Lines with Madame
Somewhere around 1978-1979, my roommate, Michael, dated Wayland Flowers. I cannot narrow it down more than that because it was the '70s. So many fun and outrageous things happened when I lived at Tahoe that it's impossible to put them all into any sort of chronological order. We didn't have phones that time-stamped our lives. Hell - we didn't have phones except for the single landline in our 4-person/4-bedroom/2 bathroom home - with the lake view before they built the condo's in out back yard... (Another story for another day!)
Michael had gone down to Reno for a party or something and met Wayland after a show. They hit it off rather quickly and Michael ended up in Reno quite a bit. I went down with him one night to catch his show - it was hysterically funny - and it was party-hearty after.
Wayland was hysterical off stage as well as on. He could jump in-and-out of character at the drop of a feather boa. While Madame did stay in her dressing room, her persona was liable to come up anywhere Wayland went.
He was really a very sweet guy from the brief time I saw him - and he had really good drugs. Always a plus!
They didn't date long - Wayland was a celebrity who was constantly on the road and Michael definitely wasn't looking to settle down, either.
He was cute, though...
Meeting Jimmy Carter
Jimmy Carter is my most favorite President from the time I was able to vote - my first Presidential vote was for George McGovern absentee ballot from the USS Ranger CVA-61. (That boat will probably be a recurring theme in these stories!)
I started working in hotels in 1976 and I had seen my share of famous people. At the Hyatt Lake Tahoe, they held "Hyatt Celebrity Tennis" every year and I met Lorne Green, Clint Eastwood, Burt Reynolds, Michael Landon... and a score of others whose names are among the brain cells I have destroyed over time... There was always a so-and-so staying at the Lakeside suites... I'm not generally a star-struck individual - meeting celebrities really wasn't a big deal.
From Tahoe to Boston and The Hyatt Regency Cambridge. Because of its proximity to Harvard and MIT - as well as Mass General - lots of politicians stopped by. I saw Reagan - did not meet him, fortunately - and a Saudi Prince reserved an entire floor for a month because his mother was undergoing treatment at Mass General Hospital. Probably about 35 rooms. I met Rodney Dangerfield who was doing a show for Harvard, one night - he was really funny and really foul-mouthed. I loved it!
One afternoon I was by myself taking the service elevator up to the Spinnaker - the revolving rooftop restaurant/lounge - when the doors opened and Jimmy Carter and two Secret Service guys stepped in.
He smiled, shook my hand, and asked me how I was doing. I stood there gaping, tongue-tied, and sputtering. It was one of those Geemrpresidentitissogreattomeetyou - heart pumping a mile a minute, overwhelmed, to say the least. Not that I could have actually articulated that at that moment... Red faced, palms sweating... I'm sure he was impressed.
He really was a great man.
My 21st Birthday
Twenty-One. The magic age. The rite of going out and getting sloshed - legally - for the first time. I spent my 21st birthday floating a couple of miles off the California coast.
We had been back from Viet Nam for about a month, homeported at NAS Alameda - right across the bay from home. I was back to almost being a civilian with a Navy job. I was even working at Pirro's and collecting a paycheck from Barry, as well. It was rough.
There was no air wing on board at this point - they were all back at Lemore, Miramar, North Island, or wherever... It was just us sailor-types on the boat.
The powers-that-be planned a 3-day "RefTra" - that's refresher training in Navy lingo - for the end of July. Knowing my 21st birthday just happened to fall at the end of July, I put in for a 3-day leave. Leaves like this were pretty much just rubber-stamped. There was no compelling reason to deny - especially since we were part of the "New Navy" headed by 'Uncle Elmo' Zumwalt - Chief of Naval Operations. Uncle Elmo had revamped all of the personnel policies to make the Navy a more human place.
Yeah... it was that Leading Chief, again... Chief Tanzio wasn't about to let one of his least-favorite pieces of Government Property actually spend time off the ship enjoying his special day. No... our dear Leading Chief let me know just how indispensable I was feeding the limited crew we had on board.
Yeah, right.
I did very little during that three days floating off the coast - there literally wasn't enough to keep us busy - and that was after doing a "Navy Clean" of the bakeshops. (They really did use white gloves and that asshole really did look for stuff to criticize.)
So... I got back on land the day after and celebrated then. One of my first stops was "The Blue Crystal" - a bar up the block from Pirros's where I had been working since I was 16 - and drinking at since I was 17-18. It was all about how you ordered a drink. Order a "Seven and Seven" and you'd get carded. Order a Vodka grape short or a Jack with a Bud back and you would get a great drink.
