A Man Called Fish, If I Remember How I Got Here, Can I Stay?

By H Fish

This is the story of a lucky man, born the second son to loving parents who were just glad World War II was over. California at the beginning of the 1950s is nothing less than magic for a boy in a beachside hamlet where his dad is the local motorcycle cop, his year-older brother a budding genius, his stay-at-home mum a brilliant inspiration.
Indoctrinated into early surf and diving cultures, he rides the family coattails of these sports and soon finds his gift in the arts. Surfing, hot rods, and art fuel adventures into puberty. His Forest Gump-like ability to be at the pivotal events of social change see him surf in Hawaii at 16, attend art school in Berkeley through the Summer of Love, befriend and become a lover with the yet unknown Ms Joplin, create art with R. Crumb, drop acid at Esalen, while growing the business of supplying Mexican marijuana to a wanting underground.
The revoking of artistic deferments for the draft leads our protagonist to the nation’s heartland to fail induction into the meat grinder that is Viet Nam. Aggressive political activism is abandoned as the growing success of smuggling and use of cocaine takes hold.
Now a player in the expanding West Coast Hippy Mafia, larger shipments are landed on the East Coast needing transport to the West. International exploits culminate with hands-on farming in Colombia, all before the DEA was even formed.
An ever-stronger herb is needed. So before the bubble pops, importation by sea is shifted to industrial growing in New Mexico, where there are psychoactive spiritual awakenings with Mescalero shaman—while holding a piece of the crashed Roswell spaceship provided by a man who was there.
Financial success now aids the development of his custom car/art studio founded in 1970. Government eyes follow every move. Quitting while ahead only infuriates the suits. An orchestrated marriage to a straight doctor’s daughter produces two beautiful babies, loses the feds, but the ever-present addiction engulfs both parents, and events spin on.
The only true glue in the union is the love of the offspring, and as the marriage dissolves, he is a weekend parent with a cutting-edge studio supported by hidden profits. Now years off the smuggling scene with no desire to return, art and exotic cars play against beautiful women and children. Darker influences pull against a fading moral compass while guerrilla art projects compete with commissioned movie props and other questionable endeavors. The unexpected permanent return of his early-teen kids forces the long overdue determination to regain sobriety.
Condensing everything he knows in an attempt to regain control, he enrols the teens and volunteers to teach in the same public high school that had so inspired him. Humorous adventures ensue as cross-generational friendships produce more art and writings, when the sudden deaths of all older family members influence a life-changing move to Australia. The following decade sees him devoted to creating and showing challenging art, amending previous failings, working with troubled youth in country Australia, and even running camel rides on the beach.
There are historic events and hair-raising adventures with descriptions as diverse as meeting Warhol, a weekend with Tennessee Williams, to say nothing of being with Joplin and a most adventurous assortment of strong female counterparts. It is based firmly in fact with only some names changed to protect the guilty. The massive collection of iconic art produced over a lifetime, the diverse adventures or mis-adventures, the lessons learned, are solidified into a story and ending that never excludes the reader throughout its pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H Fish
• Release date: Jan 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645078404

H Fish

​Contemporary International Australian Artist "H.Fish" was born in California in 1948."Fish" began his profession at Berkeley University near San Francisco in the "Summer of Love" 1967.He was quickly enveloped in the time and the art, which included poster art for Jimi Hendrix and workwith Robert Crumb and Rick Griffin on the hugely popular comic magazine "Zap Comix".His long friendship with Rick Griffin and their work together is well recognised for its individuality and originality.H.Fish Artist, is well established in the style of surrealism, popular surrealism and contemporary artFish's love of automobile & motorcycle customising turned from a passion into his business in San Diego in 1970.He is credited with being the first person to chop a 911 Porsche and painting Janis Joplin's Porsche with Dave Richards and Christoph Grunenberg.Moving into the 80's, Fish worked on notable motion picture props including the Batman Roadster for Batman II, which was subsequently sold to a collector in Japan.The amazing scope and depth of his work spans 50 years and is held in noted collections throughout the world."When the cutting edge of Art shifted from Europe to New York in the late 1950's I was still young, but from my earliest memories I have been passionate about art and its place in my life.My early influences came from Abstract Impressionism and beat poetry. Jackson Pollock, who instigated American abstract expressionism along with Ginsburg and Kerouac, through the written word, fed 'a need to know'.During the 1950’s and 60’s I was fortunate enough to be involved in the early mix of American counter cultures of surf art, chopper and Hot Rod fabrication and illustrating underground comics.I count Ed Roth as an inspiration, Von Dutch as mentor and Rick Griffin as a friend." H.FishIn 2003 "Fish" made a life changing decision to permanently relocate to Australia, he is now known for his colourful socialand political commentary through the visual image.

Book preview

Introduction

They say everyone has a story. Some just happen to be better than others.

I am not a writer, but this is my story. It is more than likely the only book I will ever write. Still, it is a tale of creativity, adventure, rebellion, human pleasures, and enlightenment.

Throughout history, humans have questioned why we are here and what should we be doing? My life’s lesson has been to learn to be totally honest. It has taken me a long time to grasp this concept, and it is still a work in progress. This story will not glaze over any part of the life you are about to encounter.

How should one organize such a task as putting one’s life on paper? The easiest way for me to imagine it was to go year by year, so that is what you get.

Ask yourself, What is the earliest memory I have? Go right back to that toddler’s moment, the remembrance that is pale in the center and dark at the edges—the scent of your young mother. Got It?

Good, let us start there.

1952

It was always the sea, in this case the Pacific Ocean, west coast of America, the coastal village of Del Mar. Highway 101, the only road from Mexico, went north right along the coast. It is walking the beach next to this road with my big brother, nostrils filled with that early morning, salty sweet scent of the ocean, the vastness of the horizon that triggers it for me.

Each morning I set out to seize the day, with my Hopalong Cassidy lunch box, a cherry red affair embellished on the front with HOPPY in total studded black leather cowboy costume, astride Topper, his flawless white stallion. The flip side had the image of a covered wagon with a space to write your name just above the message, THIS CHUCK WAGON BELONGS TO.

We humans often tend to think that our children remember the earliest of things. The vast majority of us do not. If you say you remember anything before age four years, you are among the very few or are kidding yourself.

By age four, I had two caring parents and an older brother who loved and protected me in every way. This was an idyllic world that in a few decades would be gone forever.

