July 28 - August 3, 1997
About the fifth day after we put Abbie on a plane bound for the coast, I looked into the backyard and saw a father cardinal perched on the bird feeder; he was taking seed from the feeder, deftly shelling it with his beak, holding the soft part and hopping over to feed his baby who was sitting across the way on the flat top of the squirrel baffle. Nature abounds with good examples, and this one gave me a pang. My little girl, now 13, was in California.
A guest of her gracious Uncle Jeff (Laurie's brother) and Aunt Millie in Long Beach, Abbie was seeing the sights, riding the rides, and (we hoped) being the perfect helper. She was also the first wave of the wedding party that was gathering in Southern California on the Fourth of July weekend to see Laurie's sister, Lee, marry her beau, Nick.
Lee was widowed two years ago, suddenly. Nick's wife died last year after a long illness. That they found one another was an affirmation of life, although I'm sure I could find a few blue noses who would have preferred they gather dust for five or ten years before re-marrying.
In Which Dad Makes Out on the Flight Out On the third of July, Laurie and I and Laurie's father, henceforth to be referred to as "Dad," followed Abbie and headed west. After a short jaunt to Pittsburgh, we boarded the plane for San Diego and found that our seat assignments had been dumped by the computer and thus we were in the last row, bolt upright. However, in exchange for not being able to lean backwards, we received free headphones for the movie, "The Saint," an action film that required no dialogue.
We were also right next to the toilets, which enabled us to mingle with our fellow travelers who were waiting in line to use the torturously compact facilities. Of course, every time someone left the toilet, those standing on line in the aisle leaned back automatically, thrusting their butts into Laurie's face prompting her to throw up her hands like the female lead in a horror film.
I was safe in the middle, next to Tim from Pittsburgh, who had the window. Tim worked for Calloway Golf and was a native of San Diego, a charming fellow and a font of information. We talked about John Daly, P.G. Wodehouse's golf stories and Tijuana (which is not on the Alamo Car Rental map because DRIVING AN ALAMO RENTAL CAR INTO MEXICO IS NOT PERMITTED). Dad was across the aisle in a middle seat between two women. The young woman in the window seat sported spiky hair, purple nail polish, toe rings, a tattoo on her shoulder, and a black lace bra under her oh-so-tight filmy blouse. The woman on the other side was a blonde in jeans who worked for Calvin Klein Underwear. For a guy in his 80's, Dad was doing really well. And they took very great care of him, helping him to adjust his headset and listening attentively to his stories of crossing America by train during World War Two.
The woman from Calvin Klein was reviewing resumes; she insisted on handwritten cover letters because she had once hired a woman whose handwriting was illegible, and she wasn't going to let it happen again. It also showed who could follow instructions; typed letters went right into the trash. She winnowed the prospects from 75 to 45 by the time we reached San Diego.
There were brush fires in the hills of Mexico, and gray plumes of smoke rising into the clouds looking volcanic until you followed them to the ground, and there you could see a razor-thin, wavy orange line separating the hillsides and the billowing clouds of smoke. San Diego itself had some haze, smog that had drifted down from Los Angeles. We were told, three times, that pilots hate to land in San Diego, because they have to come in high over the city and then drop like a stone to the end of the runway. However, they love to take off because they go right out over the ocean.
On the ground, I saw that the luggage had me outnumbered. Laurie was pushing a wheel chair with Dad in it, to save wear and tear on his knees, and I had six bags to contend with. Fortunately, a porter appeared with a cart and saved my life. I have always believed in tipping generously, and this gentleman gave me every reason to continue doing so.
The Rent-a-Car The shuttle-bus ride from the terminal to Alamo Car Rental seemed almost as long as the plane ride, but it did give us an opportunity to watch a family visiting from somewhere out in the wilds of America, tank-topped, sunburnt and flushed with travel. The dad had a dangling earring and young son had a dangly earring, and they were telling stories on one another about the previous night's smoking and drinking.
Once we hit Alamo, Laurie and I fell smoothly into our respective roles as driver and navigator. I'm an ace with maps, give clear directions, and really don't like to drive unless I've been drinking. Laurie, on the other hand, drives in a calm and even-tempered manner and is equally happy driving north, south, east or west, regardless of the direction of her destination.