They were really not amused that I had fooled them for such a long time.
And it wasn't the last time the asshole Chief screwed me over...
Camping Atop Half Dome
Once Upon A Time...
I camped atop Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. It was September of 1977. Three of us.
It's the only time I have ever been to the top of Half Dome - and It was also the last. I have no plans of climbing back up there ever again - even with two new hips.
It was 1977. I was 25. Invincible. I smoked too much, drank too much, and took too many illicit drugs. Perfect time to camp at 8850 feet above sea level. To be fair, it was only 1800 feet higher than where I lived at Tahoe, but still...
We had to bring everything - water, food, cigarettes, alcohol - hard liquor because beer weighed too much - tent, sleeping bags... I was 25. Invincible.
Only a couple other folks were camping while we were up there - it wasn't the madness that it is, today. In fact, overnight camping is prohibited, nowadays - too much shit - literally - left behind. I honestly don't recall the bodily function issues, but we did pee off the edge. I can't believe I stood at the edge of half dome and peed! I'm breaking out in a cold sweat just thinking of it! Invincible, indeed.
The top isn't really big and it's not exactly flat - it's kinda wavy-ish - but you won't roll off the edge in your sleep.
It is difficult to describe the beauty. You literally are siting on top of the world. It is simply spectacular. At night - the sky. We don't see stars, anymore - light pollution from the cities is drowning them out. But on top of half dome, that's all there were - forever and ever and ever. It was even clearer than Tahoe or the Desolation Wilderness. And quiet. We had the perfect crystal clear night.
I do not recall the climb up being overly difficult - remember, I was 25 - but it was long. Really long. And hiking down was much more difficult that hiking up.
It's one of the most beautiful places on earth.
From Russia, With Love
Sometime back in the early '90s I got a melamine tray from my Uncle Gene who was living in Hawai’i - I was visiting him for a week of fun-in-the-sun.
It was a reproduction of a mural by Eugene Savage who had been commissioned to create nine of them for the Matson Steamship Line pre-WWII. Matson pretty much had the monopoly on ship traffic from California to Hawai'i back in the day. I know my great aunts took the trip several times.
Although the murals were completed, the war broke out and they were never installed on the ships - the ships were used as troop transports. After the war, styles were changing, so reproductions of them were eventually used as used as keepsake menu covers for the SS Lurline – the flagship of the Matson Line.
The tray may cost him ten bucks - if that. It wasn’t valuable, just decorative.
For years, the tray sat downstairs in the basement collecting dust until one day I brought it to work with some cookies. It then sat at work until one day when I used it at the demo counter. I kinda kept thinking I would bring it home, and I kinda never did.
A regular customer came in and asked where we had gotten the tray. Andrey is from Russia, tall, dark hair, quiet, and a very genuine person. We’ve chatted in the past, he’s married to a really nice woman - Irinia - and he's just a really nice guy. He knew of Eugene Savage and liked his work.
He said if I ever wanted to part with it, he would love to buy it. I smiled, said it wasn’t for sale, he said okay, and off he went to the cashier.
So… a minute later, I’m looking at the tray thinking it’s doing me no good, I don’t have any place at home for it, and if I leave it at work it’s eventually going to fall apart.
He was still at the register so I brought it over and gave it to him.
He was quite taken aback. He wanted to pay for it and I just said no - it's yours. Enjoy it. I tend to cash in Karma points quicker than I can receive them - banking a few is never a bad idea. He thanked me profusely and left with a huge smile on his face.
The Sunday Before Christmas, he and his wife came in with a shopping bag. In it, he said, were the things every Russian family has at Christmas!
First up, was a bottle of a carbonated beverage called Kvass Ochakovskiy. It is made from rye bread and is naturally fermented. It's a really refreshing sweet and sour beverage with a minimal - 1.5% - alcohol content.
Then there was a huge jar of pickled tomatoes and pickles – from Bulgaria! He said the best pickles in Russia come from Bulgaria. We laughed. Next was a hunk of halva. Sesame and honey… And a can of smoked sprats from the Baltic Sea. Sprats are small fish and contains long-chained polyunsaturated fatty acids. The little blighters are actually good for you! And they were amazing!
Finally, there was a Poppy Seed Rillet – a poppy seed pastry roll. Andrey said he hoped I didn’t have to take any drug rests soon!