In 1952, there was another war, this time in Korea. But by now the powers that ran America had learned the clever trick of calling it a police action. Who would want another war just after WWII—a global conflict that, in my opinion, is still the only justifiable world war?

My old man Ralph used to tell us kids, You’d be speaking German right now if they hadn’t been led by a corporal. Ralph, a combat veteran, always seemed to have a quiet admiration of the Germans, for the quality of their machinery.

Ralph was the one who instilled in me the Bauhaus idea of form follows function. He loved the VW beetle long before it was cool and I am sure my devotion to Porsche automobiles is linked to his early admiration of the People’s Car.

1952 saw Albert Einstein refuse the Presidency of the fledgling state of Israel. Harry Truman had taken over as President. The first passenger jet, named the Comet, started service in Britain. London smog killed 4000. Most folks in the USA had a phone and a car.

A new house cost $9000 and a new Chevrolet was $1700. I remember our neighbors across the street, the Loveladys. I so could not believe that name. They were always a little different than, say, the rich old lady next door, or your beach pals. Anyway, the Lovelady’s dad worked at Ryan Aeronautical, a job that afforded him that greatest of American dreams—the ability to buy his family a new car. In ’52, he chose the Pontiac Chieftain. Not only was it not a Ford or Chevy, but it had a massive hood ornament of nothing less than a transparent orange Chief Pontiac’s head flowing back into a chrome-covered, delta-winged sculpture that lit up when the head lights were turned on. This was the most beautiful object I had ever seen, bar none.

To his credit, Mr Lovelady had bought every option available, so what if the only other person who could see the other worldly elegance was the youngest son of his cop neighbor? Well, he would turn the headlights on every time I asked.

Del Mar in the early 1950’s was a world unto itself. Just 6 klicks up the pristine California coast from La Jolla, where my mother’s people lived. It had a population of only 201, swelling to 202 with my birth. My dad was a motorcycle cop. He had built our home with the help of tradesmen, pals, and the GI Bill. Ralph had been an MP just before his discharge, and San Diego’s population was swelling with servicemen who could see no reason to return to the colder climates, plus the city needed cops.

As this story unfolds, I shall detail my parents, but for now I would say, no child ever had such a gift as to be raised by Ralph and Mary Pressing.

The coastal village of Del Mar was a straight-through affair on Highway 101. Once the road wound up from La Jolla Shores at Scripps Institution of Oceanography, it plateaued for a magical few miles along the massive cliffs of Torrey Pines, so named for the special trees that grow only there and on one offshore island. Shortly, a world-class golf course would be built on these bluffs. The rich golfers in town just wanted the best, and like Pebble Beach, had a choice bit of land to build on. It is at the end of that flat stretch, just as one takes in the view, that this next event happened.

Ralph, AKA Pinky to everyone who mattered (his red hair skipping my brother and me, only to turn up in my brother’s second child), had decided not to pay anyone to move my mother’s most prized possession—a massive oak breakfront—from La Jolla to Del Mar. So, poorly lashed into a borrowed ageing Model A pickup, the object far exceeding the little truck’s capacity, we shuffled off. The switchback road to the summit was achieved at a snail’s pace, speed finally reaching 35 mph as we hit the flat stretch.

We’ve got it now boys, it’s all downhill from here. Pop’s confidence was reassuring. The road to this very day is a wide, long, ever-descending slope that is cut into the land having a wall on one edge and a sheer drop off on the other. At 45 mph the little well-worn Ford began to shimmy.

Just tap the brakes, you never want any hard braking with a load. The truth was what small amount of brakes a ’29 ford ever had, had long been neglected on this vehicle. Gravity and physics did the rest.

Mom’s antique oak breakfront parted company after a major bump and sailed past us, much to the amazement of Dad, and our delight. As the now flight-worthy piece of large furniture approached re-entry, to our joy it did not explode on touchdown but more or less settled into a clean straight line slide, simply planing off inches of claw footed wooden artistry to stop fifty meters ahead of us as the road drew level by the sea.

The piece was never quite right after that, even with newly carved feet. No door or drawer closed without assistance, and the chest of wedding silver that had been left inside was only partially recovered. For years after, whenever Pinky and I would walk the trails to the beach we would find the odd bit of silverware, the fluid S script for Mom’s maiden name Sizer just visible under the seaside tarnish.

1953

The Korean War ends, Eisenhower is elected, one billion comic books are printed.

Fuel is 20 cents a gallon, the first transistor radios are made, Patti Page has a hit with How Much Is That Doggy in the Window, and the CIA orchestrates a coup in Iran, unseating a democratically-elected government to be replaced by the brutal Shah.

Around this time we inherited from the Diffenderfers, my mother’s people, our first of what is now called an entertainment center. This took the form of an RCA wooden cabinet the size of a small car, in which was housed no less than a multi-band radio set, a phonograph, and a 10-inch black and white TV. We instantly became celebrities in Del Mar.

I had watched TV at Uncle Diff’s house and through the window at the appliance store in the big city, but to have one right there in your lounge room—would wonders never cease? This singular device allowed a constant background of music as well. It was so easy to stack records and for the next two hours delight to Gilbert and Sullivan, Classical, Perry Como, or Modern Jazz. Mom always let us pick, and the variety of sounds opened doors to other worlds, peoples, and ideas.

Del Mar is home to the second largest thoroughbred horse racing track in the Western United States. DEL MAR: Where the Turf Meets the Surf. This venue opened in July 1937, built with the early Hollywood money of Bing Crosby, Gary Cooper, Joe E. Brown, and Oliver Hardy. It soon became the playground for big money folks to let down their hair, gamble, then relax seaside in Del Mar before a return to the grind of Tinsel Town. This only added to the cauldron of characters that flowed into the village. It was nothing less than a paradise for a small boy whose dad was the local (and only) cop. Every child wants to see their parents as someone to look up to.

The sound that preceded my father’s arrival home on the massive black and white Highway Patrol Harley, well, it shook the ground, a rumble that was nothing like I had ever heard. The aromas came next, lubricants oozed from most seams, gun oil, then there was his sweat laced against the starched khaki uniform and a tart whiff of cigar. To see him arrive home in the late afternoon presented the chance that we could be taken for a ride.