By combining directions from Nick, who had typed up a multi-page, multi-colored program of the cast, events, locations and directions, plus the Alamo map plus the AAA map, I guided us successfully to the motel. It was a vast arrangement, with wide, sterile hallways, no soul whatsoever and a disco just off the lobby that looked and sounded, after a long day, like a gateway to Hell. In fact, I'm sure that's just what it will be like. Safe in our rooms, we collapsed onto our beds, slept deeply and woke promptly at 3:30 a.m., ready for the new day. Unfortunately, the new day wasn't ready for us and wouldn't be for another three hours.
But after a few hours of holding still and pretending to sleep, we arose and set about to find Dad and an unhealthy breakfast, perhaps a buffet with bacon and sausage. We were successful, although the breakfast itself was overshadowed by the flow of arriving relatives, who appeared in the lobby, in hallways, at breakfast, prompting an on-going series of greetings.
Nick has four kids -- Kari, Brielle, Matt and Annik -- all of the finest kind, but not at all cookie-cutter kids, good people in different ways, although possessed of sibling telepathy and an obvious caring for one another.
There is one grandchild, Kari's daughter Jena, two years old, elfin, blue eyes, bare feet, who danced rather than walked and was a lovely ornament to the weekend, although her crackling energy reminded me why I am happy Abbie is 13.
Speaking of Abbie, she and Jeff, Millie and Michael would be the last to arrive in San Diego, coming down from L.A. in the afternoon.
The Zoo First, Laurie and I were going to visit the San Diego Zoo as soon as we finished breakfast. A hut-like woman at an adjacent table offered her uninvited opinion that we were going to hate it; there was so much walking. I replied that I enjoyed walking. Brielle noted that it was an okay place if you wanted to be hot and sticky. Having just emerged from Syracuse's Nine Months of Winter, I said, "I'm open to getting hot and sticky."
One of my favorite parts of San Diego was the bridge we drove under on our way through Balboa Park on Route 163. The road is in kind of a valley filled with palm trees and tropical vegetation that we don't get much of in Syracuse, and this bridge was like a cathedral ceiling, with a series of graceful arches several stories tall, like something out of a Franklin Booth or Maxfield Parrish drawing.
The Zoo was right where Laurie had left it several years previously. We parked the car, walked and got hot and sticky, and it was good. The Zoo is wonderful, with ATMs, ten places to eat, lots of gift shops and some great animals too. Laurie bought a broad-brimmed canvas hat to keep the sun from beating down on her head and we took breathers in the shade.
The brightly colored birds in the green, leafy aviaries were wonderful, but it was the polar bear swimming that was the best. Watching him through the underwater glass wall, a white bear diving into robin's egg blue water, rolling and swimming upside down, his belly shining, a million white hairs waving in unison and glowing like silver in the sunlight from above, that was wonderful.
We did not go to the Snake House. That we would save for later.
Abbie Returns, in One Piece Back at the motel, I can't remember the exact moment that Abbie arrived, but I do remember seeing her at the curb, walking out to her, and seeing the bruise on her neck, from a seat belt it turned out. "There was an accident," Laurie said.
The day before, Millie was driving on the freeway in the left lane when the car ahead of her ducked into the right lane revealing a packing crate in the road dead ahead. As Millie swerved to avoid it, the car began an impromptu series of 360's. It might have rolled, had not it been broadsided on Abbie's side at 60 mph by a car that t-boned it squarely on the centerpost. When the noise and dust settled, there was no broken glass, no cuts, just bruises all around, and everyone walked away, wobbly perhaps, but walking. Thank you, Honda engineers.
The car, however, would roll no more. "It was sick," Abbie said, "When the tow truck pulled them apart, you could hear pieces of Uncle Jeff's car falling on the road."
This is by far the best way to hear about an accident, while the people involved are standing, whole and healthy, right in front of you. And it made me think of the father cardinal again, and of the harder parts of parenthood. A brush with death, however, had not changed Abbie's organizational traits. She entered our room, opened her suitcase and covered her corner with strewn clothing in seconds, as if the case had been packed under pneumatic pressure.
