  Arnold Rodriguez, a Plaza playground director, and his wife, a schoolteacher, volunteered another $5 and supplied the necessary affidavit of support.     Dr. Brooks and Rodriguez took the boy's story to immigration officials here.  Rodriguez said that if the additional $60 a month for tuition wasn't volunteered, he'd pay it.  Then Dr. Brooks took a frightened Ricardo to the U.S. Consulate in Mexicali.     This weekend, passport and student visa in hand, Ricardo Sarate Perez came back to town, a very happy and grateful young man.

Nov. 22, 1963

Pioneer of Covered Wagon Days Seeks to Save Oregon Trail

Ezra Meeker, who first traveled the Oregon Trail in 1852. The city is overrun with loose dogs, The Times says. Dec. 4, 1928: Ezra Meeker dies at the age of 97.

Nov. 21, 1909: The Times profiles Ezra Meeker, who traveled the country in an ox cart to promote his campaign to preserve the Oregon Trail as a national highway. Meeker is the fellow with the ox cart in the photos of the 1910 Aviation Meet.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 19, 1959

Saga of a Guy Who Flipped From Poky     "I walk alone," the voice on the phone told me, more as an apology than as a boast.  "With me, it's habit.  I guess I never learned any other way."     The voice was a man's and a drawl.  It continued:  "Funny I should be calling somebody like you for help after all these years of going it alone."     The time was about 3:45, yesterday afternoon.     "What do you need?" I asked.     "I need-" he started, and stopped.  "Is this phone tapped?"     "No."     "You won't trace it, or call anybody, until I'm through talking?"     "No."     "I'll trust you," the man said.  Then, for a long minute, he said nothing.  Finally, he began again.  "I just flipped.  That's the only way to explain it."     "Explain what?"      "Why I broke out of jail.  It was about eight o'clock, after dinner, and I was just sitting there on my bunk and I started thinking about my kid.  I just flipped."     Now the conversation was coming easy.      "He's three, and I got this weird idea that he's run out in the street and be hit by a car.  Silly things.  Things like that were going through my mind."     "How did you escape?" I asked.     "Domestic troubles," he continued, ignoring the question.  "When my wife came to visit me, I told her to get a divorce.  It would be better for the kid -- and now we've got another one, a baby girl -- if he never remembered me.     "That's what I told her.  I told her I was no good.  That's what happens to me sometimes.  I get off on a negative kick."     "What were you doing time for?" I said.     There was a sigh.  "This'll get you.  Robbery, second degree.  They gave ma  a year.  With good time, I could have been out in March.  So I ran away.     "I ran straight home and saw the kid.  I was afraid he would have forgotten me, but he didn't.  I wasn't there thirty minutes when he turned to his mother and said, 'This is Daddy.' " The caller continued to unwind.  He was 33, he said.  He'd had one felony conviction for first degree robbery.  He got five-to-life for it.  He came out in April of '55, and not too long afterwards, he married.      "I got a good job.  I worked," he said.  "I thought everything was going to be all right.  Then I goofed.     "It was my fault.  It's been my fault all along.  Like this escape.  They trusted me, made me a trusty.  So I took off."     I asked him from where.     "Montrose substation.  My kid -- he talks real good now.  When I saw him the last time, he barely talked."     "What's your name?" I asked.     He answered without a hesitation.  "Elias Smith.  Elias like the Biblical Elias.  Elias Smith Jr."     "What are you going to do?"     This time, he paused.  "I wish I knew what they're going to do with me."     "You're ready to go back?" I pressed him slightly.     "It's one-to-ten years for escape," he sighed.  "When I left my wife last Monday, I told her I'd turn myself in.  I promised.  And she said she'd wait for me.  That was all I wanted to hear.     "I started to turn myself in, but I got confused.  Now it's Wednesday and I'm still confused.  You're not tracing this call, are you?" he asked again. He Got Confused         "No," I assured him.     "All right," he said doubtfully.  He told me where he was calling from.  "Now," he added, "two favors.  You call them for me, would you?  And give me 10 minutes for  a cup of coffee."     I waited 10 minutes, then called.     Half an hour later, a sheriff's deputy called me back to report that Elias Smith Jr. was a man of his word.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov. 18, 1959

