The Daily Mirror

Larry Harnisch reflects on Los Angeles history

Category: Science

Deputies Raid Spahn Movie Ranch; Booed by Fans, Wills Hits Grand Slam



Aug. 17, 1969, Cover


Aug. 17, 1969: I suppose we at the Daily Mirror HQ should be talking about "Amerika" and how the military-industrial complex sucks the blood of the Woodstock Nation. But we're not. The only thing up against the wall here are the filing cabinets. Coming up in October: The Moratorium peace march!

South African golfer Gary Player is pelted with ice by civil rights protesters at the PGA championship ... and the Fire Department has fewer blacks than it did in 1956.   

Aug. 17, 1969, Manson Tick Tock

Aug. 17, 1969, Manson Tick Tock

"Frykowski [fixing the original error] and Miss Folger were involved with strange people. She was interested in witchcraft, Black Masses, that sort of thing, and she and Frykowsky would go to weird, kinky places."

At left, an odd juxtaposition: Dial Torgerson's "tick tock" story on the Manson killings next to the arrests of a group of people "living like animals" at George Spahn's Movie Ranch. 


Aug. 17, 1969, Nancy

Nancy becomes a stalker.

Aug. 17, 1969, Ash Grove

"Somehow the business details were worked out and the Ash Grove not only survived but became the biggest and busiest showplace for folk music in America."
Aug. 17, 1969, Ash Grove

"...the artist does not have to stand up on the stage and look at the audience, as in a nightclub, and ask himself how he can please those people out there. He can reach deep within his soul to find his deepest values and, hopefully, bring the audience along with him."

Aug. 17, 1969, Sports Maury Wills returned to Canada for the first time since leaving the Expos so he could return to the Dodgers. There were plenty of boos to go around, almost all of them directed toward Wills, who in the long run didn't let it bother him.

""It's as if the fans here thought I played poorly because I wanted to be traded and now I'm playing good because I was traded," Wills told The Times' Ross Newhan. "Unfortunately I'm not that good of a player to do one thing one day and another thing the next. I also have too much pride."

There was plenty to be proud about against the Expos. Wills singled twice, scored two runs and stole a base in the Dodgers' 9-2 victory in the first game of the series. Then he hit the first grand slam of his career in a 9-3 victory.

Gene Mauch, the Montreal manager and future Angel manager, had an interesting perspective on Wills' short stay with the Expos: "When Maury first came to us from Pittsburgh the fans expected him to be perfect. They booed him when he wasn't and he became tense. Then he tried to meet it with indifference and that certainly isn't Maury Wills."

--Keith Thursby

L.A. Welcomes Astronauts; Plane Buzzes Dodger Stadium



Aug. 13, 1969, Cover

Aug. 13, 1969: Linda Mathews on college students' problems in getting loans, Ken Reich on a salute to the Apollo 11 astronauts, Dial Torgerson on the Tate killings and Lee Dye on the slaying of William Lennon, father of the Lennon Sisters singing group.



Aug. 13, 1969, Dodgers Meet Vin Scully, police reporter.

The Times tried to solve the mystery of a plane that buzzed Dodger Stadium during a game. Who better to ask than Scully, with his view of the stadium and its surroundings?

Scully told The Times the plane followed "exactly the same pattern" as a craft the buzzed the ballpark during a game a month earlier. And he thought it was the same plane both times, although he couldn't be sure.

Hard to imagine a more credible witness.

-- Keith Thursby



U.S. to Accept Division of South Vietnam; Airport Proposed at Anaheim Stadium



Aug. 1, 1969, Cover

NASA says a manned trip to Mars could be possible by 1981 ... Dist. Atty. Edmund Dinis wants an inquest into the death of Mary Jo Kopechne, who drowned when Sen. Edward Kennedy's car went off a narrow bridge on Chappaquiddick Island, Mass. Other authorities have said the case was closed ... and the Nixon administration is ready to accept the division of South Vietnam as part of the price for settling the Vietnam war.  