Late in the season, not too many tourists in town, Pinky would surrender to my pleadings, attire himself in a white singlet, Bermuda shorts, aviator sunglasses, sandals, relight his stogie and then call my brother and me over to the iron horse. He had a small sign that was slipped inside the front windshield which said NOT IN SERVICE. This was now his personal ride; this was also the beauty of 1953. Finally ready to take on passengers, he would place my big brother behind him and me in his lap with the simplest of commands to HOLD ON. For the next hour or so, the three of us would rumble up the Pacific Coast Highway, unfazed by the looks of outsiders to what must have appeared to be a stolen police motorcycle piloted by a red-haired hipster with two towhead sons.

It is hard to imagine a more enjoyable, positive place and time to be a kid than America in the ’50s. No country has ever known such prosperity and potential.

As the war ended, the US had an extra $26 Billion in working factories, $140 Billion in unused Bonds, no damage from the war, and no competition. All big business had to do was change the assembly lines from bombers and tanks to Buicks, refrigerators, washing machines, vacuum cleaners, telephones, gas stoves, and electric anything. The five percent of the world who were Americans owned more wealth than the other 95 percent combined.

Easter arrived, and to augment the family dog came two baby ducks, complete with a large washing tub pond dug into the back yard. It is this single event that alerted my parents and me to the truly exceptional intelligence of my brother Jeff. Gathered as a family to be introduced to our new pets, we were asked to name our respective birds. Petunia was my choice.

Zirconium, replied Jeff, you know…the rarest element from the periodic table. The look of amusement on both my parents’ faces was only relaxed when Jeff produced the handbook from the chemistry set that was his total obsession. You realize that everything in the world as we know it is made of these base elements. We did now, and he was only seven.

At this time, Jeff and I shared a room. In fact, until he left home at fifteen to become the youngest ever student at California Institute of Technology, we always shared a room. His side consisted of books on any and all subjects and a large copy of the Periodic table, while mine was wallpapered with images of fighter planes and race cars, balanced with models of the same. Our common bond, in addition to a great brotherly love, was comic books. Nearly one hundred million of them were being produced every month by the middle of the decade. Mad Magazine in particular was an issue that we waited for at the newsstand like it was the second coming of Christ—the work of Jack Davis, Don Martin, Al Jaffee and Basil Wolverton. My devotion to this style of art has stayed with me in my own art work to this very day.

This really was the golden age of comic books. The role they played in the youth of America cannot be understated. A report from that time revealed that 12 per cent of all American teachers were serious readers of this pulp fiction. In addition to Mad there was Classic Comics, an easy way to pretend to know a story, and war comics—Sgt Rock was a favourite, as long as the action was fast. Plus you always had a chance of seeing an overly developed female with a severely torn blouse, which was important stuff in a world where few if any glimpses of human sexuality were available for inquiring young minds.

About this time, kids TV was starting to be a huge diversion from the pure adventure of the comic tale. Besides, why should you have to READ and follow a plot line when you could sit right up close to the little screen and the idiot box would just pour moving images with sound straight into your head?

The Adventures of Superman, Zorro, and Rin Tin were on every Saturday morning in an unending parade of blurry black and white segments interlaced with clever cartoon ads for sugary breakfast cereals. Big business had discovered the gold mine of marketing to the baby boomers.

TV was making a dent in comic sales, so to recapture their slipping demographic, a technique that could only be used on paper was tried. Just the hint, the slightest allusion to SEX! Superman got Supergirl. Captain America’s boyish mate Bucky was replaced by a slinky vixen named Golden Girl, then Sun Girl, and finally Lady Lotus. This guy so had it—he was the pied piper of voluptuous, buxom female sidekicks! Looking back, I can remember dog-earing certain pages to stare again at that frozen moment on the page that warmed the juices of a boy’s desire. Batman and Robin went out in public in tights, with a cod piece, saving the country from Commies AND they lived together—every young homosexual’s secret desire.

A German born psychiatrist, Dr Fredric Wertham, in his book The Seduction of the Innocent, was convinced that sex was interlaced into every frame. Comic books promoted criminal behavior, gratuitousness violence, drugs, and frequent masturbation. Dr Wertham avidly testified before a senate committee on The scourge of juvenile delinquency. By 1955, thirteen states had laws regulating the content and sale of comic books. Fearful of additional regulations, producers pulled the images of full-chested heroines, combat blood baths, and even Batman’s tights were a little looser.

The power of what is now called a graphic novel was firmly burned in my brain. Within the next ten years, drawing cartoons that depicted what was really of interest to my generation would fill the bulk of my creative efforts. ART was something I found I could do.

1954

The year opens with Young at Heart by Frank Sinatra, then Bill Haley crosses a color line with Shake Rattle and Roll and the joy of what could come out of an AM radio takes brother Jeff and I by storm.

Now my parents were ever so cool. They built their whole life around Jeff and me. If they went to the movies, we went to the movies. This meant that at a tender age we were exposed to Brando in On the Water Front, Dial M for Murder, and no less than the Seven Samurai. There was no age restriction then, besides you were with your parents. Mary and Pinky loved each other and lived in a world that allowed them to raise their two boys in a relaxed beachfront village.

Weekends, especially Sundays, held a kind of national reverence in ’54. Folks still went to church, always had the day off and most shops were closed.

The power of a good story was not lost on our dad. Pinky colluded with Mary to fake a serious family talk as we romped into our parent’s room one Sunday morning. Sunday was always a beach day for us and usually started with jumping into our parent’s bed to hear the plan. This particular Sunday, Pinky had a serious look that took the edge off our bubbly intrusion. Boys. We knew to calm down and listen up if the message started with a sombre, Boys.

Boys…your Mother and I have agreed that you have reached an age where we can tell you an important family secret. This had our complete attention. There was always something that had to wait until you were older—BB guns was a good example. Whatever this was, we were now old enough to know, and it was going to be something cool.

I, your natural father, am not from this planet. I looked at Jeff, my great guiding light to truth in all things. He was transfixed on Dad. I am an explorer from my home planet of Clack 32. He let the words hang in the air. I turned to Mom, she just had a loving smile and a slight nod directed at Pop’s story.

He went on. Sent to observe your world, my space craft developed trouble and crash-landed in the desert. I am unable to continue my mission until help arrives.

I’m not sure if my heart had stopped or was racing as he continued. My rescue craft will take five more earth years to arrive. I have already been here for seven. Due to this time frame, high command instructed me to imbed myself and mate with an Earth woman to better understand your world and disguise my presence.

By now I was personally snuggled up next to Mom, waiting for my father to shape shift into his natural, slimy green form, as Jeff said, Can we visit your ship? How is it propelled?