I think it's really important to note that people are not their governments. Andrey was certainly not a Putin, and I am certainly not a Trump. Immigrants coming into the US are not evil - they're just people trying to build a better life. Just as our ancestors did.
A bit of druzhba because of a plastic tray...
Buried in the Sand
The actual story doesn’t quite reflect the newspaper version…
In 1957, my parents were renting a house on 19th Avenue in the city. In March of 1957 there was an earthquake that caused some damage to the place. It was lathe and plaster construction and a lot of the plaster had cracked and crumbled – especially in the downstairs entry.
In May – a mere 2 months later – my mom gave birth to twin girls – children numbers 4 and 5. We had outgrown the house.
My father had been in the Fire Department for about three years at this point – steady income, albeit not the highest salary for someone running into burning buildings on a daily basis – their salaries were dependent on the whim of the voters – and San Francisco voters were notoriously cheap when it came to their public service employees.
In July of 1957 using his WWII GI Bill, they bought a bouse in South San Francisco – on the street leading up to Sign Hill Park on the south side of San Bruno Mountain where “South San Francisco The Industrial City” is spelled out in white painted concrete letters. It was the model home for the development.
My father was driving back and forth with loaded trailers from old home to new while my mom was upstairs packing and dealing with 5 kids all under 8 years of age. She sent my bother and me out to the backyard to get us out of her hair while she dealt with my 4 year old and 2-month old sisters – and packed more stuff.
We decided to dig a hole – probably to China – who knows… we were kids. Mike had me keep getting in the hole to see how deep it was. It was up to about my shoulders when he started filling it in.
Being that we had been digging in sand, it was compacting around me. The more I tried to move, the tighter it got. I started crying and Mike got scared. My mother heard the ruckus and saw what we were up to. She ran down to try and get me out. The old woman who lived behind us heard the cries and came over to help – by putting a ladder up against the fence, sitting on the top of the fence, and then lifting the ladder over to climb down into our yard. Pretty impressive!
They were having no luck and I was crying like a kid buried in the sand up to my neck. They called the Fire Department.
Fortunately, the closest station was only a few blocks away, and San Francisco’s Finest were there to rescue me – digging out from several feet away to keep the sand from compacting even more. Even though my head was above the ground, the sand was compacting around my diaphragm. It would have eventually suffocated me.
I was saved, no one was spanked or punished, and we spent the night in our new home.
Alas, that home only lasted a year. City Employees were required to live IN the city back in those days. Pop got caught, and they had to sell the house and move back or lose his SFFD job.
The Day They Signed The Peace Agreement
History Books will tell you the Paris Peace Accords took effect on January 28th at 8:00am - but it was January 29th in the Gulf of Tonkin - where Viet Nam is located and where I was located at the time.
In typical military fashion, we were still doing the same things we were doing before. The difference was we no longer received combat pay.
Also, in typical military fashion, the day was declared "Holiday Routine" which meant holiday for the crew, routine for the cooks. I was one of those cooks.
They held a huge barbecue on the flight deck - there were something like 5000 people on the ship, including the air wings and we set up bbq grills and grilled steaks for hours - literally hours. In the sun. Floating out in the middle of the Tonkin Gulf. With nary a palm tree in sight.
I ended up with 2nd degree burns over every bit of exposed skin on my body and was in sickbay for three days - I couldn't even walk. To say I was in pain may be a slight understatement. I was then given a no work chit for about a week.
One of the more fun things about all this is my leading chief - who really - really - disliked me - tried to have me court-martialed for "destruction of government property" - myself. Seriously. The only way I got out of his charge was the simple fact that I had been given a direct order to be on the flight deck grilling steaks in the middle of the Gulf of Tonkin - without shade.
It was bad enough that we worked 12 hours on, 12 hours off, seven days a week without some jerk riding your ass for no reason other than he could. If we were out at sea for 63 days, we worked 12 hours on, 12 hours off, for 63 straight days. He, of course, was in the office about 30 hours a week.
The dude constantly and continually tried to fuck me over any chance he could. (The only time he actually semi-succeeded was the day I was separated. I needed him to sign my separation papers and he wouldn't sign them until I got a "regulation military haircut". I smiled at him, got the haircut, and after he signed them I smiled again, and told him I was going to grow it down to my asshole, did a sharp military about face, and walked out.
That Time I Didn't Get Arrested
I lived at the North Shore of Lake Tahoe from May 1976 to November 1980 - with a brief stint back in San Francisco circa 1978.
