PORTRAITS ON A CRYSTAL ROSE

By Erich von Neff

Portraits on a Crystal Rose, Erich von Neff's memoir of living with his larger-than-life grandfather, brings the streets of early San Francisco, Sausalito, and the Bay Area acutely alive with tender and fastidious detail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Azalea Art Press
• Release date: Jun 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781943471614

Erich von Neff

Erich von Neff is a San Francisco longshoreman. He received his masters degree in philosophy from San Francisco State University and was a graduate research student at the University of Dundee Scotland.Erich von Neff is well known on the French avant-garde and mainstream literary scenes. He is a member of the Poetes Francais ,La Societes des Poetes et Artistes de France, Vice Chancelier de la Federation Poetique de Saint Venance Fortunat, and Membre d'honneur du Caveau Stephanois.He has had the following publications in France (en français):Poems: 1303Short Stories: 318Small press books 9Books 1Prix (Prizes) 26Erich von Neff's novel "Prostitutees au bord de La Route" (Prostitutes by the Side of the Road) was published by "Cashiers de Nuit" (1999) with a grant from Centre Region des Lettres de Basse-Normandie.Erich von Neff's book of poems "Les Putains Cocainomanes" (The Cocaine Whores) was published by Cahiers du Nuit, 1998. "Les Putains Cocainomanes " was discussed on 96.2 FM, Paris, 1998 by Marie-Andre Balbastre, Poem # 45 was read.Several poems from "Les Putains Cocainomanes "were read at the Cafe Montmarte in Paris,2010. Several poems from "Les Yeux qui faiblissent ont faim de la vigilance eternelle de la verite "were read at the Cafe Au soleil de la Butte in Paris, 2014. Poems from " Un Cube chrome a l'interieur d'une coquille d'oeuf cassee" were read at the Cafe Au soleil de la butte" in Paris 2014.A Trophée Victor Hugo was awarded to Erich von Neff's novel "Une Lancia rouge Devale Lombard Street a tombeau ouvert," (The Red Lancia Roars Down Lombard Street), 1998. Several poems from my "Le Puttane della cocaina" (The Cocaine Whores) were read by Giulia Lombardo at the Caffe Litterario in Rome, at the Caffe Palatennistavolo,Teni Italy & Caffe degli artisti in Milan, Bookbar in Rome, Bibliocafe in Rome , and in five other Italian cafes in Italy,2014. Several poems from my "Le Puttane della cocaina" were read by Giulia Lombardo at the Caffe Palatennistavolo,Terni Italy in February ,6 readings in May 2015, 3 readings in June 2015, 2 readings in July, 4 readings in August, 4 readings in September,3 readings in October, 5 readings in December, 2015. 2 readings of my "Le Puttane dela cocaina"were read by Giulia Lombardo at the,Caffe Palatennistavolo,Terni Italy, January 2016. 2 readings of my "Le Puttane della cocaina" were read by Giulia Lombardo at the Caffe Palatennistavolo, February 2016. My poetry book "Un Cube Chrome a L'Interieur d'une Coquille d'Oeut Cassee "was published by Henri Tramoy editeur of Soleils et Cendre, France,2016. In 2018, 30 short stories and 3 poems were published in Russian magazines. In 2019 my book of poems Le Cabaret de la Souris Rugissante ( The Cabaret of the Roaring Mouse) was published by Atlier de l'agnew, editor Francoise Favretto. Le Cabaret de la Souis Rugissante was awarded a Trophee Edgar Allen Poe by Simone Gabriel editor of Cepal magazine.Le Cabaret de la Souris Rugissante was read by my translattor Jean Hautepierre at L'Autre Livre bookstore in Paris on September 5th.It was also read by Jean Hautepierre at the Cafe de la Marie in Paris on October 15th. It was read by the French actor Sebastien Bidault at the Bar-Restaurant du Palais in Paris on December 18th. There were four good reviews. In 2023 6 Affaires Resolues par Frieda et Gitta was published by Editions Unicite.

Book preview

Azalea Art Press

Sonoma | California

© Erich von Neff, 2022.

All Rights Reserved.