We can, but not just yet, Dad answered. I must make yearly contact with headquarters on Clack 32, so there is a chance you may see my ship, but more importantly this must never be mentioned to ANYONE! If your government heard of my presence, you would never see me again.

The greatest story I’ve ever been told and I couldn’t tell anyone or I would lose this man I worshiped. Since Dad had not trans-mutated before our eyes, Jeff started with the serious questions. Where is Clack 32 in relationship to Earth? How is it possible to interbreed with another species?

Dad cut in with, I will not go into details, but haven’t you ever wondered why you are so much smarter than other kids? This caused my brother to stop. We had all wondered at one time or another about his inquisitive, science-oriented thinking. This sounded like the logical answer to me.

As it turned out, we got an installment each Sunday. The story held me breathless. Jeff, on the other hand, was soon convinced it was just Dad being Dad. But his ship? In the desert? And the orders from high command on Clack 32? I was a believer. He placed his loving big brother hands on my shoulders to let me down easy. Did you not see the little smirks passed between our parents as we got each chapter of his story?

I had not. My childish imagination was all too happy to embrace every word no matter how illogical. I wanted to be the son of an alien explorer from another world.

I would like to be one too…but logic says otherwise.

Here, now, was the difference between science and art. I tried to not show how let down I was as Mom and Pinky held me in their reassuring arms back in the joyful days of 1950s Del Mar.

San Diego sits in the deep southwest of America, saddled right up to the loose border town of Tijuana. Before its history of Latin influence, it was the traditional home to the Kumeyaay Indians, a warm-blooded native tribe that lived in complete harmony with the sea and land. They knew how to read the low rainfall, where the edible plants grew, and the great bounty of the Pacific Ocean. Every rock pool was filled with food. Difficult as it may have been, it was a life I often think of as ideal.

In 1542, San Diego was discovered by Juan Cabrillo. Sailing from Spain, he rounded what is now Point Loma into one of the sweetest natural harbors on the west coast. Only San Francisco would top it for protected, deep water anchorage. Cabrillo, clad in gleaming metal breast plate and fluted helmet, strolled ashore and claimed ALL THAT I SEE for Isabella and Spain. If the Kumeyaay had known what lay ahead for their gentle lifestyle, they should have killed him on the spot.

The genocide and loss of all native knowledge is the blackest of marks in the history book of western settlement. The brutal exploitation of the natives and the land continued until Mexico wrested California from Spain in 1821. By 1848 the Mexican/American war left the entire west coast in US hands.

At the end of WWII, San Diego was a massive naval base, and returning troops from the Pacific Theater were only too glad to stay on to make Dago their place in the sun. All this led to an instant need for new homes. Enter my family into this surging mix of land speculation, banking deals and quick money.

Let me lay out a few key players. Closest to us was Lloyd Diffenderfer, Executive Vice President of US National Bank. He had married into my mother’s side of the family and was a wealthy, respected member of La Jolla society. Lloyd worked for the power broker C. Arnholt Smith, the go-to guy for banking in San Diego in the early ’50s. US National was where nearly everyone banked and that key fact is what opened the door to this next tale.

Enter Robert Bob Tyler, my Godfather and best pal to my dad. Now, Bob could see a good thing from a mile away—land at the beach was cheap, the city needed new homes for all the returning vets and they had government money for houses. So if everyone, the land owners, the construction workers, the building suppliers, and the vets ALL BANKED at the SAME BANK….Well, as long as everyone was clued in on the time frame of deposits vs. withdrawals, there really wasn’t any risk, right?

This could not be done today, but this was mid-1950s post-war West Coast America—of course it could be done, and it was. The whole backside of Mount Soledad, what is now Pacific Beach, was acquired on a promissory note from US National with no collateral. The city rubber-stamped approval of grading, sewers, and roads. Homes popped up like mushrooms overnight and everyone was with the SAME BANK...well, you can see how this could happen. And the truth be known, it all worked—no one lost, everyone had work, and it was not until thirty-plus years later that any one was the wiser. Needless to say, a lot of money was made, and yes, it was a scam, but a scam where no one lost, and seeing the story unfold as a boy only helped open the door to my outside-the-box, enterprising attitude.

1955

Mr Sandman, Sixteen Tons, and Rock Around the Clock topped the charts, and Coca-Cola becomes available in cans. A new home was $10,000. A new car $1900 (7.9 million were sold). Fuel was 23 cents a gallon, and Chevrolet introduced V8 engines—the 265 and 283 cubic inch small blocks. I see my first Hot Rod magazines and am exposed to Ed Roth’s art.

America, especially the west coast, was an unstoppable juggernaut of optimism and opportunity. In Del Mar, Lucy and Desi Arnaz had built a beachfront holiday home right across from the racetrack. It was not uncommon to see them with Little Ricky walking the village shops.

The main drag was only 20 blocks long, with the historic resort, the Stratford Inn, anchoring the north end at 15th Street, just before you went down the hill to the track. The only gas station for miles was a Union 76 across from the only church that, due to low numbers, was Catholic one week and Protestant the next. This building has taken many forms and will surface again in the late 1970s.

Sitting right on the edge of a rolling cliff, my grade school world was focused on the endless blue vista that changed each hour of the day. Every classroom window looked to the sea. Time at recess was spent imagining the wonders of a pristine and abundant ocean.

Early on, Jeff and I were given the classic blue and red canvas inflatable surf mats, as much to ride waves as to keep us from drowning. Peals of laughter would erupt from my brother and I as the white water bounced us shoreward.

If you know the ocean, you know that beach break waves will often back off and reform again just before a final collapse on the shore. It was this reform that gave us that first taste of riding the green unbroken face, the tremendous difference between the uncontrollable, boiling white-water and the effortless gliding on an unbroken sheet of swelling water. My first taste of a healthy addiction.

The Diffenderfer’s had two sons, David and Mike, my cousins. They were ten and twelve years older than me — a huge difference when you’re only seven, it felt like walking among the gods. Both these men played a huge role in my early years. David, a serious role model, like Jeff, was the eldest. Mike was one of the pioneers of a new movement in surfing—the balsa board revolution. Visiting the Diffs meant I could see Mike and his pals shaping, glassing, and riding the surf on these objects of sculptural beauty.

Arriving back for the mandatory tuna sandwiches one summer afternoon, Mike was taken by my description of mat surfing and my frustration with the mat not holding to the face of the wave.