Aug. 1, 1969, Sports The Angels hoped a plan to build a runway in the Anaheim Stadium parking lot never got off the ground.

The proposal surfaced at a meeting between Angels officials and city administrators. According to a story in The Times, the project would include a passenger terminal and possible facilities for air freight. Needless to say, the Angels didn't like the idea of flights coming and going while they were trying to play baseball.

The Angels were the primary tenants of the ballpark but weren't exactly making millions in 1969. The air plan certainly would bring in more revenue to the city. Who cares if you couldn't watch the game because you were too busy worrying about the traffic patterns above your seat.

Safety was one worry but parking was another. City officials estimated about 2,000 spaces would be lost if the runway was built. The Angels were guaranteed 12,000 spaces on game days

--Keith Thursby


Found on EBay -- Quiet Birdmen


Quiet Birdmen Belt Buckle
This Quiet Birdmen belt buckle has been listed on EBay. Not much has been written about the QBs, a select group of test pilots, astronauts and other elite aviators, because they were quiet. In addition to this belt buckle, the vendor is also selling a deck of World War II-era playing cards, each signed by a member of this pilot's unit. Bidding starts at $9.99.  

Hopes Dim for Mideast Peace; Drysdale Returns to the Mound



July 28, 1969, Cover

July 28, 1969; Someone thought "14 Moonquakes" would be a great screamer headline for street sales. In a story that still resonates 40 years later, Bill Tuohy writes that prospects for peace in the Mideast seem more remote than at any time since the 1967 war. 

Tuohy says: "The Arabs have increasingly come to refuse anything but complete withdrawal by Israel from areas occupied during the six-day war.

"Meanwhile, the Israelis have recently been calling for annexation of Jerusalem (which is nearly a fact), the Golan Heights, part of the West Bank and part of the Sinai Desert."

July 28, 1969, Ted Kennedy

Sen. Ted Kennedy (D-Mass.) and his family attend church a little more than a week after the July 18, 1969, death of Mary Jo Kopechne at Chappaquiddick.

"Kennedy nodded only slightly in acknowledgment and appeared somber after a troubled week in which he pleaded guilty to leaving the scene of a fatal automobile accident and then went on television to ask the voters of Massachusetts to tell him if they wanted him to remain in office."

Note: Typepad has changed the way it handles images. The above clipping looks fuzzy, but is sharp and readable if you click on it.

July 28, 1969, Sports Don Drysdale pitched five innings and the Dodgers defeated the Cubs, 6-2. A season ago on his way to the major league record for consecutive scoreless innings, Drysdale would have made news with such a short outing. In 1969, he made news just by pitching.

Drysdale hadn't pitched since July 3 and hadn't won since June. "I'm encouraged," he told The Times' Ross Newhan. "There was nowhere near the pain that there has been in the past. I feel as though I'll be able to start again in four days, then I'll take my regular turn over the rest of the season."

Meanwhile, the Dodgers and Angels were talking trade with the wanted player ancient knuckleball pitcher Hoyt Wilhelm. The Angels eventually would trade Wilhelm but to Atlanta.

--Keith Thursby


This Dodger Plays Like a Kid; Moonwalking on the Angels



July 21, 1969, Picket

July 21, 1969: "First, the picket who you sent to the hospital wasn't a student! He had no reason to be on this campus -- except to stir up trouble!"

::

July 21, 1969, Sports The Dodgers' youth movement was led by a youngster of 36.

Maury Wills continued to play like a kid in his second stint with the Dodgers, hitting safely in his 14th consecutive game. The Times' John Wiebusch noted that it was the Dodgers' longest hitting streak since 1965, when Wills hit in 20 games in a row

Not all the Dodgers were doing so well, as they lost to the Giants, 7-3, to fall into second place.

"I've never felt better," Wills said. "My legs are strong and my reactions are good. But it is the same as before. Personal things mean little if the team is losing."

::

Baseball couldn't compete with a moon walk.