We went for a swim, then dressed for dinner and, reunited, prepared to enter the pre-wedding phase of the adventure. It was Friday, the Fourth of July, 1997.
Fireworks at Jake's As we approached the restaurant for the "rehearsal dinner," the cars were already lining the road as people sought a place to park for the fireworks later that evening. At the parking lot of Jake's, a tanned, well-muscled, tightly uniformed security guard informed us that we would be towed if we stayed longer than two hours. He was very serious. Then we pulled forward to the valet parking, where cheerful young lads informed us that they wouldn't let him near our cars and to stay just as long as we liked. Yeah!
Jake's, a restaurant in Chula Vista, has a casual yacht club ambiance as befits an eatery in a marina. Lots of nice wood, and an openness so you can see the marina and the ocean from everywhere except the men's room, but that was quite handsome even without a sea view.
The hostess parked us in a row of chairs, and I remember thinking that this was going to cost them a round of drinks. And I wanted a drink. I don't drink on airplanes, and I hadn't pounded down any cold ones with the polar bear, so I was parched. But then Nick arrived, and Abbie said, "Nick will fix it. Nick fixes everything." And we were whisked, practically carried, to our tables and the waitress, ever attentive, listed the beers for me, a string of undistinguished lagers until she got to the end and said, "And some wheat beer from Oregon." I had that, and it was good.
It was here that we met our host and hostess, who were to play such a large role in the weekend. They are a threesome actually: Bob and Penny and The House. Bob is a friend of Nick's, and a beer drinker, and we had a swell chat. His wife, Penny, is the daughter of an American General and a British mother. She grew up either moving from country to country, when not living in an English boarding school, and so there is the freedom of a nomad about her and a lovely English accent. (I have been a fool for English accents since boyhood, upon first seeing Glynis Johns in Rob Roy.)
The House has a history and personality of its own, and Nick had primed us with a issue of San Diego Home/Garden that featured The House as a Designers' Showcase in 1993. Built in 1910, it sits just a smidgen to the right of the flight path on the hillside that the pilots hate to fly over as they come into San Diego. It's an old house, with old house concerns, and we talked about them.
"The exterminator and plumber...," Penny began and I said, "You're on a first-name basis?" Penny smiled. "They have their own keys," she said.
It's a house they love to share. Nick stays there often and has his own phone line, the better to keep his hyper-attentive employer from waking Bob and Penny at all hours. And then there are the snakes, but I'll get to that later.
Our table at Jake's was by the windows and there was a boardwalk just outside. Looking out at the boats, I saw a young woman walk by in a t-shirt and shorts, striding confidently on an artificial leg. I saw a tall, stunning woman in large sunglasses and a petite black sunsuit, with pleated black six-inch skirt, walking a small dog. "That's what money looks like," I said to Laurie, as the woman bent over to adjust the dog's collar. And she said, "That's not money... no, wait, maybe you're right."
And then Nick's son, Matt, made a short speech on behalf of his siblings. I can't remember a word of it, but it was heartfelt, and Jena had scribbled on his notes, putting in her two cents, which made it perfect.
Dinner was delicious, although not as delicious as the conversation, and then night fell and curtain went up on the fireworks. Laurie loves fireworks, and I hate crowds and traffic, so we don't often share the public pyrotechnic experience. But this was ideal. We went outside onto the boardwalk and stood arm-in-arm and watched the night sky fill with beauty, the mirrored surface of the water reflecting it all. It was an oooh and aaaah fest. Somewhere a radio played the appropriate music, and we were told that the tunes were synchronized with fireworks all up and down the coast of California. I had a real sense of a national birthday, maybe for the first time.
When we left, the security guard was gone but our cars were all safely there, and the valet parking guys were running to fetch our rented steeds and drive them back up to us. As I tipped our own personal auto valet, I said, "You are a prince among men," -- it is one of my favorite tipping expressions, although the best is Bill Murray tipping the shoeshine man at the beginning of Stripes, but I digress.
The Jacuzzi We returned to the hotel, and, inspired by Abbie and Millie, who had bonded during the previous week as "two buff chicks," the Jacuzzi. Normally, my nights end at predictable times, but the closeness of a pool and Jacuzzi was just too apt, too wonderful to miss. And I love the water.