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-943471-61-4

Front & Back Cover lithographs:

The Bay of San Francisco

Dedication

This book is dedicated

to my grandparents

Walter and Dollie Robb

and to my wife Lillian

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

The Man Cave

Chapter 2

San Francisco

Chapter 3

The Blackout Shades

564 1/2 2nd Avenue

San Francisco | 1943

Chapter 4

Mr. McRowe

Chapter 5

464 42nd Avenue

Chapter 6

The Fence

Chapter 7

Gil

Chapter 8

Dennis

Chapter 9

Edgar

Chapter 10

Bruno

Chapter 11

Written in Blood

Chapter 12

Pink Lemonade

Chapter 13

Lye Soap

Chapter 14

Potatoes Baked in the Mud

Chapter 15

The Grand National Rodeo

at the Cow Palace |

San Francisco | 1949

Chapter 16

Peach Cobbler

Chapter 17

Luscious Hair

Chapter 18

Ken Booker

Chapter 19

Sunday Mass

Chapter 20

Uncle Joe Arrives

Chapter 21

Thaddeus Stevens

Chapter 22

Pete’s Cafe

Chapter 23

The Pierce-Kramer

Chapter 24

San Miguel Beer

Chapter 25

Uncle Joe’s Second Visit

Chapter 26

The Six Day Bike Race

Chapter 27

Uncle Joe’s Last Visit–The Trek

Chapter 28

Catheterized

Chapter 29

The Last Song My Grandfather Sang

Chapter 30

Walt Bites the Dust

Literary Credits

Afterword by Tom Carter

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Contact

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Walter Robb

(1880-1970)

Prologue

This is a memoir of my grandfather, Walter Johnson Robb.

Because both my parents worked, I was raised mostly by my grandparents, Walt (1880-1970), and Dollie (1880-1970), as they insisted I call them.

As a young boy, Walt drove a wagon team on the Cherokee Land Run of 1893. His older brother, Charlie, rode briefly with the Dalton Brothers Gang.

Those who knew him thought of him as a kindly old man, but the Old West never left him, resurfacing from time to time—as when he threatened to pistol whip the woman across the street who called my childhood friend, Ken Booker, the N-word.

Brief mention of Walt’s friendship with General Douglas MacArthur is made in their correspondence when he and Dollie moved to the Philippines (1907-1941). I have Mrs. Douglas MacArthur’s letter to substantiate this.

Walt seemingly accommodated himself to the twentieth century. But underneath always lurked this Western character ready for a showdown

Chapter 1

The Man Cave

He sat alone in his man cave, which was a room dug out beneath our house on 182 Victorio Mapa in Manila. It had a thick oak door with a sliding brass bolt. There was a mahogany table, several armchairs, one dim lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling, and that was it. If someone had seen a photograph of the room and not known its location, they might have guessed it was an underground bomb shelter somewhere, perhaps in England, or perhaps because of its stark simplicity, that it was a Bauhaus-inspired room somewhere in Berlin.

But, no, the architect was none other than my grandfather, Walter Robb (1880-1970), who was inspired by the fact that he wanted a quiet room where he and his friends could smoke and drink and talk man talk. No women were allowed in this man cave, not even my grandfather’s wife Dollie (1880-1970) or his daughter Marion. If my grandmother brought a tray of San Miguel beer and cigars to the man cave, she knocked, put the tray in front of the door, then left. It’s a woman-proof room, Walt said proudly.

Perhaps my grandfather’s Jewish friend Joe Haberer, Jack Netzorg, Fritz Marquardt (later editor of the Arizona Republic), or his close friend General Douglas MacArthur would open the door and with a little laughter and cheering, put the tray on the table. The talk was often about the possibility of war with Japan, General MacArthur arguing that the Philippines could defend itself against Japan or at least hold out until the American navy arrived. My grandfather and a few others argued vehemently against this position. Joe Haberer would talk ad nauseam about the fights he had with his Filipina wife Tina. Jock Netzorg would remind him that he wasn’t the only one. Yes, Joe agreed, but at least your wife doesn’t throw dishes. And, of course, there was talk about beautiful women, and of sex, and exaggeration and more exaggeration, fueled by cigars or pipes and San Miguel beer.

A month earlier Walt had received the dreaded diagnosis of prostate cancer from Doctor Lindsay Fletcher, who said that he would perform the operation. But my grandmother Dollie had him lay out his instruments and explain the operation. No. No. she said. Somehow she knew of a doctor in Los Angeles who was an excellent prostate surgeon. They booked passage on the Dona Aniceta, which was one of the last passenger ships to sail from Manila before Pearl Harbor.