The Angels split a doubleheader against Oakland that was sprinkled with historic moments. None of them happened on the field, however.

Rick Monday was hitting for Oakland in the second inning when the game was stopped and a message flashed on the Big A scoreboard: "We have landed on the moon."

Many of the fans at Anaheim Stadium took the message and headed home early.

"The second game ended five minutes before Apollo 11 astronauts began preparations for their unprecedented walk on the moon," The Times' Mitch Chortkoff wrote. "In anticipation of the event, however, all but about 3,000 spectators departed the ballpark before the second game ended."

That's one small step for man, one giant leap out of the ballpark.

--Keith Thursby

Remembering Apollo 11


July 21, 1969, Times Cover

The Daily Mirror's Apollo 11 stories are here.

My fellow newspaper history blogger at the Houston Chronicle, John Gonzales, has posted the Chronicle's coverage here. The Chronicle's Rick Campbell posts here.

 My former colleague Elaine Raines posts at the Arizona Daily Star

Ben Welter has the Minneapolis Tribune's coverage here.

David Middlecamp posts from the San Luis Obispo County Tribune.


Apollo's Unseen Titan



   
  
July 17, 1969, Cover

July 17, 1969: Apollo Speeds on Its Incredible Quest.

COLUMN ONE

Apollo's Unseen Titan


Without Gene Kranz to guide him, Neil Armstrong might never have landed on the moon. The obscure but fiery flight director made the crisis decisions that helped the American folk hero make history.


July 3, 1994


By ROBERT LEE HOTZ, TIMES SCIENCE WRITER

HOUSTON -- Of the sounds humanity has made on Earth, only a nuclear explosion is louder than the unthrottled thunder of the Saturn rockets that carried men to the moon.

On July 16, 1969, when a Saturn lifted the Apollo 11 capsule free of Earth on its historic journey to the moon, one man hundreds of miles from the launch pad in Florida felt its apocalyptic energy reverberate in his marrow: NASA Flight Director Gene Kranz, on the edge of his seat in the windowless "trench" of NASA's Mission Control in Houston.

July 18, 1969, Cover Neil Armstrong, the Apollo 11 commander, was the first human to walk on the moon. Kranz was the man who guided him the last miles onto its dusty, pockmarked surface.

Of America's secular heroes, few stir the spirit as deeply as the astronauts who a generation ago left the first footsteps on the moon.

But few ever knew the names or the stories of the faceless, can-do engineers who directed them there safely.

If Armstrong--the Apollo astronaut whose features were masked by his mirrored helmet--was the public image of American space prowess, Kranz--the hard-charging flight director--was its private face.

Armstrong was a paragon of Protestant test pilot cool: terse, aloof, unknowable. He was a blue-eyed Eagle Scout with a hesitant, lopsided grin, so shy that there are almost no clear pictures of him standing on the moon's surface, only photographs of his footprints and his shadow. He declined to be interviewed for this story, as he declines almost all interview requests.

Kranz was unabashedly sentimental, a fierce agency loyalist who played Sousa marches in his office to pump up his adrenaline. He relished his in-house reputation as a relentless taskmaster who earned the nickname "General Savage."

Today--25 years after the moon landing--Armstrong is still a national folk hero. Kranz is virtually unknown outside an inner circle of NASA veterans.

What they share is the stuff of history--a journey given only once to the human race.

Both men were born in small Ohio towns barely 100 miles apart at the bottom of the Depression. Both were fighter pilots in the 1950s. They never met until they joined NASA. They never spoke directly during the moon mission. They almost never speak now.

July 19, 1969, Cover They were never so close as when they were farthest apart--when Armstrong, 240,000 miles from Earth, was searching for a safe landing site only a few miles above the moon, with capsule emergency alarms flashing, the on-board computer on the verge of a breakdown, and only scant minutes left before the landing fuel ran out.

For those 13 minutes of the lunar descent, half a billion people held their breath.

