Oct. 10, 1960: The Times takes a look at construction of Los Angeles’ Jet Age airport. The “Theme Building” will resemble a giant flying saucer and there will be a monorail called the Skylift to whisk passengers from one terminal to another.
Larry Harnisch reflects on Los Angeles history
Notice how steep Bunker Hill used to be!
|I stumbled across a copy of “Los Angeles: A Guide Book,” produced for the 1907 National Education Assn. convention, listed on EBay for $9.99 and remembered that I had seen a digitized copy on Google books. The book offers brief snapshots of the city as it was a century ago and because it was produced for teachers it focuses on educational facilities and is loaded with facts for tourists. |
There’s also a handy map of downtown as it was in 1907. You can download the pdf here.
April 10, 24, 1910: Times writer Sydney Ford (Henrietta B. Freeman) embarks on a journey around the world. In Parts 1 and 2 of Ford’s chatty travelogue, she writes about the voyage to Hawaii and sightseeing on Honolulu. I'm always interested in bylined stories because even into the 1960s so many were unsigned, and I'm especially curious because newspapers had few women reporters in this era. Ford and Alma Whitaker are about the only regulars I've found at The Times from the 1910s.
|Feb. 26, 1910: The Santa Fe’s California Limited cuts hours off the trip from Chicago to Los Angeles, hitting 65 mph between Gallup, N.M., and Winslow, Ariz. |
|Jan. 24, 1910: Sydney Ford writes about women, cars and the annual Los Angeles auto show. She touches on America's only auto club for women and talks about fashions, including the latest outfits for chauffeurs. Ford took a trip around the world in 1910 and her account was serialized in The Times. It might be interesting to tag along with her later this year. For people who are in a hurry, her stories were collected in a book, “Journeying Around the World,” published in 1912. |
After a boat trip to Santa Catalina Island, Louis Paulhan says he hopes to fly there the next time.
|Jan. 22, 1910: Child molester Edward Powelson thanks the judge for sentencing him to 180 days for vagrancy. "Judge, there is something wrong with my head," he says. "I ask no mercy. I think a term in jail will do me good. I do these things whenever I take a drink. I have known when sober that I would be caught some time. Time and again I have resolved to quit drinking but couldn't stay away from liquor. I think a jail sentence will help me reform."|
Los Angeles Times file photo
Glenn Curtiss at the Aviation Meet, 1910.
Lt. Beck inspects a Gnome engine.
Jan. 11, 1910: The Times says of Louis Paulhan, who flew 10.75 miles: "Handling his steering apparatus with one hand and waving nonchalantly at the crowd with the other, he drove his monster flying machine without a falter over the parked automobiles, over the boxes containing more than half the society people of Southern California, over the grandstand itself, into the wind, across the air currents -- and, in fact, did everything that was possible for him to do except chase his tail like a dog or turn a somersault as did the Montgomery glider."
Florence Newmark marries Sylvain Kauffman at 903 Beacon Ave.
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|Nov. 22, 1909: Former Judge J.C. McNally, the U.S. consul to Nanjing, "expressed optimistic views of the commercial future of China and said that the country would be a network of railway lines within a few years" … a tong war breaks out in Sacramento … and artist Edith Garrigues displays paintings she did in Reno while establishing residency for a divorce. "The snow-capped Sierra Nevada scenes along the beautiful Truckee River, as well as picturesque spots in town, are among her subjects. Several of her finest pictures were sold," The Times says. |
|Nov. 5, 1909: Mrs. H.A. Arnold wishes to buy an airplane and hopes to learn how to fly during the winter. She would become the first woman in the world to buy an airplane, The Times says … And an possible lead on the Denver Strangler of 1894.|
Coates Is Reluctant Stripper of Airways
You want my opinion, I say there's something almost indecent about Japan Air Lines' luxury flight to Tokyo.
We left Los Angeles after midnight -- an hour when self-respecting Occidentals give some thought to retiring. And that was the kind of idea I had in the back of my mind.
But immediately after the no-smoking lights were off, an adorable hostess sidled up to me and, without so much as a by-your-leave, began unbuttoning my jacket.
Well, I knew right then and there what kind of a ride this was going to be.
After a brief, one-sided bout, which she won two falls out of three, the jacket was off and I had been deftly slid into a cotton coat with an ominous bull's eye painted on the back.
"Japan Air R'ines happi coat," she told me. "Very comfta'bra."
Then she knelt down and began undoing my shoes. "Here!" I snapped sharply, because with these Oriental girls you never know where they'll stop. "I'm quite old enough to untie my own shoes."
Anyway, after she and I removed my shoes, she and I helped me into a pair of Japanese style "sleep socks," thanked her profusely and collapsed into the embryonic position, only to be nudged from impending slumber a few moments later. It was her again. This time, wearing a colorful kimono and bearing a magnum of Piper Heidsieck.
"You r'ike champagne?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she poured me some, then began plying me with an assortment of hors d'oeuvres including delicate raw fish rice wrapped in egg and tied with strips of seaweed, caviar and smoked salmon.
When that encounter ended, I dozed again and slipped into an intriguing nightmare. For some reason, Norrie Poulson, wearing one of those Russian fur hats and thick-soled boots, was chasing me through rows of unreserved seats at the Hollywood Bowl and shouting: "You won't bury me, I'll bury you." Before I had a chance to reason with him, I was gently shaken awake and, while futilely protesting that I had hardly finished my hors d'oeuvres, I was served a huge breakfast of mandarin oranges, crab meat omelette, bacon, toast and coffee.
In what seemed to be mere minutes later, it was cocktail time. Then we stopped to refuel in Honolulu. I curled up again. And again I was awakened by my personal Cio Cio San who asked: "You r'ike r'unch?"
"I r'ike," I muttered irritably, "to get some s'reep."
Coates Is Not a Cad
Her lovely eyes clouded with confusion, and for a horrible moment I thought she might cry. I felt like a beast. "Okay," I said softly, giving her obi a reassuring pat, "Lunch."
The exquisite features folded into a smile. And, against my better judgment, I had tournedos of beef, mimosa salad, buttered green peas and chocolate pudding with whipped cream.
Then we flew across the International Date Line, and it was the next day. Or, the day before. Or, something. Anyway, she came back in a kimono, carrying a fresh bottle of champagne, and we started the whole thing over again.
When I left L.A. I was a slim and boyish, if balding, foreign correspondent. When we landed in Tokyo I was five pounds over the allowable weight limit, giddy with the effects of wine drunk at high altitudes, and permanently spoiled rotten.