Hitting the high notes

         Good evening, 919 Gang. I like tonight's messages a lot. The quality is high from beginning to end. They are all top of the page in my estimation. I hope you agree and join me in thanking all who contributed.

 

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          REBER: I always invite new members to post an introductory message (if you haven't, it's never too late). Thanks to recent recruit Les Wilson for this.

 

         

          LES WILSON writes:

          Hi, I am Les Wilson, former copyboy at the San Diego Union, just 45 years ago. I worked for about a year, doing any kind of grunt work I was assigned, such as retrieving Gerald Warren's lunch from a nearby deli. It was exactly the same every day -- turkey sandwich, banana, and pint of milk. Didn't he have something to do with Richard Nixon?

          I remember head copyboy Robert Flournoy but no other copyboy names.

          Whatever happened to Bob, a pretty cool guy? And I believe we had a copygirl also. Name?

          Left San Diego for good to attend college in New Mexico, and for the last 38 years I have lived and worked on the Navajo reservation, in both Arizona and New Mexico. I have two grown half-Navajo sons, one of whom just moved back to Ramona -- he married a San Diego girl he met while assigned to the Stennis. His great-granddad is buried on Point Loma above a beautiful canyon overlooking the sea, and his grandfather (my Dad) grew up in Logan Heights.

          Perhaps my most memorable impression at the Union was seeing Joe Stone fast asleep at his desk with his head on his typewriter, and waking up about 9 p.m. to write his story.

 

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          JANET SUTTER writes:

          Alas, I missed writing this on National Chili Day, Feb. 22, but it's perfect that the source of the information was Michael Grant. Why? Because his Barbecue Chili was the best I ever tasted. The occasion was probably one of Charlie Ross' chili cook-offs. I hunted up the recipe in Michael Grant's Cookbook, "Hearty Fare from a Country Kitchen." (I respect the cooking also of Welton Jones, it's just that I don't remember the privilege of tasting his special eggplant chili recipe.)

          We all knew that Mike is an excellent cook and columnist, and now we know that he's a terrific photographer, too. Bravo! 

 

          REBER: Just to make sure we raise no problems in the Grant household, I will point out that some (maybe most) of the photos we have posted were taken by his wife.

 

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          LEE GRANT writes:

          Dick Desick, a superb wordsmith and the greatest lead writer of all time, once told me, "The joy in this business is in the gathering."

          So, adding to the recent Jackie Gleason entries, a vignette or two or three.

          I interviewed Gleason on the Las Vegas set of "Smokey and the Bandit," and we had lunch at a table in full view of the casino crowds. The menu: two glasses and a bottle of Scotch. My lead: "He is, without doubt, the great one. Jackie Gleason --celebrated comedian, master actor, exalted reveler -- a legend once described as 'able to put away more Scotch per square hour than any man alive.'" Gleason at his on-screen best: "The Hustler" and "Requiem for a Heavyweight."

          A few years later, back in Las Vegas, I met with his "Honeymooners" pal Art Carney on the set of "Going in Style." The lead: "Art Carney was lying on a hotel suite couch in his underwear and a bathrobe, the wear of the city and the ordeal of a movie telling on his face." Carney recalled Gleason as a great friend but a withering boss. Carney movies worth renting: "The Late Show" and, of course, "Harry and Tonto."

          Years later, Richard Pryor told me how nervous he was to meet Gleason for the first time when they made a movie together called "The Toy." This great standup comedian was simply in awe of the man he'd watched on TV as a kid growing up in Peoria, Illinois.

          Movie to avoid: The dismal 2005 "The Honeymooners" with Cedric the Entertainer as Ralph Kramden and Mike Epps as Norton. There's only one place for that dud: To the moon ....!

 

         

 

          CARL LARSEN writes:

          And Awaaay We Go: We need more Jackie Gleasons in the world...if only for The Great One's penchant to travel by train.

          Here's how Gleason, according to Wikipedia (an easy, but not the best source), was driven to the rails.

          "His fear of flying came from an incident at the time where he had only minor movie roles. Gleason would fly to Los Angeles for movie work, then back to New York.... After finishing one of his movies, the comedian boarded a plane for New York. Two of the plane's engines quit and the flight made a forced landing in Tulsa.

          "While another plane was readied for the passengers to continue their journey, Gleason decided he had enough and made his way from the airport into the heart of the city. He walked into a hardware store and asked its owner to loan him $200 for his train trip back to New York. The amazed man asked Gleason why he thought anyone would lend a total stranger that amount of money.