The efforts of 300,000 technicians, the labor of eight years at a cost of $25 billion, a Cold War rivalry, and a murdered President's promise hung in the balance.

When Armstrong set the lunar lander down safely, the national victory was so complete that for decades the Soviet government would officially deny that there had even been a race to the moon.

It was Kranz--in a locked control room with a dozen young engineers relaying data buzzing in the earphones of his headset--who decided to override the alarms and give Armstrong the chance to land the spacecraft on the moon.

*

Gene Kranz had a style all his own.

There was the frown, of course. Human nature gave him that. His voice had a flat Midwestern edge that, even at its friendliest, retained a hard edge of reflexive command.

July 20, 1969, Cover Then there was that blond bristle of a crew cut, shaved so close you could see the muscles tighten at the back of his skull when he concentrated. He owed the style to the Air Force and the close trim to a barber in Clear Lake, Tex.

"I was the most emotional of the flight directors," Kranz, 61, said in a recent interview. "Space really got me all honked up."

Kranz has the kind of mind that seems happiest when it is running a dozen trains of thought along parallel tracks--the sort of fellow, friends say, who relaxes by working on a full-scale aerobatic biplane in his garage, pruning prize roses and baking bread all in one afternoon.

As the flight director for the Apollo 11 landing--and head of NASA's entire flight control operations branch--he made $21,432 a year. That was enough to raise six children. Five work in the space program.

But it was the vests his wife made that set him off from everybody else in mission operations.

Before each mission, Marta Kranz scoured the fabric shops of Houston for a bold swatch of material to sew into one of his special flight vests. They became as much a part of the early space program as splashdown cigars and ticker tape parades.

Today, Kranz still has 15 vests in an upstairs closet of the modest home the couple moved to when NASA set up operations in Houston.

July 21, 1969, Cover He proudly lays them out on the sofa for a visitor: Paisley brocades. Silver and gold lame. Carnival stripes. Velvet.

The simplest--a plain white silk twill vest yellowed now to ivory--is what he wore for Apollo 11.

White was the color reserved for the leader of the White Flight, as his flight director's shift was known within mission operations.

White Flight was in charge of the lunar landing.

When Kranz retired this year, NASA also retired the color.

*

As a boy in Toledo, Ohio, Kranz never cared much about rocket ships or spaceflight. But as a military pilot in the Pacific in 1957, he was impressed by the way the launch of the Russian Sputnik galvanized people around the world.

A few years after he was discharged--working as a test engineer at Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico--he saw an ad in Aviation Week magazine. The government wanted engineers for a fledgling space task group being organized at the federal flight research facility in Langley, Va.

He didn't hesitate.

"I just felt that space was the next thing coming in aviation," he said. "It was higher, faster. It had the risk."

July 22, 1969, Cover Before he knew exactly what was happening, he found himself on a plane headed for Cape Canaveral, Fla., with orders to prepare for the first unmanned test of the Mercury Redstone rocket that would later carry the first American--Alan B. Shepard--into space.

"They said, 'Go down to the Cape and write us a countdown.' They put me on an airplane. I had never written a countdown," Kranz said, referring to the complex engineering procedures that lead up to a rocket launch. "I landed at Patrick Air Force Base and didn't even know which way the Cape was.

"There was a guy there in a Chevy Malibu with a surfboard in the back. He says: 'What are you looking for?' I said: 'I got to go out to the Cape.' He said: 'Hop in.' So boom, off we go. I didn't even bother to ask who he was.

"About two-thirds of the way out there I found out it was Mercury astronaut Gordon Cooper. That was my introduction to the original seven astronauts," he said.

When the moment for liftoff came, the Redstone rocket died on the launch pad.

That was his introduction to spaceflight.

*

When Kranz signed up for the space race, he was 27 years old. NASA was still in the making. There was no organized civilian space program to speak of.

 There was no such thing as Mission Control. People like Kranz, his mentor--a short, icy engineer named Christopher Columbus Kraft, the agency's first flight director--and operations chief Walt Williams built it from the raw material of their own personalities and engineering styles.