You just need fins. Fins like a fish…on your mat.

You can do that? I asked.

Fiberglass, little cuz…. Within an hour, two small D-shaped fins had miraculously been fixed to the tail of my mat. And pump the shit out of that thing. You want it to be as hard as it can be.

This single change was like discovering the wheel. I could feel the wave, lean in, the hard fins grabbed the rushing water, and you could pull in right next to the rising liquid face. It was the simplest form of riding a wave, but a thrill that was like nothing else.

Within a few years, surfing was a massive youth event. A lifestyle of board production, music, movies (both cult and Hollywood) that grew from its Hawaiian roots, crested in California and raced around the world. Every generation since has added a growing number of devotees and today there are over 23 million surfers worldwide.

Diving at this time was what you did if there were no waves. My old man was a keen diver, and sea food, especially in summer, augmented the family diet.

There was a loose association of serious water men around at this time calling themselves The Addicts. Equipment was the major problem as little was available.

Skin diving, as it was called back then, was in a wave of expansion like surfing. The thing holding everyone back was the crudeness of the equipment. Case in point, a good face plate or mask could cost 15 dollars, an unimaginable amount when your allowance was 50 cents a week. Dad’s mask was too large for me, besides, I needed my own as I wanted to dive with him. Discussing this with cousin Mike produced an answer.

Hmm…. Want to see under water and you have no money? How good a scrounger are you?

I can find stuff!

The list was simple—one foot of old radiator hose (the older and more flexible the better), 2 new radiator hose clamps, 2 palm-sized pieces of picture frame glass, a very sharp knife and a short section of wire. The only thing that required cash were the clamps and at 15 cents each, were a serious investment. Materials in hand, I returned to the garage where boards were shaped.

Go fill this 20-gallon drum with water, then sit, watch, and learn. Carefully shaping the old hose to contour to the sides around each eye and cutting a simple groove inside the flat edge, my new homemade goggles began to appear. Now for the glass—after using a grease pencil to trace the right sized circle, it was held deep under the water, the simple thin non-tempered glass was cut by sheet metal snips as if it were paper. Who knew? This miracle of fabrication was nothing less than stunning to a boy of seven. Crude as they were, roped to my head, I could see underwater, allowing me to follow this ragtag assortment of men into an untouched sea teeming with life.

There is a beautiful small headland at La Jolla Cove, right in the heart of that beach town. It is at a point in the coast where a deep underwater canyon wells up from the Continental slope, producing a natural funnel of sea life into what could only be described as a cornucopia of activity.

Into this unbelievable bounty, the early devotees of spear fishing perfected their skills. At this time you could not buy a weapon to spear large fish underwater. You had to make it yourself. These first creations of hardwood and stainless steel were appropriately called Addict Guns.

Big game surface fishing had gone on since man tasted fish, and native people often used a spear. Skin diving—going 3, 5, even 10 meters below the surface, placed you in a world where, because they had never seen humans, all sea life just went about their business.

Lobsters slowly strolled across the sandy bottom, eels and abalone lurked under every rock ledge, schools of fish in a multitude of colors and sizes paraded past, and the only limitation was your ability to hold your breath.

If there was a starting point for this passion, it would have been in 1956, with the movie Silent World. A brilliant young French man, Jacques Cousteau, had been working on an individual underwater breathing device since 1951, and his film lit a fire in the minds of young and old worldwide.

To my dad and the Addicts, already captivated by this untouched new world, to have such a thing as an Aqua Lung was akin to walking on the moon. Equipped with proper rubber fins, nose clamp and hand-me-down snorkel, if I could keep up, I would trail behind these giants into a watery garden of earthly delights. It was around this time that I was given a nickname that was to stay with me and become my pen name for the rest of my life. There is a small ugly bottom fish called the HOG FISH (and there is also the SPANISH HOG FISH), which is poisonous, spiny and brightly colored. This was the name that my dad and the Addicts bestowed on their devoted apprentice.

Just out from the cove, the bottom dropped to a flattish underwater meadow three to five meters deep that was laced with channels in which lurked a bounty of marine life. It is always best to dive with a mate, and in this case, the Addicts never entered the water with less than four and a half.

Diving to this group of young men was what golf, bowling, and race cars were to others. This thing was so unlike what other men were doing, did not have a hierarchy, pro teams, or history. Each time you did it, you made it up as you went, the very tools you needed you often made yourself. There was the thrill of being an explorer, and you could do it for free in your own backyard.

As this sea meadow descended, it became a lower basin where the giant kelp grew. These forests rose from the bottom to crest on the surface, calming the wind chop and shading the heavy streams of sunlight. This combination created a surreal effect below. You could gulp several deep breaths, hold the last one, kick down hard, then arching up at the bottom of your dive, glide between the massive trunks of this slowly undulating underwater forest in another reality.

Here lived the Black Sea Bass, a huge grouper, the biggest fish I had ever seen, the greatest trophy of spearfishing. At this time, these fish viewed us to be some type of seal and would look you right in the eye then slowly swim away. The Addicts could pick from any of these lumbering giants and would discuss which one would be this week’s choice. Usually by midday on a Sunday, one of several homemade 5-foot long, 3-banded spear guns would be used for the coup d’état. A long line at the base of the weapon that could be attached to a paddle board would lead to a small Nantucket Sleigh Ride, which would help tire a hundred-pound-plus serious fighter. These fish provided so much firm white flesh that there were always large, extra fillets given to needy beach families. Oftentimes, a percentage of the take would be traded to bootleg smokers in exchange for their services. A hickory-smoked chunk of sea bass and a 16-ounce Royal Crown Cola refuelled many a starving beach rat.

Within ten years, the giants were gone. The ease of finding and taking them always reminded me of the ravishing of the American Bison. To their credit, Pinky and his pals understood a limited resource. It was the rapidly growing popularity of skindiving that soon depleted the seascape.

Access from the beach was easy enough, but often divers could not stay out as long as they wanted. The optimum use of tide and sunlight needed to be prolonged, so a floating base of operations was needed. Enter the paddleboard.

Common on the California beach scene since the early 1930s was the hollow, wooden, varnished paddleboard. Tom Blake was among the first to lighten and shorten an early Hawaiian surfboard to ride waves along the Los Angeles coastline.