As Senators Write to Indignant Taxpayers     While we're all gathered here together, in this smoke-filled room, I'd like to say a few words in behalf of politicians.     They are our friends.  Behind that stodgy facade that they put up, they've all got hearts as big as Daddy Warbucks'.     And what they do, they do in our best interests.     I am prepared, I might add, to give you an example.     You remember, a couple of months ago, when Sen. Everett Dirksen of Illinois drafted a resolution calling for a government expenditure of $200,000 to permit himself and his 99 colleagues to fly to Waikiki to welcome Hawaii into our union of states?     The resolution was drawn up shortly after Alaska, which is cold, slipped quietly into the union.  And it was met, I'm told, with some resounding cheers in the upper house before it was drowned out by a chorus of taxpayer screams.     Well, now, at last, I can tell you the story behind the proposal.  I have it from an indignant taxpayer who was among those who wrote their protests  to Washington.     He wrote to Sen. Dirksen, Clair Engle and Thomas Kuchel.     Dirksen replied, in part:     "Nothing delighted me so much as to observe in every section of the country that a proposal to have the entire Senate attend the Hawaiian inaugural ceremonies at public expense struck so deeply into the hearts of people and offended their basic feeling with respect to governmental extravagance and the need for economy.     "I should point out that when the question was asked of me by the press, I said that I presumed every senator 'wanted' to go to Hawaii, but as you well know, 'wanting' to go and 'getting' to go is quite another matter . . .     "I reaffirm, however, my delight that there is an aroused feeling in the country with respect to spending.      "As for the record, I take some real pride in the record which the Republican minority made in the Senate in resisting huge authorizations for the expenditure of money and heavy appropriations.     "This aggressive effort on the part of the minority plus the determination of the president to hold the budget line plus the clear evidence of public interest all joined to give us a good record in this field."     I would have suspected that the junket was a Democratic plot if I hadn't seen Sen. Engle's answer, too:     "Thank you for your letter regarding the proposal of Sen. Dirksen . . .     "I agree that this suggestion is ridiculous; and if it had come to a vote, you may be sure that I would have voted against it.  It is not improper to send a small delegation . . . on this great occasion;  but to send the entire delegation is, of course, preposterous."     California's Republican senator, Tom Kuchel, had still another explanation:     "I fully agree with you that it would be an abuse of the public trust and a flagrant waste of public funds for either branch of the Congress to arrange a so-called junket for its entire membership . . .     "It is unfortunate that a jocular remark about a possible trip to Hawaii was misunderstood and subsequently treated seriously by a certain segment of the press . . .     "You may rest assured that I would never be a party to such an extravagance." Statesmanlike Stuff     So now we know.  Either:     1 -- Sen. Dirksen -- who's been battling those spendthrift Democrats for years --  was just testing us taxpayers to see if we were alert;     2 -- If those spendthrift Republicans had gotten it to the floor, the Democrats would have voted it down; or:         3 -- It was just a big joke.    I get the feeling that if the indignant taxpayer taxpayer had written 97 more letters to our elected representatives, all would have expressed violent opposition to such a prodigal scheme, no matter what they might have said before.     It's like I told you at the start.  Politicians are our friends.  Especially if we're watching them.

Paul V. Coates – Confidential File, Nov, 17, 1959

Poet in the Poky Has Samson Sort of Woes     Jerry Baker, the promising young coffee-house poet, appeared in my office yesterday afternoon, shortly after being released from Lincoln Heights jail.     He sat down, gazed fondly at an open pack of cigarettes on my desk, and informed me, "You smoke my brand."     I offered him one.  He took it, thanking me.     "I'm here," he said, "because I'm told you're a fair man.  You have  a good reputation.  You come very highly recommended."     Borrowing a match, he lit his cigarette.     "In fact," he continued, "not one, but two of my cellmates recommended you as the man to see."     "About what?" I asked.     Baker frowned.  "About my hair, but I'm getting to that.  I hitchhiked here, you see.  I made money by reading my poetry in coffee houses along the way.  Cleveland, Houston.  I'm from Brooklyn.  That's in New York."     "I'm from back East myself," I told him.  "I've heard of it."     "Good," he replied.  "Now, last Wednesday I was hitchhiking on Sunset on my way to the Unicorn.  I had my wood flute and my poetry with me, when the two policemen came along in a patrol car.     "At first, I thought they were going to let me go because I only had one foot in the street.  The other foot was legal.  On the sidewalk.  But they ran a make on me and discovered there was this warrant out from the last time I was here.  A year and a half ago.  For hitchhiking on the freeway.      "So," Baker shrugged, "they arrested me.  It was all fair and legal.  They were very nice about it.  They even asked me to recite some of my poems, but I didn't because -- you know, they bugged me.     "Later on, " he added, "I did play a few notes on my flute for the jailer.  Anyway, it was $25 or five days, and not having the $25, I took the five days."     "You mentioned," I interrupted, "something about your hair."     "Yes," he sighed.  "Look at it."     It was sort of a dark blond, trimly out, parted on the left.     "I see it," I said.      Baker jumped to his feet.  "No you don't!" he shouted.  "They cut it off this morning.  All the hair I'd been growing since June.      "And for good measure," he added, collapsing back into his chair, "they stole my goatee."     "Who?" I demanded.  "Who did?"     "Who else?" he cried:  "The cops.  At five o'clock this morning, this cop grabbed me out of my cell and said, 'We're going to the barbershop, sonny.'     "I said, 'No.  I want my hair.  You can't have it.'     "When we got to the barbershop, I grabbed the door and wouldn't let go, so he got me in an arm lock.  I kept protesting.  I guess I tore his shirt, so he bounced my head on the floor."     Having to relive the experience obviously was an ordeal for the poet.  He grabbed another one of my cigarettes.      "This policeman put me in the barber chair," he continued, "and the barber told me, 'Sit still and I'll give you a nice, clean haircut.  You wiggle and I ain't guaranteeing nothing.'     "I sat still and let them violate every civil right I was born with.  When the barber finished, the policeman told him, 'The goatee.  That goes, too.'  And it did." I Got a Naked Chin     Baker stood up again. "It was my personality," he sighed.  "They took my whole personality.  I'd be ashamed to go into a coffee house now.  I'd feel self-conscious."     "What are you going to do now?" I asked.     "What can I do?" he snapped.  "Nothing! Until I grow my hair back.     "Then," he added, "I'm going to blow this town.  You know?  It bugs me."