And so at 10:30 p.m. I found myself in my faded flowered swim trunks heading back to the pool. The Jacuzzi was steamy and bubbly, like getting into a really hot bath, and I could feel all the stress and toxins flowing out of me. And then up the steps and over to the pool for a cooling dip. The pool was saline, so I was even more buoyant than at Silver Bay. Floating on my back in the pool, looking up at the black night sky, steam sliding over my face like low-flying clouds from the warm water, I almost fell asleep.
The following morning, after Abbie played Pachabel's "Canon" on the lobby piano and I sat there brimming and just damn glad she was alive, we made a pilgrimage to the Hotel del Coronado. I'd seen pictures; I'd seen postcards; I'd seen the hotel masquerading as a Florida resort in "Some Like It Hot." But I'd never set foot in it. And I love old hotels and mansions. We had reserved spaces on the walking tour, and arrived, chauffeured by Jeff and Millie, right on time.
The hotel was built in 1888, and it's a wooden fantasy. Besides Marilyn Monroe, Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis, it has hosted 14 U.S. Presidents, Charles Lindbergh after his flight, and Edward, the Prince of Wales, in 1920. It included Otis elevators #61, 62 and 63. One remains, a gilded cage rising in the center of wide stairways. The lobby is a classic, with pillars that go way up to ceilings of polished Illinois oak. The ceiling of the dining room is a paneled dome of sugar-pine boards, hand-fitted with no nails, 33' high, 66' across and 156' in length. And the hotel has been haunted by at least two ghosts, both women, which appealed to Abbie. The tour also breezed through the lushly foliated courtyard, by the tennis courts, through the arcade of shops; they say that money can't buy you happiness, but we saw a great many people who had reserved it that weekend.
The Klauber House But on to the wedding, at The House, known in San Diego as The Klauber House. Laurence Klauber rose to be the Chairman and CEO of SDG&E, but history will remember him, as will I, as the author of Rattlesnakes: Their Habits, Life Histories & Influence on Mankind, still the authoritative text. And like any avid hobbyist, Laurence brought his interests home -- 35,000 specimens of reptiles and 8,000 snakes.
His wife, Grace, must have been an exceptionally good sport. And of course, as might be expected, hey, nobody's perfect, over the years, one or two went astray in the house. So 25 years after the death of the owner, snakes were still alive in the house and one day, Bob, our host, saw one coming up the basement stairs. The house had already been tented for termites, but Bob & Penny had it tented again for snakes.
However, despite the Adam & Eve parallel, this was not why the house was so perfect for the wedding. Rather it was the generosity of the host & hostess, and the beauty of the home and the garden, and the surety of glorious weather. Indoors, The House has gorgeous wood, Roycroft and Craftsman touches, and beautiful windows to let in the San Diego sunshine, a home surrounded by porches and arbors, and just off the kitchen a butler's pantry that I would happily kill for, if the victim was a bad person.
The fireplace in the study was framed in rich green tiles that reminded me of those around the fireplace in Adele Robineau's studio here in Syracuse, where the late Mr. Clete once spent the night while in the care of a friend, but Mimi Audi, who owns Stickley now and with whom I was editing a TV spot a few days after I got back, by which I mean that I was bringing her iced tea while she made all the decisions, told me the tiles could also be by Mercer or Fulper.
But let's go back outside to the garden and the wedding. Grace Klauber gardened until the age of 102, and given the climate of San Diego, it's easy to believe. I would happily live in a shed on this property, and do nothing but weed. Hummingbirds live in exotic trees. Palms sway. And palm trees make me happy. I don't know what it is; it's like Mike Lagerman (who married Laurie and I during his Reverential period) and champagne. A palm tree always makes me happy. Even if I'm watching Guadalcanal Diary and there's a sniper in the palm tree, I'm happy.