If we had a paddleboard, we could all hang on for a rest, and you would never have to worry if I was in trouble. With mom’s encouragement, Pinky’s horse-trading skill, and cousin Diff’s connections, a half-finished, ten-foot, redwood and plywood creation appeared in our driveway. I had died and gone to heaven. Not only would the men get it to the water—it weighed in at 50 pounds—but once afloat, I was in charge. It was a game changer. It extended everyone’s out time. Eyehooks were added so stringers of abalone and bags of bugs (lobsters) could be kept, avoiding endless swims to shore. And maybe it could be used as a surfboard?

It could not.

With several outings under my belt and everyone back on the beach, I asked if I could give it a try. I had watched cousin Mike surf at Windansea since I was little. How hard could it be? I understood the principles from mat riding.

With my dad and the full membership of The Addicts watching, I paddled out and turned this behemoth toward the shore. As the tail lifted, I came to my feet to stand tall as the entire ten-foot plank drove straight to the bottom of the wave, pearling itself into the shore break.

Well, not bad at all, came the jeers from my heroes. You just have to learn to turn.

1956

A new car, on average, now cost the unheard-of price of $2,000 dollars. A new home cost $11,700, and fuel was 22 cents a gallon. On the radio, which was always on, was Dad’s favorite Johnny Cash song I Walk the Line. Mom’s favorite was The Wayward Wind by Gogi Grant. We all sang along to Doris Day’s Que Sera, while Elvis appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show, performed Heartbreak Hotel, and the youth of America went crazy.

Now at age 8, everything changed. I was suddenly able and allowed to do things denied the year before—go wherever I wanted, with whomever, have a job, and go alone to the movies and beach.

This liberation was always preceded with the mantra, And do not get in trouble. I wanted for nothing but had the need for walk-around money, as Pinky called it. I wanted to earn some cash.

In 1956, the tuna fleet on the West Coast was moored in either San Diego or San Pedro. Dago being that much closer to the southern fishing grounds was ideal. The canneries were still on the bay, and often a trip to the downtown area meant snagging a case of Starkist Chicken of the Sea tuna. One such family outing led us into the Little Italy section. It was there I first saw shoeshine boys. Kids my age, mobile, soapbox-based, rag-popping, 25 cents for five-minutes, work hustlers. Italians and Latins loved shiny shoes, I was told. And so do rich people at the track.

Dad, do you think I could shine shoes at the track?

Let me talk to your mother.

What followed was my first taste of how the world worked. The kit was easy enough to construct. Mack McGarigal, my aging neighbour, sprang to my aid. One sturdy wooden soap crate rested on four stubby legs and was topped with an angled, foot-shaped rest.

Mother provided an excellent variety of rags, and the total outlay for 2 brushes and polish just consumed my total cash savings of 1 dollar, 70 cents.

To build confidence, I shined everyone’s shoes. What was needed now was a good coat of gooey white house enamel and a killer name. Mother Mary to the rescue again! With the utmost of care, I lettered YOUR LUCKY SHINE in flaming red across both sides of my box.

Against a crystal clear California sky, I walked through the gates a half hour before opening and decided on a shady spot by the stairs leading to the Turf Club. To his great credit, Pinky met me at the gate, parked his patrol Harley, and in full uniform introduced me around. My pride at the respect the old man pulled was immense. It was clear to me that who you know mattered in life, and the old man seemed to know everyone. Gate attendants, groundsmen, track officials, and bookmakers—a protective veil of It’s Pinky’s kid allowed me to move with the crowd. As the groups of punters formed, I learned to spot well-made leather.

The parking lot and infield were dirt back then, and a mandatory walk to view the stables always left a residue, to my financial reward.

Lucky shine, mister? or, A sure winner with a lucky shine.

To my great delight, I was as busy as heck—Oxblood, Buster Brown, even the much-favored black-and-white saddle shoe—and my hands flew. Time and timing were everything. Once a shoe rested on my pedestal, there was a two-minute window per shoe. These men were here to play the ponies and enjoy the action that was The Sport of Kings. The jockeys were the best, always tipping big, and were usually accompanied by taller, very agreeable, attractive women. By the end of the summer racing season, I felt that I had grown four inches and aged four years.

In those few months, I had mastered reading the social hierarchy of adults, learned when to roll my vocal hustle and when to hang back. These tools I would find invaluable in the years just ahead.

B movies in the mid-fifties were of an excellence that has yet to be equalled. The Blob (Steve McQueen’s big break), The Brain That Wouldn’t Die, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Earth vs the Flying Saucers, and The Incredible Shrinking Man, to name a few.

Going to downtown San Diego movies was a family favorite. Some of the biggest hits were Giant with Elizabeth Taylor, Rock Hudson and James Dean, The Searchers with John Wayne and Blackboard Jungle.

What Jeff and I wanted to see more than anything was Forbidden Planet. The one-sheet for this film was a delight to behold. A massive, clear-headed robot held a limp, voluptuous, scantily clad female, as a sky from another world bloomed in the background. This could only be considered serious eye candy. To our delight, both Giant and Forbidden Planet were playing across the street from each other. At this time, most cinemas were still in mainstream downtown areas. San Diego was a hub for the Navy, and sailors could walk from their ship to enjoy any number of shoreside vices. Movies were a huge business and more than ten classic Art Deco theaters had survived from the 1930s.

To our delight, Dad suggested that since we had a difference of viewing preference and the start times were similar, The boys can see their film and your mother and I will be right across the street if needed. Mary was not so sure. Still, with level-headed Jeff in command, what could go wrong? I should say here that throughout the history of humans there have been social degenerates, but, hey, we won the war. Ours was the only unravaged country, folks wanted to do the right thing. Unlike today with helicopter parents and the phony pretentiousness that people place on childhood, kids in the ’50s could experience life unafraid. We parted company and were told to meet back at the car.

I remember that day as the pinnacle of classic B-grade Sci-Fi films—Forbidden Planet changed our lives. Set in the 24th century on the green-skinned planet Altair 4, it was home to the advanced world of Dr Morbius, played by Walter Pidgeon. Anne Francis was his alluring full-chested daughter Altaira, and Robbie, an eight-foot robot that spoke 188 different languages and could fabricate any desired object, even 50 gallons of bourbon.

An all-male crew from United Planets lands, led by Leslie Nelson, and the gender roles woven with sexual innuendos are pure post-war Americana. Ray guns blast an invisible attacking force and it is this force, generated by an advanced collective consciousness that underpinned a deeper meaning for us. We left wide-eyed, knowing full well that space and science were the destiny of our generation.