Circa 1979, I was back at the Hyatt Lake Tahoe, living in the house with Michael, Susan, and Clare. We all worked for casinos - Clare at the Nevada Club and me, Michael, and Susan at The Hyatt.
It was not unusual to get off work at 11pm, head out to the casino - first a stop at Nick's Hideaway - the small bar across from Alpine Jack's - and then to the Sugar Pine Lounge - the casino bar with live entertainment.
--as an aside - The Sugar Pine Lounge is where I first heard Elmo and Patsy sing "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" before it was ever recorded and released!
It was not unusual to have more than a few drinks, and then hit the Nugget for Chili Cheese Omelets and Budweiser's about 3am before heading home.
Ah... The life of a 20-something Casino Employee in the '70s...
One night, after a rather uneventful evening of imbibing, I was driving the three miles from the Nugget to the house - I had made it through the winding curves of Hwy 28 - and was on the straightaway into Brockway.
Oh... and I was driving my 1963 VW Beetle about 5mph in first gear.
I got pulled over in front of the Brockway Theatre. What a shock, eh?!?
The cop asked me for all the pertinent info and asked why I was driving so slow. My response was "'Cuz I'm DRUNK!"
He asked where I lived and told him right up 267 about 2 miles away. He stepped back to his car with my license and insurance and in a moment came back and handed it all back to me.
He said "I don't want to see you driving any faster than you're driving right now." and let me go.
Frodo Lives!
I read an article today about how JRR Tolkien and his books The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings helped shape the anti-war movement.
Fantasy books and fairytales have always held a fascination to me. As youngsters, we had a set of the My Bookhouse series from the 1920s that had belonged to my Mom. Full of fairy tales and imaginative stories. I could easily get lost in them.
The first fantasy book series I read was The Oz books - all 14 of them - before I was 8 years old. I had a library card and the L Taraval streetcar stopped at the corner and dropped me off directly in front of the Parkside Branch of the library. This is circa 1959/1960 - the library was built in 1951, so it was still new and bright and totally inviting to this little bookworm. The books were all highly illustrated, which made the reading all the more fun.
The Children's Section was huge and the librarians caring and helpful. It's also where I started The Hardy Boys - and Nancy Drew - and on to Agatha Christie.
I first read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings Trilogy in Jr High School. - before being of Draft Age and before the first time I was teargassed at a protest. I even had a "Frodo Lives" button just like the one in the picture. I guess I was a geek before it was cool - because, really... the last thing I was in school was "cool".
Freud would definitely have a field day figuring out why I would immerse myself in fantasy and other worlds - probably had nothing to do with the fact that I had to hide the fact that I liked boys. (Yes, I knew even way back then...)
I think I've always been anti-war - even if I did go off to war in Viet Nam. As lottery numbers were being drawn, I said I wanted to go to Canada because I was NOT going to go into a jungle and kill people. My father said to try an alternate service before making a decision that would affect me for the rest of my life. Uncle Sam's Yacht Club gladly accepted me.
I'm not sure how The Lord of the Rings helped shape that, though. I knew then as I know now, that good has to overcome evil, but I've never seen myself as the hero of the story. More of a Samwise than a Frodo. Today, I'd be more of a Resistance Intelligence Gatherer, reporting back. Old men are invisible - walk into an Old Navy store if you need proof. And in todays political climate, being a part of the Resistance is more important than ever.
Being from San Francisco, I never considered myself a "hippie" - even if I did frequent the Haight and smoke lots of pot. But there were other parts of that counterculture that I really liked besides the anti war aspect - from questioning authority and breaking down gender and color barriers to attending The Renaissance Pleasure Faire in Novato several times - always in costume, of course! They were a 20th century interpretation of 15th and 16th century England - with lots of pot and tankards of mead - and smuggled in flasks of whisky!
20/20 hindsight being what it is, our egalitarian gatherings really were mostly white. The people of color who we were saying were all equal to us were too busy trying to eke out a simple existence to head out to Marin for an Elizabethan fancy dress party. The realities of life we didn't see.
Today, the realities of life are much clearer. All you have to do is look.
Being anti war and willing to fight evil are not mutually exclusive. The evil ones are trying to cause the wars - and it's our duty to stop them.
How to Get Fired
In 1966 I got a job as a busboy at Blum's in downtown San Francisco. The restaurant was below the west coast flagship Macy's Department Store. Macy's was a big deal - and so was Blum's. It was in the heart of the Union Square shopping - with City of Paris, I Magnin, Gumps, The White House, and scores more shops for the well-heeled San Francisco shopper. Back in the day, one always dressed to go downtown.