And these palms were blown around in a special way unique to the neighborhood. As jets came in to land, they created a vortex. Nick explained it. The plane goes by; you see it land down at the runway. It's quiet again. And then there is a sound, a slicing of the air, like Hemingway's description of passing artillery shells as a ripping of cloth, and you look for something that must be making the sound, and there's nothing there. That's the vortex. I spent the entire afternoon listening for the vortex; it was so cool. And Penny said, yes, you can see it blow through the tops of the palms that front the house, one after another, left to right in a neat row, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
The Wedding The bride wore white and so did I, my shirt with French cuffs because it's crisp and a tad formal and the only dress shirt I have without a frayed collar because how often do you wear a shirt with French cuffs? (I think it was left over from a Hathaway photo shoot circa 1981, probably Steven Jarvik, inventor of the artificial heart, because he was the only Hathaway Man who was my size during my tenure as the copywriter on the Hathaway account, and he didn't want any of the shirts. Thanks, Steve!) And with it I wore gold cufflinks that belonged to my grandfather, my mother's father, William Braun, one with a W and one with a B. He was the one who beat my mother when she wore out her shoes ('twice a victim' is a recurring motif in my parents' families) so it's not like I wore them in tribute; I just like them because they are old and beautiful on their own, one of the few pieces of family history I have, and they are my only pair.
And so we stood in the backyard of this beautiful house in San Diego on a temperately warm, sunny day, the pastor, an old family friend, facing the bride and groom, their children in a semi-circle a step behind them, and their families plus Bob and Penny in a second row behind them.
Because both the bride and groom had lost a spouse in the past two years, and because each of their children had lost a parent, the weekend was very much a delicate dance between mourning and joy, with occasions to suppress the mourning and moments to suppress the joy, and moments to let each emotion bubble to the surface as it should. Nowhere was that more obvious to me than during the vows, when each parent turned to their children and assured them that they were not being left behind, nor were the memories of their departed parents now any less valuable.
I had not planned to cry at the wedding, had not stuffed my pockets with tissues, but when Nick turned to his children and said, "I will always honor the memory of your mother," I did. Quietly, because I was only an observer, and because I knew that after the vows, given where I was standing, I was going to be the first person to reach the beverage table and a cold beer.
In the beer geek circles in which I move, Corona is a lager held in double contempt, one for being a lager and two for being faddish and unexceptional. I however, am a liberal in so many things, and strive to appreciate that which is good in everything. I was wearing a white shirt with a soft cranberry stripe and gold cufflinks on a sunny July afternoon just ten minutes from Mexico, the longnecks were crystalline and glistening from the ice water, and that Corona was delicious. I had the first one at my accustomed pace in the moments before the first champagne toast and a second to savor the afternoon sunshine. I drank them directly from the bottle, to complete my heresy, and enjoyed every second of it, from the feel on the longneck at the end of my relaxed right arm to the soft, cool malt and hop medley on my grateful palate.
The champagne, by the way, was Moet & Chandon, my favorite. It was that kind of weekend. Dinner came off the grill, kabobs of shrimp, scallops and fish, served with a rice pilaf and a delicious California white wine. If not the best meal of my life, it was equal to any I've ever had.
We ate in the dining room, which has a built-in sideboard/china cabinet with leaded glass windows that I would happily kill for, if the victim was anything less than a really good person. And as we dined, Phyllis played piano. Her regular gig is at Nordstrom's, but tonight she was ours. The bride and groom danced. Dad's hearing aid went bananas. Phyllis did not know "Just a Gigolo," my signature tune, but was playing it by ear as I sang it to her. And then she ate with us and described her years with Lawrence Welk as Norma Zimmer's accompanist. I'm looking for her on those re-runs. She gave the bride and groom her CD.
The Tour After dinner, Penny gave Laurie, Abbie and I a tour, including the basement. She let me scuttle under the living room, on the dirt floor, right down to where this house lived. That's generosity. "Don't bother turning out the lights; I'll get them later." The House has four small furnaces that come on briefly once or twice a year to dissipate the morning chill. And we saw the old laundry room with an Easy-Washer made in Syracuse, New York, where Laurie's father once worked, a fine 'small world' coincidence. The original brochure, still tucked inside the washer, depicted a housewife and the washer flying together on a magic carpet. Those were the days.