Brother Jeff was completely obsessed with chemistry, physics and math. He was working on learning German because his idol, Werner Von Braun, the great Nazi rocket scientist, was working on intermediate range ballistic missiles for the US Army. Space, and how to get there, was his thing.

We could build a rocket, Jeff said.

We could?

Sure. Look at all those balsa-wood models you and Dad make. With the right chemicals for fuel, I know it would work. The whole trick is in focusing the combustion to fly straight.

This statement opened my eyes to the idea that there was a lot more going on in his head than most of the other big brothers I knew. Jeff had read everything he could get his hands on about rockets. Mom went out of her way to feed his passion. When the local library would not take a nine-year-old’s request for History of Rocketry and Space Travel by Von Braun, she checked it out herself, much to the huff of the stiff head librarian.

Make our own rocket, Mom said. Can’t see why not. It’s a good team project for you boys to work on together.

My pop’s oldest friend, even older than The Addicts, was Joe Dunn. Joe had the model shop in the heart of old La Jolla, and was Pinky’s best man at his wedding.

An arcade of small shops was just up the hill from the Cove. John’s Waffle Shop sat at the head, then a tailor, bookstore, and finally the model shop. This was a special men’s gathering place. Many a late afternoon was spent behind the counter of Dunn’s Model Shop learning by watching these magicians of balsa wood sculpt perfect reproductions of the planes that won the war. The discreet consumption of beer and smokes was balanced against whatever straight clients were in the shop.

It was here that I first heard Jazz. The 5th Newport Jazz Festival had just finished and Joe Dunn had all the best on vinyl. Mesmerized, Jeff and I would absorb the likes of Thelonious Monk, Jimmy Smith on keyboards, Sonny Rollins, and Miles Davis on horns. This exposure enriched my brother’s musical base that until now was classical overlaid with Elvis.

If we’re going to do this, we need a firm plan, Jeff said.

Fuelled by endless cups of Mom’s cocoa, on many a fall evening, the three of us worked through a list of problems that Jeff had set out. First and foremost, the combustion chamber and nozzle where the two fuels, gaseous oxygen, and methyl alcohol mixed.

Here is where the thermal chemical energy is converted to kinetic energy, Jeff said as Dad and I looked at each other in disbelief.

We can use an off-the-shelf commercial spray nozzle, but if it is going to work, we need to achieve at least 32.2 feet per second to overcome gravity.

Now one must remember at this time that the cold war with the Russians heated up. The need to own the high ground of space as a weapons platform was a major goal of our military. The problem was all our rockets blew up. Jeff’s hero Von Braun had designed the Redstone rocket with some success, but since 1955 both the US and the USSR were locked into a ballistic missile race.

Under this air of national pride we built our rockets. Two smaller solid fuel rockets fanned our enthusiasm and construction of our masterpiece began. This bird was to stand five and a half feet tall, with a girth of two feet. More importantly, it was fuelled by a gas and a liquid. A serious test of the new drive train exposed the cone as needing to be professionally machined. Once again, Dad’s connections solved the problem.

You want to know somebody in every walk of life, and have them owe you the last favor. One of my old man’s best sayings.

Jeff’s knowledge, Dad’s skills, some favors from the modellers at Joe Dunn’s shop, a little paint work by me, revealed a thing of beauty. This was so much more than we had ever hoped for, and with expectations of grandeur, we loaded it and all necessary launch equipment into the Jeep Wagoner.

There is an area along the natural tidal estuary in Torrey Pines at the south end of Del Mar where we had launched the others, and on a calm, cloudless, November morning our family rocket stood ready to take the jump from the car battery that would light the fire and kick the tires of a project Jeff hoped to never see again.

What ya mean, never see again?

Dad, Bear (my brother’s nickname for me), if this thing flies straight and works half as good as I think it will, we’ll never find it. It will just be gone into an arc so high, fly downrange, then burn out and fall back into the sea.

And that is just what she did. To our utter amazement, the earth shook, then a sound that hissed deep into my chest, an odour I recall to this day, and she was gone. Straight up, up, up, smaller, smaller, then gone into the blue.

What an unreal rush! The three of us roared at our success. We danced with joy, embraced to the point of tears. We had done it, but she was gone. As this fact settled in, Pinky could see the longing in my eyes. We need to remember to let things go. The best part was building it with my sons.

Jeff added, Nothing lasts. Little did we know that this adventure was only just beginning.

Returning home, we regaled our mother with endless descriptions of the launch. Mom was the unsung rock behind every strength of our family. She saw Jeff’s early brilliance, and she nurtured us in any and all avenues we chose.

As we sat down to an early supper, the phone rang—a black (they only came in black) Bakelite rotary-dial wall unit that was a party line with the McGarigals and a few old ladies up the hill. You always knew it was a police call when Mom used Dad’s real first name. Ralph, you’ll need to take this.

Officer Pressing here.

Officer Pressing, this is Colonel Obatroll, 471st Airborne Early Warning Squadron, McClellan Air Force Base, calling.

Evening, Colonel. How can I help the Air Force?

We were given your number as the local constable in the coastal area of Northern San Diego County.

That would be me.

Well, this is going to sound odd, but a few hours ago our radar picked up an incursion into restricted air space above your location. And the damnedest thing is, it was outgoing.

Outgoing, you say.

Correct. Have you seen or heard of anything that would fit this description?

No, can’t really say. Wait. By outgoing, do you mean it took off from here?

Yes, exactly. My man here assures me he is reading this correctly. We’re usually looking for incoming, not outgoing, so that’s why this is so odd.

Colonel, I think you’ve picked up my son’s rocket.

Dead silence lay on the line for what seemed like a long time.

"Officer Pressing, are you trying to tell a representative of your government, that what we picked up is your kid’s toy?"

Well, I wouldn’t call it a toy. But, yes, my sons and I launched a homemade rocket over the ocean this very afternoon.

Again, a long silence, and then the Colonel said, I will need your complete details for my report, and I am sure someone will be down to speak to you and your boys.

A prolonged conversation followed with a visit set for the following day.

I’m not sure where this will go, but we just tell the truth and see what the big brass thinks of our help with the space race, Pinky concluded.

At this point in time, no one had even tried to put anything into orbit. All ventures into the upper atmosphere were long loops, and it was not until the next year, 1957, that the Russians scooped every one with Sputnik 1. This 23-inch metal ball with four sloping antennae shattered American morale. In a low earth orbit, it could be seen every evening broadcasting an intimidating radio pulse to the world. The Communists had drawn first blood and America needed a win.