          "Gleason explained who he was and his situation; when the store owner learned of Gleason's movie work, he said he would loan him the money if the local theater had a photo of him on display in his latest film. Since Gleason was not yet a major ... star, the publicity shots the theater had were only of those with principal roles in the film. Gleason then proposed that he purchase two movie tickets and that they both see the film, as the hardware store owner would certainly be able to identify him from that. The two men sat in the dark theater for an hour before Gleason came on the screen. Gleason got his loan and boarded the next train back to New York. Returning home, he borrowed $200 to repay the Tulsa hardware store owner."

          When he traveled by train, Gleason wasn't content to go first class. He frequently chartered entire trains, or hired a private coach, one time bringing along TWO Dixieland bands.

          Here's how Hedda Hopper, with Gleason in the photo above, described one cross-country jaunt from LA to New York by rail in August 1962 that cost CBS $80,000. It was a promotion for his new TV show, “Jackie Gleason’s American Scene Magazine.”

          “Jackie Gleason sure knows how to make an exit. Balloons, midgets, a band, beautiful girls – his choreographer, lovely June Taylor, leading lady Sue Ann Langdon, and his daughter Geraldine – director George Marshall and 210 freeloaders were present when he took off on his special train bound for New York. Forty-five went with him. It was show business in the manner of P.T. Barnum, which someday Jackie must put on screen. They had everything except an elephant.”

          For $80,000, you probably could get from LA to just outside Yuma today. Extra for a bar car.

 

          REBER: Gleason died June 24, 1987. Age 71. I have read that his tombstone is engraved "And away we go."

 

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          REBER: Today's birthday wishes go to Mark Arner. Happy Birthday (Feb. 25), Mark.

 

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          DAVID FARMER writes:

          Jimmy Thornton mentioned the cluttered nature of his desk when he worked in San Diego. This reminded me of the late and much-loved Bill Parry, county editor for The Union when I was there in the early 60s. Bill's desk was always piled with miscellaneous papers, so high that occasionally one would slide from the mound and drift to the floor like a leaf. I pronounced that Bill had the only deciduous desk in the newsroom.

          Other Parry stories, some of which have been mentioned here recently, but which are always fun:

          Bill would answer his county desk phone by bellowing "Sports!" He was a big fan, especially about his alma mater, which I believe was in Oregon. I assumed he'd have liked to work in the "toy department" if he had the choice.

          Bill also used to mutter, "Things will be better in the new building." At the time I knew of no plan to relocate from 919 2nd Ave., but I gather that things did not get much better when it finally happened.

          I'm pretty sure that Bill was the only man who wore a green eye shade at work on the city desk side of the newsroom. Ed Hutshing famously sported one at the rim of the copy desk.

          Mr. Parry also, as mentioned here recently, posited that editors should "make the art big and go home early."

          I think Bill kept a bag of golf clubs in the trunk of his aging MG, which at one time was painted a dead black that must have come out of a can from the hardware store. Certainly, no body shop would have approved of it, not even Earl Scheib's.

          When he made the art big enough to leave before dark, Bill would announce that he'd be playing a round on the way home to wife Brooks in Del Mar. Unlike me, Bill Parry knew that work was not the most important thing in life.

 

          REBER: I've read so many Bill Parry stories that I regret that working across the hall meant I never knew him.

 

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          JIM HEBERT writes:

          Since you mentioned Patricia Dibsie and her work with Love Heels, I thought it probably was high time I mentioned a potential first: A love story, kindled right here at Cafe 911.

          (A warning to you hard-bitten newspersons: This story contains potentially Hallmark-y elements, including adorable dogs and smiling children. You might want to dial your cute filters up to 11.)

          So going on two years ago, I responded to Patricia's call here for families who might want to host one of her agency's service-dogs-in- training for a weekend. I told her we'd love to "borrow" a pooch, as we had never quite managed to find the right one to bring home from the local shelter for keeps. As the appointed day grew closer, Patricia asked to know a bit more about our family. I told her we had an animal-loving daughter named Audrey and an animal-tolerating son named Zander, and that (by the way) Zander was autistic.

          Next thing you know, we were off the list for a visit and on the shortlist for adoption. (We had thought about getting a service dog for Zander before, but weren't quite sure whether he'd be a good candidate. And, of course, never before had we talked with anyone who was quite so passionate an evangelist -- and I mean that in the very best sense -- for these animal companions as Patricia was and is.)

          Long story short, one Saturday last summer Patricia and her colleague Joe arrived with a golden retriever named Breoso -- Bree for short.