Blum's catered to the blue-haired ladies with their granddaughters in white gloves and mary-janes eating monstrous banana splits as well as the well-dressed casual shopper getting a slice of their famous Coffee Crunch cake.
Ernest Weil was the original baker who created the famous Crunch Cake while working at Blum's back in the mid 1940's. He left Blum's in 1948 to open his own bakery, Fantasia Confections, in Laurel Village in SF. He continued to make the Coffee Crunch Cake long after Blum's closed their doors. It was one of Fantasia's best sellers. People would travel many miles to get that cake!
I got the recipe from a woman named Helen Kane who I was doing volunteer work with for Project Open Hand in 1995 and then bought his cookbook Love to Bake Recipes from Fantasia Confections in 2006 where he had the step-by-step-by-step instructions. I've made it a few times - it really is good!
At this point I had gotten a work permit, although, technically, I was supposed to be 16 to work at Blum's. It wasn't the first time I have hedged the truth.
I was good at the job, the waitresses liked me and I actually made some pretty good tips - plus I got to eat a limited menu free lunch and all the other stuff I could sneak.
Our manager was a woman named Mrs Brown. She was a nasty woman who preferred to communicate at the top of her voice weaving contempt, disdain, and sarcasm into her words. Actually, some of my more favorite traits in myself, but not on the receiving end as a kid.
One early Saturday morning I was on the opening crew and was getting ice for the bus stations. There was a standing rule that we always took ice from the bottom of the bin - never from the top. It's obvious sanitation sense because ice machines need proper rotation - the oldest gets used first and doesn't sit on the bottom getting nasty.
That Saturday morning the bin was completely full and as I tried to open the bottom, ice was spilling out into the kitchen. I started taking it from the top until I could relieve some of the weight to get back to the bottom.
In walks Mrs Brown and before I had a chance to explain, she started in on me - berating me, calling my stupid, can't follow simple orders, worthless... she went on and on while staff just stood there in shock. I casually reached over and opened the bottom door and ice went shooting across the kitchen, burying her up to her ankles. I just looked at her and said "that's why I was taking it out of the top." The staff broke into hysterics and she sped off in a huff.
I finished my shift and was called into her office. I was fired for insubordination.
And it was worth it.
Baker-in-Training
Back in 1961 - the year my Baby Sister was born and the last one of the six of us - my father got me a job. It was to get me out of the house and get me to interact with people.
At nine years of age, I was a shy, introverted kid who read books, was a Straight A Teacher's Pet student, and secretly longed to be a cool kid like my older brother. Years later, I found out he really wasn't as cool as I had thought, but.. this was 1961.
There was a donut shop/coffee shop a few blocks from the ancestral home that my dad would frequent - The Donut Center - owned by a guy named Niels Hoeck. The baker was an old German guy named Hans, and the donut maker was a guy named Steve. Bea and Ann were the waitresses/short order cooks/cashiers.
Looking back, I realize that Hans was probably in his late 30s or early 40s, but he was kinda gruff and just seemed really old to me - older than my 37 year old father. Niels hired me to work Saturday mornings from 7am-9am washing pots and sheet pans for Hans and to scrap gunk off the parchment paper pan liners so they could be reused. And reused. And reused... If I happened to tear one of the more brittle ones, Niels would be mad while Hans would be secretly pleased.
When I wasn't busy washing pans, I'd watch what Hans was doing. I was pretty fascinated by how he could make these things look so good and taste so good. He seemingly effortlessly made Bear Claws and Figure 8s, every kind of fruit and cheese danish, and coffee rings and coffee cakes that were serious works of art.. Plus decorated cakes and pies... All the stuff you'd expect from a neighborhood bakery.
Being the inquisitive and eager-to-please little tyke that I was, Hans soon started teaching me some of the basics - like properly rolling out danish dough. He would usually have three or four batches going at once - one to actively roll-fold-turn-roll while the others were resting in the 'fridge. Hans was exacting. There was only one way to do it - the correct way. It was about feeling the dough and having it speak to you.
I had been doing my 2-hour Saturdays for about a year when I started doing a few more tasks. Filling jelly and custard donuts and bars - ONE push of the pump, not any more, not any less, frosting donuts, or grinding old stale donuts to be used as filling for bear claws and other delights. We saved particular donuts and let them dry completely, and then ground them and mixed them with sugar and spices to create the filling. Totally delicious.