In less than an hour Walt would be leaving. What did my grandfather think about as he sat there alone in his man cave? Perhaps he thought about his brother Charlie who left the farm in Oklahoma to join the Dalton Brothers Gang. Or when he sat on a Sooner covered wagon driving a team of horses in the Cherokee Land Run of 1893. Or when he almost froze to death on a wintery Oklahoma night and was revived by a black cowboy named Jake. Or when he took an anatomy class with his wife Dollie. One student rolled up a dismembered penis and threw it toward her. She picked it up and threw it full force in his face. Or when his mule team pulled him and his loaded wagon out of the mud. These were things he repeated throughout his life. The Cherokee Strip in the late 1800s was a damn rough place. I’m sure there were secrets he kept to himself.

Walt, the taxi is here, my grandmother shouted. Even now when it made no difference, she did not enter the man cave. My grandfather took one last puff of his cigar, another swig of San Miguel beer, and was soon up the stairs.

Though the operation went surprisingly well for the state of medicine at the time, Walt had to urinate frequently and at times, had to be dilated with a long thin plastic tube by Dr. Stanley Asherman, the surgeon Dollie had found. It was something neither he (or I, who always accompanied him on these visits), looked forward to or enjoyed.

My parents Marion and John von Neff had taken an earlier ship, the Dona Nati, arriving in Los Angeles on December 15, 1940. We moved into 107 Saint Andrews Place with my father’s sister Marguerite. My mother quickly became a servant, scrubbing floors, washing, and ironing the clothes, washing dishes, ordered about by Marguerite though in mild tones. My mother had been a ballerina. Her idea of a good time was cutting loose on the dance floor with her boyfriend Tony Sobral in nightclubs in Shanghai. Often with a glass of whiskey with plenty of ice that clinked while she smoked a cigarette in a long ivory holder. She needed to move. She needed to laugh. She needed spicy sex. But here she was living at 107 Saint Andrews Place a docile servant. And another thing, she had written Dad’s Ph.D thesis and he had taken all the credit.

Dad was a lifelong chain smoker, and his idea of fun was reading a history book while puffing away on a Camel. Oh, but there were outings on Sundays. We would climb into the family Marmon and Dad would drive us to the Thrifty Drugstore where my mother and I shared a child’s plate. The Marmon and the house were well beyond the means of my father’s teacher’s salary. He had inherited both from his father who was a Marmon dealer. A Marmon nowadays in reasonable condition is worth more than $50,000, but often much more.

Surprisingly my mother put up a good front, but inside she was seething, a word she would use often. My father puffed on his Camel and turned the pages of his history books. His sister Marguerite nagged. My mother scrubbed. Anger built and built and boiled.

No two families could have been more different. Dad’s family, the von Neffs, were proper German Swiss. My mother’s family, the Robbs and the MacKays, were Scots, tall and blue eyed. Dad was shorter with brown eyes. His face for some reason had a hint of Mongolian. Did the family tree lie? Does drinking give a clue? I started drinking in The Place, a bar in North Beach where Gus Slaughter was the bartender. Gus remarked, Hey, you drink like a Mongolian.

My mother’s side of the family had fought in the Revolutionary War and my dad’s ancestors had also fought in the Revolutionary War. Well, at least he’s not English, my grandmother remarked when my mother returned to Manila from Berkeley with my father who she met at the University of California. You’ll get properly married in the Episcopal Church, my grandmother said sternly. And there will be no going to bed before then.

Seething more and more every day my mother continued scrubbing and cleaning. Finally some relief. On October 30, 1941, my grandparents arrived on the Dona Aniceta. We drove down to the harbor in the Marmon. I clearly remember seeing them coming down the gangway, the shaking of hands, laughter, and embraces. Now the Marmon headed to 107 Saint Andrews Place. My father smoked and turned the pages of his history books, my aunt Marguerite let up on my mother and tried to be pleasant but came across as phony.

After two weeks of empty pleasantries my grandparents moved taking me with them. We now lived at 433 1/2 South Western Avenue. It was a tiny apartment, but it was their apartment. No more chain smoking, history book page turning, nocturnal creep. Besides they were Scots, and my father was not and that was that.

On December 7, 1941 war came and with it sexual energy swept the nation.