July 23, 1969, Cover At the apex of the structure they created through trial and error stood the flight director--a single person with absolute authority over operations during a space mission.

He had ultimate control when a manned space capsule was in orbit--and ultimate responsibility if a technical mishap resulted in the death of an astronaut crew.

In the end, it was the flight director's decision to abort a mission--or to proceed in the face of engineering uncertainty.

"The Flight Director may, after analysis of the flight, take any necessary action required for the successful completion of the mission," the mission rules stated.

Any error was unforgivable.

And in the 1960s and early 1970s--the years of Apollo--Gene Kranz thought there was no better job in the world.

*

Kranz became so obsessed with the engineering discipline of mission operations that in the months before Apollo 11 he filled a brown notebook 3 1/2 inches thick with personal notes on how to orchestrate every second of the flight.

 "You have to be intensely aware of . . . pulling this ballet together that involved everybody doing the right thing at the right time under a constantly changing set of circumstances," he said.

But any misgivings, confusion or uncertainty he kept under control and out of view.

"No way can you ever, ever, ever evidence confusion, concern, lack of understanding," he said. "You have to be in charge. You are the guy. You have to be cooler than cool, smarter than smart.

"I did everything by the numbers. I had checklists upon checklists. If I wasn't ahead of everybody on my team, I didn't feel I was doing my job.

"I was constantly testing myself: What am I going to do if. . . ?"

*

In the process, something of Gene Kranz became a permanent part of manned spaceflight.

At the Johnson Space Center in Houston, the Mission Control room Kranz and his colleagues used for Apollo has changed only slightly since 1969.

July 24, 1969, Cover Today, as NASA juggles space shuttle missions and prepares to operate a manned space station, its vocabulary and work habits mimic the obsessive attention to detail and studious nonchalance of flight operations engineers like Kranz and his Apollo colleagues.

During a recent technical rehearsal of an upcoming shuttle flight, loose-leaf binders and foam coffee cups littered the beige and gray flight consoles. The half-light from computer monitors provided much of the illumination.

The faces were young and, in the shadows, energized.

Sprawling at their consoles, the new generation of NASA engineers flirted with simulated disasters.

They were rehearsing landing emergencies with the crew of the upcoming shuttle mission.

They handled each crisis in cryptic murmurs, a language of nods, glances and engineering acronyms. The movements were exaggeratedly casual, the tension so internalized as to be invisible. The calmer things appeared, the worse they must be.

Milt Heflin, lead flight director for the shuttle mission expected to begin Wednesday, watched the exercise from an unused console, patched into the conversations by a frayed headset cable.

Heflin, selected as a flight director by Kranz 11 years ago, called the job "one of the last bastions of common sense." He has handled 19 shuttle flights, including the Hubble Space Telescope repair mission in December--hailed as the most complex space operation since the moon landings.

At the time of the Apollo 11 mission, Heflin was a junior NASA technician fresh out of college. Kranz was 36 and had, for the purposes of flight operations, become common sense personified.

*

With just 10 minutes remaining before Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were scheduled to swing back around from behind the moon and begin their descent to the lunar surface, Kranz did the one thing no flight director was allowed to do.

He went off the loop.



NASA was so concerned with capturing every aspect of the Apollo missions that all communications--every "loop"--in the control room were to be officially monitored and recorded. History wanted to listen.

But Kranz had set up a private circuit where he could talk to his flight controllers out of official earshot, and now he called them together for a confidential "pulse check."

Stephen G. Bales, then a 26-year-old, $7,000-a-year engineer from Iowa, manned the guidance console for the lunar descent. Twenty-five years later, he sat down at the same gray console and recalled Kranz's words as best he could:

"We are getting ready to do something no one else has ever done. You are trained. You are prepared. We will do well. No matter how it turns out, when we walk out of this room, I will walk out with you. . . ."