Upstairs, the office and drawers of Mr. Klauber were intact, and Penny said, "Go through them." We did. There was a wonderful old rubber stamp alphabet set, and drafting materials, and maps, wonderful maps, some of which had been used for wallpaper in the room. Abbie had done so much in California -- trips, rides, Planet Hollywood, Universal Studios, Rodeo Drive -- and later when I asked her what her favorite part was, she said, "Going through the drawers in the old house." I beamed with pride.
The bride and groom had a beautiful room, and Penny and Bob spread rose petals on the bed, and, as is appropriate, short-sheeted it.
And then suddenly it was time to go back to the motel, and hit the Jacuzzi. All the lads, led by the pastor, were lighting up stogies. I was stogie-free, but lapping up the night and the bright, bubbling water. It seems as though everyone was there, but with my glasses off, I couldn't tell. Later, Abbie, who does not need glasses, told me that she had noted that Annik had pierced her navel, and I said, "So?" not realizing until later that Abbie was already exploring the limits for when she goes to college.
Home Again Sunday morning we returned to The House for brunch, vortex listening and a round of croquet before the flight home. It was another slice of paradise.
Dad stayed in L.A. with Jeff and Millie for a few extra days, so Laurie and I flew back alone (although Tim from Calloway Golf was on the flight and had had a swell weekend as well), and picked up Abbie at the airport the next day and sent her off to Confirmation Camp (a Lutheran rite of passage). She feared misery but was surrounded by fellow members of her teen species and had a terrific time.
The next weekend, after Abbie slept one night in her own bed, the three of us were off to Silver Bay, which passed in a beautiful blur. I remember floating in the jade green water by day, and reading John LeCarré's The Honourable Schoolboy at night.
Now, we are all in our own beds again, at home with Blueberry the parakeet, no snakes, and all seems well with the world.
March 2004
More on the Klauber House:
At his Web site, Pat Dahl, the Gifted Naturalist, writes: "The first serious books I purchased on rattlesnakes were the definitive double volumes written by Klauber. I will take them to my grave. Of course, my family believes that will be true if I keep working with venomous reptiles! Klauber's monumental study on rattlesnakes was first published in 1958 and was given the highest critical acclaim. He was the first curator of reptiles of the San Diego Zoological Society and had a collection of more than 40,000 specimens in his home basement... Upon his death in 1968, most of his collection was donated to the San Diego Natural History Museum. I was associated with the Museum as a contract educator and expedition leader, so I had the opportunity to fondle every jar and book that belonged to the famous herpetologist. I visited the 82-year old Klauber Mansion after it sold in 1993. My imagination allowed me to see shadows and snakes in the old storeroom, and to say farewell and thank you to a legend that helped me grow and learn in the realm of serpents."
And from desertusa.com:
"Born in San Diego, California in 1883, Laurence M. Klauber became known as the world's foremost authority on the subject of rattlesnakes, in spite of the fact he was not a herpetologist by profession, and did not begin a serious study of reptiles until he was in his forties. Prior to his life as 'Mr. Rattlesnake,' Klauber rose through the ranks of San Diego Gas Electric Company from an electric sign salesman to become president, then chairman and CEO. He also held seven U.S. patents for his electrical inventions.
"His herpetology career began in the 1923 when the newly-formed San Diego Zoo, having acquired several snakes that were unidentified, asked Klauber, because of his boyhood interest in reptiles, to identify them... Klauber volunteered to become the San Diego Zoo's first Curator of Reptiles...
"He spent uncounted thousands of hours collecting, handling, classifying and dissecting rattlesnakes, which brought him face to face with more than 12,000. He 'milked' the venom from some 5,000 rattlesnakes and pickled more than 35,000 reptiles in the basement of his home above San Diego Bay. He was bitten twice, a fact he was not proud of... In 1956, Klauber published his definitive, 2-volume, Rattlesnakes: Their Habits, Life Histories and Influence on Mankind. This 1,533-page work was immediately recognized as the most complete and authoritative resource ever written on the rattlesnake...
"Before Laurence M. Klauber's death in 1968 at the age of 84, he donated 36,000 reptile and amphibian specimens to the San Diego Natural History Museum, including the most comprehensive collection of rattlesnakes in the world."