Yo sailor. Yo Marine. Yo soldier. My father joined the army but was soon discharged because of his poor eyesight. My mother worked at the Douglas Aircraft Plant. She had a job. She could do as she wished. Divorce. She was free.

She met Dell Frazier, a minor figure on the Hollywood scene. He seemed to know everybody, and he knew where the parties were. Cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild rhythm. They’ll drive you crazy. They’ll drive you insane. Somehow Dell managed to get an army commission. Now he could party in uniform. And he and my mother painted the town red. I remember a Hollywood party in a mansion. There was a polar bear rug in the living room and a small bedroom where I was tucked in by my mother. Dell has a surprise for you, my mother said. Dell walked in with a tall man with dark hair. Here’s Red Ryder, Dell said. You don’t look like Red Ryder, I shot back. Dell and Red Ryder (Reed Hadley) laughed, and I was soon asleep. Red Ryder, why didn’t he look like the man on the radio now?

Another scene, more vivid. Dell as usual is dressed in his officer’s uniform. He is driving the Woodie station wagon. I look out the window. One block seems like another. Then suddenly near an intersection there is a group of sailors and Marines fighting. Dell jammed on the brakes. What the hell are you doing? my mother shouted as Dell jumped out of the Woodie station wagon. Unfortunately Dell fought on the side of the sailors. Marines then had a thick leather belt with a large brass buckle which they used to effect. On top of that Marines can get a dressing down if they lose a fight. Dell came back bloody. He had picked the wrong side.

Chapter 2

San Francisco

My mother left Dell Frazier. Bon voyage. No more competing with a bevy of Hollywood girls. No more booze. No more fights with Marines. Like a lot of Rosie the Riveters, my mother was now working at the Douglas Aircraft Company in El Segundo near the present-day Los Angeles Airport. She was installing guns on the A-1 Skyraider, though she worked on other planes earlier. My grandparents and I visited her. I remember looking up fascinated by barrage balloons, then there she was cheerfully running toward me, arms outstretched to give me a hug.

Because of his knowledge of the Philippines, my grandfather had been recruited by the Office of War Information, OWI. After about a year he was assigned to San Francisco, where earlier my grandfather had rented a garden apartment for us from Kenneth McRowe, a Scotsman. My mother drove us up in her Woodie, then returned to her 85-cents-an-hour job in Los Angeles.

We approached San Francisco via the old Bayshore highway. Soon we were in San Francisco. I had never seen anything like it. The city was blanketed in fog, the kind where pilots have to remain grounded. We approached the Presidio; Walt showed his I.D. to the guard, and we drove along tree lined streets and out the Arguello Gate. We turned down 2nd Avenue until we reached 564 1/2 and knocked on the door of Kenneth MacRowe.

That first night and thereafter the blackout shades were drawn down while outside searchlights raked the skies. My grandmother held me tight as if I would die if she let me go. I’m so glad you’re here, she kept repeating. This went on for many nights. I think she was clinging to her son, my uncle James, who had been on the Bataan Death March and now in Bilibid concentration camp. His wife Monica and daughter Jannis as well as many of my grandparents’ friends, were interned in Santo Tomas, an internment camp for civilians. How much did my grandmother know of James’ suffering? Since my grandfather worked for the Office of War Information, he knew a lot of the sordid details though I doubt he told them to my grandmother. What she read in the newspapers was bad enough. Her imagination and her nightmares filled in the blanks.

Chapter 3

The Blackout Shades

564 1/2 2nd Avenue | San Francisco | 1943

As usual the blackout shades of our apartment were drawn. I pulled one slightly aside, fascinated as searchlights crisscrossed back and forth. No enemy planes were caught in their beams, still one could feel the tension. Japanese bombers might come. They just might. Our house was silent except for the hum of my grandmother Dollie’s treadle Singer sewing machine. She was making me a life-size dachshund. The hum of the sewing machine had a calming effect as Walt puffed on his pipe and reminisced about his brother Charlie. One night Charlie got up, saddled his horse, and rode off to join the Dalton Brothers Gang. We never saw him again. (My note: he probably didn’t ride with them for very long).

As I turned around my grandmother was wiping her face with a handkerchief, and I could see she had been crying. I felt guilty for some reason. My grandfather looked at me and said, Bataan, Erich, Bataan. I knew that my uncle, James, was