July 24, 1969, Apollo Baby

Kranz ordered the doors of Mission Control locked. "Battle short," he sang out curtly, ordering the circuit breakers locked down so no power failure could interfere with the landing operation.

Then, aboard the Eagle, as the lunar lander was named, Armstrong and Aldrin emerged from the radio silence caused by orbiting behind the moon. Alone aboard the orbiting command capsule, astronaut Michael Collins waited for them to start the descent.

Then the problems started.

Communications were unusually distorted and static-filled. Could they get enough data to allow the flight to continue?

Yes.

Go, Kranz ordered.

Then static drowned out all critical data for 30 seconds.

July 25, 1969, Cover When the signals picked up again, radar readings revealed the craft was moving too fast. If it continued to accelerate, it might overshoot the landing zone and Kranz would have to order an abort, Bales recalled.

Kranz stood at the flight director's console, his palms so damp they left perfect prints on his notebook when he leaned forward. Whispering in his ears were a dozen voices from six communications loops and the air-to-ground communications channel.

Then, on board the spacecraft, a power meter failed. No sooner had the ground team responded to that problem than a computer program alarm flashed in the capsule and on the meters in Mission Control. That signaled that the on-board computer was getting overloaded.

"I hear a very innocuous call from the crew: A program alarm," Kranz recalled. "About that time, Steve Bales echoes it. Then it echoes in the back room. Program alarm. Program alarm. Program alarm."

Would they have to abort?

Sitting at the guidance console he occupied when the alarm came through, Bales remembers his controlled panic. "I was still almost in overflow from the first problem. I could not remember what I was supposed to do for the life of me for a second." The alarm kept on.

"We're go on that alarm?" Kranz said, asking if he could let the landing proceed.

Bales hesitated. Voices on four or five loops dissected the problem in a knowledgeable gabble in his ear. Within seconds, he determined, the problem could be safely ignored.

Kranz grunted acknowledgment. The descent would continue.

The computer alarm went off again. "We're go," Bales told Kranz, more confidently. Again the alarm came. Again.

"Hang tight, everybody," Kranz said over the flight director's loop.

"Eagle, you're looking great. You're go," said capsule communicator Charles Duke, relaying Kranz's assent. Duke was the only one in Mission Control allowed to talk directly to the crew in flight.

Once given the go-ahead, Armstrong proceeded as planned and took manual control at 2,000 feet.

His flying skills were so formidable that three times--nursing a crippled jet onto the deck of the carrier Essex, at the controls of an X-15, and then in a Gemini space capsule--he turned near-disaster into triumph.

Aboard the lunar lander, he steered the craft back and forth, seeking a safe spot in the boulder-strewn landscape.

In Houston, a flight controller announced on the loop how much longer the lander could fly as descent fuel levels dropped.


Sixty seconds left.

Thirty seconds.

Fifteen.

Through the static, Aldrin reported seeing dust from the surface, blown up by the engine exhaust.

"OK, engine stop," Aldrin radioed.

When he realized the spacecraft had touched down, Kranz froze.

"Houston, Tranquillity Base here," Armstrong radioed. "The Eagle has landed."

It was 3:18 p.m. Houston time, July 20, 1969.

The muffled cheers and applause from the spectators rumbled through the double-paned glass observation windows into the control room.

Kranz couldn't talk or will himself to move. "The reality hit. It stopped being a simulation in that moment and started being a real event," Kranz said.

Elation was the one thing he had not rehearsed.

To break the spell, Kranz slammed his arm down on his console as hard as he could. The pain allowed him to breathe again.

"I want quiet in this room," he ordered. The mission clock was running.

July 26, 1969, Flat Earth

Two days later he was shaving and noticed his forearm was black and blue from wrist to elbow.

*

Armstrong resigned from NASA within 18 months of his return to Earth and withdrew into the privacy of a small farm outside Lebanon, Ohio, shunning publicity. There would be no autobiography, political campaigns or commercial endorsements.