Plane Crash Kills 42

Nov. 17, 1959: Investigators speculate on whether a bomb exploded on a National Airlines DC-7B that crashed in the Gulf of Mexico, killing 42 people. Ultimately, no cause was ever determined. ... And  Gene Sherman reports on border drug traffic.   Jack Smith writes: "It is easy enough to find statistics suggesting that we are soft -- mentally, physically and morally. More people are in hospitals. More people are swallowing pills. More people are in jails. More people have tics and syndromes. The New York Yankees are falling apart and the heavyweight champion of the world is a Swede." Robert R. Kirsch says John Gosling’s “Ghost Squad” is “a must for every true crime buff.” ”Mother, May I Go Steady?”

Nov. 17, 1959 Jeane Hoffman had a typically interesting story about all the wannabe teams hovering around Los Angeles. The Chargers—yes, they started in L.A.—were the closest to reality. Then there were the Stars (baseball) and Jets (basketball), teams that had to overcome several factors to become real franchises. The Chargers looked like the real deal, heading to the Coliseum in 1960. "We get fourth choice in Coliseum dates but that's enough for seven home games," said Tom Eddy, assistant to Barron Hilton. The Stars were lined up with names like Branch Rickey as president of the Continental League and Mark Scott, host of TV's "Home Run Derby," as team vice president. But where to play if they really got going? Hoffman said the Stars were talking to Walter O'Malley about playing in the Dodgers' yet to be built ballpark "but if he doesn't let them in they'll have to go to Orange County—or to court." As for the Jets, who apparently had Bing Crosby involved, they were confident that an L.A. franchise would come their way. Said Len Corbosiero, "If we can't get a new franchise, we hope to move out an established team." --Keith Thursby

Family Killed in Kansas Farm Town

"The village of Holcomb stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas, a lonesome area that other Kansans call 'out there.' Some seventy miles east of the Colorado border, the countryside, with its hard blue skies and desert-clear air, has an atmosphere that is rather more Far West than Middle West. The local accent is barbed with a prairie twang, a ranch-hand nasalness, and the men, many of them, wear narrow frontier trousers, Stetsons, and high-heeled boots with pointed toes. The land is flat, and the views are awesomely extensive; horses, herds of cattle, a white cluster of grain elevators rising as gracefully as Greek temples are visible long before a traveler reaches them." --Truman Capote, “In Cold Blood.” Nov. 16, 1959: Intentionally avoiding a direct endorsement until the Republican National Convention, Republican leaders show their support for Vice President Richard Nixon in the 1960 presidential race.

Monte Montana! Ty Hardin! Jerry Mathers!

Ferd’nand invents the Man Cave.

Back when stock cars were really stock. Elmer Musgrave wins a 100-lap race at Ascot Stadium in a 1958 Pontiac. Rodger Ward is second in a 1958 Ford.

Reporters Walk Out on Rockefeller

 

New York Gov. Nelson Rockefeller’s plan for separate news conferences for print and broadcast reporters backfires when the TV and radio crews in Los Angeles walk out on him.   Louie Malle’s New Wave film “Lovers” is just plain immoral, Philip K. Scheuer says. “Bruins Tiff Wolfpack?” Keith, can you translate that for me?

Nov. 13, 1959: Smog clouds the view on Broadway, looking south from 1st Street ... And a temporary employee with the U.S. Forest Services admits setting the Angeles Crest fire that burned 14,000 acres and killed two firefighters.