It was from this second-place mindset that we awaited our visit from the Air Force.

Dad noted, Now, you won’t need me, because your mom’s here. I’ve told them the how and why. They just want a word with you boys. The Colonel said about eleven in the morning, and, if I know his type, he will not be late. Anyway, I can swing by on my scooter.

Just before 11 o’clock my brother and I were ensconced on the front porch.

Whatcha make of this? Who do you think is coming? Are they gonna be mad? I asked, as Jeff sat transfixed and silent. I knew that look. There was a lot spinning around in my big brother’s head.

His trance was broken as an olive drab 1955 Chevrolet 4-door slipped to the curb at the end of our drive. Four large men were inside—two enlisted men, one officer, and a man in black.

Quick, tell Mom they’re here, Jeff said.

Mom stepped outside and joined us as we looked wide-eyed at a blue-uniformed sergeant opening the door for a full Colonel, whose chest was festooned with a fruit salad. He was followed by a man with pale skin, black slicked-back hair, and a long black trench coat draped from the shoulders of a black suit.

Dr. Von Braun! Jeff said as he jumped to his feet, running to greet this dark figure.

Today it reminds me of Raiders of the Lost Ark, the 1981 Oscar winner starring Harrison Ford. In the film, British actor Ronald Lacey plays a sinister Nazi Gestapo agent, wrapped in black. That was the image that floated to our door.

Ver ist da boy who made ze rocket? he asked.

Just then, Pinky rolled up on his Harley.

"Herr Doctor, I’ve read all of your books—Dark Side of the Moon, The Mars Project. Gosh, I can’t believe it’s you!" Jeff exulted.

The Colonel exchanged pleasantries with my parents and me, as it became clear that Jeff was the brains behind our success. The world’s foremost Nazi rocket designer, the brains behind the V2s that rained death on London, the head of all US rocket development, was in our house, in the room that I shared with my brother, with the door closed. Dr. Von Braun was quite taken when he heard that you and your boys had made such a successful launch, he said to my parents.

To tell you the truth, Colonel, ya could have knocked me over with a feather, Dad said. The first little birds you could follow. This last one, with the liquid fuel, was something else.

Officer Pressing, Mrs Pressing, your government would ask two things of you. First, build no more rockets, and unless I miss my guess, we would like to I.Q. test both of your sons. America needs all its best young minds if we are to beat the Russians into space.

Once on the government’s radar, interested educated types visited us, and by late the following year we were scheduled to spend two weeks at a federally-funded summer camp for young Scientists of the Future.

With school still to finish, and then summer vacation, before going under the microscope with the Feds, we settled down to the more everyday magic that was mid-50s America.

A corner Rexall drug store sold ice cream and sundries, and on Friday evenings the four of us—Mom, Dad, Jeff, and me—would walk three blocks to 15th Street and Old Highway 101 for a takeaway treat. This was the era of full cream everything, so it was with great pride that Mary informed us that ice milk was the new thing.

Pinky spoke, Ice milk? That doesn’t sound very American to me.

Ah, but you can eat twice as much.

Mom and Dad made it a treat while we watched Friday-night TV. Aside from the early national production networks ABC, CBS, and NBC, the local stuff all came from Los Angeles, in particular KTLA Channel 5—all in glorious black and white. We watched Jalopy races, female roller derby, and Popeye cartoons with Tom Hatten. But on Friday evenings after dinner, a large mixing bowl (whose only job was to produce this dish) was called into action. The ingredients could only be obtained just before concocting it, and only from our local Rexall. The ratio was one quart of chocolate ice milk, two 8-ounce bottles of Vernor’s ginger ale, with one-quarter pound of Spanish Peanuts. Mixing was equally important. The ginger ale had to be slowly drizzled to drown in the ice milk, so as not to over effervesce, leaving the island of ice milk covered with a crust of salty nuts. Once the perfect blend was attained, Ralph would balance this chalice on his lap, and with Mom snuggled to his right—he was left-handed—we would take turns dipping deep with our spoons while the gravelly voiced Dick Lane provided the commentary to our favorite shows. It couldn’t get any better.

But, it could. Under construction since ’54 and now open, Disneyland was an amusement park like no other the world had ever seen. People thought Walt Disney was out of his mind. Amusement parks were dying in the 1950s. They were the hangouts of poor folk who did not have TV, military men on leave, lowlifes, and carnies. San Diego County had Marshal Scotty’s Playland Park in the El Cajon Valley, along with Belmont Park in Mission Beach, complete with the historic Giant Dipper wooden roller coaster.

But Disneyland was the place every kid wanted to go, to the Magic Kingdom, just up the road in Anaheim. It couldn’t be reached by public transport for a reason—that kept the poor out—while the parking lot held 12,000 cars, about the same number of orange trees that were cut down to make way for it.

Walt Disney was a living legend. He struggled at first, post WWI. But with dogged persistence, he hit pay dirt with Oswald the Rabbit. A power play by his backers at Universal Studios in 1928 lost Walt the rights to Oswald, but it opened the door to the creation of the first truly internationally known cartoon character. Originally called Mortimer Mouse, the name eventually became Mickey.

Walt had turned his ongoing profits from cartoons into an idea for a children’s Sunday evening variety show. Turned down by CBS and NBC, he cracked a deal with third-ranked ABC. Debuting March 29, 1954, and preceding the hugely popular Ed Sullivan Show, it was nothing less than a smash hit. Within a year, The Mickey Mouse Club, a daily afternoon show, found legions of wide-eyed kids glued to the box to drink in Mickey and real-life, full-breasted Annette Funicello, for the boys, and overly cute Cubby O’Brien, for the girls. This show, plus those on Sunday evenings, was must-see programming for every kid in 1950s America.

The number of boyhood pals who learned to masturbate to the image of Annette Funicello’s ample breasts, wrapped in her white Mouseketeers fluffy top, was endless. Spawned from that Sunday show had come the Davy Crockett craze. America was a winner, and a winner loves a glorious past. It was approaching the 100TH anniversary of the Civil War, and Crockett bridged a still-warm divide between the North and the South. No trip to Disneyland could be made without a stop in Frontierland to select our Union blue or Confederate gray repro Civil War caps. Those of little faith opted for the ever-popular Crockett faux coonskin hat. This was