Another fun thing was I used to get a free breakfast! After a while, I even got to cook it myself on the griddle. I got the hang of it pretty quick. And, I started drinking coffee. My first cups were 90% cream and sugar, but Bea and Ann told me if i was going to work in a restaurant, I needed to drink my coffee black. They told me that business and breaks were unpredictable and I'd be leaving partially consumed coffee cups behind at a moments notice. Wasting things wasn't an option, and there was no way you could ever get the proper ratios back adding more coffee. Adding hot black coffee to a half cup of lukewarm black coffee created a cup at the perfect drinking temperature. I still drink black coffee to this day.
I worked there until 1966. I learned to take orders, work a counter, be a fry cook, and a cashier. Firth thing I learned in handling money was that all bills were stacked and lined up with the nose pointing right. Every bill. Every time. It forced me to actually look at the bill and know what it was before counting back change. The second thing was that money from a customer never went into the till until change was given - to keep the customer from saying they gave me a 20 when they really only gave me a 10. And, today, my money is still always organized with heads facing up and noses facing right. And I balance my checkbook to the penny every month.
They were all tough on me - but not mean. They explained why they wanted things done a certain way and immediately corrected me when I forgot or got lazy.
It all paid off.....
TimmyDick
In the year 1952CE, photographs were known, but not regularly taken. Unlike today - where there are so many photos taken of so many things, that they almost become meaningless - even very special events were rarely recorded for posterity. It means that the few photos that survived are cherished just a bit more.
I don't seem to have any pictures of myself before the age of about three. This one was taken around April, 1957 in front of our house on 19th Avenue in San Francisco.
But that's not the point of this particular post - it's the origin of the name "TimmyDick".
My parents met in San Francisco - they were both working for the Southern Pacific Railroad at 1 Market Street - but neither were actually from San Francisco. Mom was born in Bakersfield and Pop was born in Omaha.
Mom's Aunt Mayme lived in San Francisco and ran a rooming house on Sutter and Fillmore. Her Uncle Tommy - Aunt Dolores' husband and Mayme's youngest sister - was a Train Master for the SP and her Uncle Jim - Auntie Sis' brother was an Engineer for the SP. I don't know how involved either of them were in my mom getting a job there, but at the very least, she knew the company couldn't be all bad if her uncles worked for them.
My father's father was working for the Treasurer's Department in Omaha and was recruited by Bank of America during WWII to work in SF - women didn't work in banks back in those dark ages. He and my grandmother and my Aunt Kathleen moved to SF in 1943 and remained after the war. Their three sons - who were all in the military when they moved - joined them is SF after their discharges.
Tom and Jack - my father's older brothers - were married to their Omaha sweethearts and settled down raising families. My father was a good looking guy and a bit of a ladies man - until he met my mom. A bit of a whirlwind courtship and they were wed. My brother, Mike, was born 9 months and 3 weeks after their wedding. Back in those days, the old biddies would be counting the dates on their fingers...
It was a bit rough on my mom, because all of her in-laws had known each other for years back in the midwest. They had history my mom would never have. Whether they actually froze her out or her own insecurities made her feel left out is a moot point, today. What is known is that my folks moved to LA circa 1951 - ostensibly to put distance between her and her mother-in-law.
I was born in Los Angeles.
When I was born, my father sent a telegram to his parents announcing the birth of "Timmy Dick". My father's name was Richard, but always went as Dick. Back in those dark ages, Western Union was King and telegrams were the norm for things like announcements.
A month or so after my birth, my grandparents took the train to LA to see me, My grandfather asking "How is little James doing?" Evidently, Western Union confused Timmy with Jimmy in the telegram. Or, it could have been my father's atrocious handwriting - he was a lefty who went to a Catholic school and was forced to use his right hand because left-handed people were the Spawn of Satan.
ANYWAY.....
My mother quite indignantly said "His name is Timothy" and my Irish grandfather - his father was born in Ireland - beamed from ear to ear.
Sadly, Grandpa Dineen died when I was a mere 18 months old. I have a very vague, foggy memory of sitting on his lap on a bench with lots of noise and people around. I remember a hat and the smell of cigarettes. I mentioned it to my dad years later and he didn't have an actual recollection of it, but said it was probably a baseball game at Seals Stadium. His dad was sick - he had colon cancer - and liked to go out and sit in the sun and have a few beers.
My kinda guy!