Until 1979, Armstrong taught aerospace engineering at the University of Cincinnati, then confined his public activities to a few corporate boards and chairmanship of AIL Systems, a small high-technology engineering firm on Long Island.

Kranz gave the rest of his working life to Mission Control.

In 1970, when an on-board explosion threatened the lives of the Apollo 13 astronauts halfway to the moon, Kranz was at the flight director's console and helped save them.

In 1986, Kranz--still in the mission director's chair--had no way to avert disaster as an explosion destroyed the space shuttle Challenger.

And last winter, as space shuttle astronauts repaired the Hubble Space Telescope, Kranz oversaw the entire Mission Operations Directorate from the same chair.

He retired in March.

The third-floor control room, from which he orchestrated the moon landing, is on the National Register of Historic Places. NASA plans to make it a museum exhibit.

Kranz, reflecting on Armstrong's distaste for public attention or adulation, pronounced his own judgment on the Apollo 11 astronaut and, in doing so, unconsciously announced his own epitaph:

"He wanted to do something, rather than be something," Kranz said. "And he did it."


Santa Susana Meltdown


Reactor

Reactor opens, July 16, 1957, in the Daily Mirror.
Los Angeles Housewives Cook With Atom

Times reporter Louis Sahagun takes a look at the July 14, 1959, meltdown at the Santa Susana Field Lab:

On the morning of July 14, 1959, Sodium Reactor Experiment trainee John Pace received the bad news from a group of supervisors who had, he recalled, "terribly worried expressions on their faces."

A reactor at the Atomics International field laboratory in the Santa Susana Mountains had experienced a power surge the night before and spewed radioactive gases into the atmosphere.

"They were terrified that some of the gas had blown over their own San Fernando Valley homes," recalled Pace, who was 20 at the time. "My job was to keep radiation out of the control room."
Read more >>>

A Kinder, Simpler Time Dept.: Your Camera



June 24, 1970, Polaroid

June 24, 1970: Polaroid film. Ask your parents (or grandparents) what flash cubes were. For that matter, ask them what Polaroid cameras were!

Boxing Promoter Beaten; Dodgers Sign Chavez Ravine Deal

June 4, 1959, RRRing
"R-R-R-ING!"


June 4, 1959, Mars
Life on Mars!
June 4, 1959, Bacardi
June 4, 1959, Cover
Boxing promoter Jackie Leonard had testified before the State Athletic Commission about mob influence in prizefighting. View this page
 

June 4, 1959, Jackie Leonard

June 4, 1959, No Jazz

American jazz?  Nyet!

June 4, 1959, Somoza and Hillinger
Charles Hillinger interviews Nicaragua's Luis Somoza.
June 4, 1959, Nikabob

June 4, 1959, Movies
Carole Baker ... Jeffrey Hunter ... Richard Nixon ... View this page

June 4, 1959, Youth

American youth are gullible ... and ungrateful!

June 4, 1959, Sports The Dodgers and city officials signed their contract to build a stadium in Chavez Ravine, a year to the day after Los Angeles voters narrowly approved the plans.

Dodgers owner Walter O'Mslley continued to publicly state he was optimistic the Dodgers could open the 1960 season in their new ballpark even though reports to the north suggested the Giants, who didn't have a controversy over where to build their stadium, were behind in their plans to open Candlestick Park..

Dodger players couldn't wait to get out of the Coliseum.

"When we get into our new stadium the fans of Los Angeles will see major league baseball the way it should be played," Don Drysdale said.

"D'ya think O'Malley can use me this winter building the stadium? Seriously, it's great news," Duke Snider said.

--Keith Thursby

Pilot Disappears on Solo Flight Across Atlantic

May 30, 1939, Flier Vanishes

On June 9, 1939, in a heavy predawn mist, a Welsh trawler came across the wreckage of an airplane in the ocean 130 miles from Milford Haven, Wales. The ship recovered some of the debris, then the tides shifted and the skipper was unable to locate the plane again.

May 30, 1939, Flier Vanishes


May 30, 1939, Flier Vanishes

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