          Audrey was excited. Zander was, well, a little blase. But Bree ... she was relentless. She lasered in on him like a missile filled with kisses. And now this boy who had seemed so wary (verging on terrified) of dogs the last time I had taken him to the local park was now taking HER to the park -- holding Bree's leash as she walked. Trust me, this was an amazing sight to see.

          Bree was going to stay just for a weekend. As it turned out, she never left. Now she and Zander evidently are buddies for life (even if my wife, Sophy, seems to believe Bree is her dog). Bree goes all kinds of places with the family (the picture here is from an outing to Dog Beach a couple of months ago), and she's very patient and attentive with her main charge.

          We've learned over the past few years to appreciate even the most modest of progress when it comes to the issues in Zander's life. On that scale, Bree counts as a small miracle.

          All of which is to say: Thanks for making the match.

 

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          BOB RODRIGUEZ writes:

          LOVELL, WY. -- For Karla Peterson and others who might be interested or concerned about the eye removal one of our cats underwent due to a tumor: We brought home "Scrappy" on Wednesday, Feb. 23; picked him up our our vet's place in Powell around 4:30 p.m. His surgery was Tuesday morning the 22nd. It was a major operation, traumatic for him and us. I've seen a lot of blood and stuff covering incidents involving injuries caused by motor vehicles, guns, knives, airplane crashes, industrial machinery, fires, trains, falls and the like. But you know, one develops a remoteness and uses black humor to get through incidents not involving a loved one. So it was not fun to see the aftermath of having your pet's left eye removed. I tried looking at it objectively, but mostly failed. Have to admit that by the time we got home that evening, I was ready for a tall gin and tonic. As of this writing (Thursday evening shortly before 8 MST), ol' "Scrappy" is doing OK. He's eating, using his litter box, and acting mostly normal. Of course, he's wearing a large pain patch on his left side, and we give him pain medication orally every morning. We're keeping him in our bedroom away from the other cats, except for his adopted daughter, "Tasha Tiny-Dancer," until we feel that he's ready. That's probably way more than anyone wants to know, but there it is.

 

Jack Justus Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.

 

Keep it brief, Joe

          Good evening, 919 Gang. I threw in a Jackie Gleason note last night, wondering if it might stir some memories. It did.

 

          STEVE CASEY writes:

          Jack, you wrote about reading William Henry's biography of Jackie Gleason.  Sometime in the 1976-79 period when I was writing the television column for the Trib, Bill Henry was tv critic for the Boston Globe.  He was a man of enormous intellect and great wit.

          Twice a year, TV critics from the top 80 or so markets would gather in LA, guests of the various networks, to preview new shows and interview stars and producers and executives and such.  Usually the writers were separated into groups of about 20 and the interviewees would rotate around through our rooms doing serial interviews.  For the alleged entertainment elite, however, we would all assemble in a larger venue and do a gang-bang interview.  At one such seance, Joe Namath was the interview subject.  As I recall, he was starring in some forgettable TV movie with a western setting.  While others would ask more prosaic questions, Henry queried Namath on his opinion on the sociological implications of settling the West, the effect upon native Americans, the lingering spirit of rugged individualism, and such.  His one- sentence question must have gone on for something like 250 words, wandering down paths and circling about, taking wondrous detours and eventually coming to its conclusion.  Fascinating to watch and hear.

          Perhaps alone among those in the room, however, Broadway Joe recognized that at its core Henry's question did not call for exposition on his part and could be answered simply, which he did:  

          "Yep."

          Henry filed one column from that encampment that contains a line I still love:  "cold as a network vice president's heart."  William A. Henry III, winner of two Pulitzers, died way too young at 44, in London in 1994.

 

          GLENN GRANT writes:

          KPBS ran a one-hour documentary on The Great One the other night. I recorded it on my DVR. Not at home now so can’t give you the exact title. You probably can find the next scheduled showing and even watch the show online at KPBS.org.

 

          HENRY JOSEPH writes:

          Sorry.

          Jack O'Brien is the Old Globe stalwart.

          You meant to write Jack O'Brian, who was the columnist at the late, unlamented Journal-American.

 

          REBER: Don't be sorry. I need to have my errors pointed out. Thank you.

 

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          Here we see little Jimmy and his first really big fight. Guess who won.

 

          JIMMY THORNTON writes:

          You have to wonder why some critics of the Marine general who went from commanding troops to herding cats (uh, news wonks) go out of their way to mention his height, which wasn’t the shortest I’ve seen, nor the tallest. As I studied journalism, I had a friend who was born with a bone disease that bent his legs. Too, his back was a little humped over. One thing not affected by his short height and misshapen  body was his ever sharp wit and sense of irony and humor.

          We were pals and had common friends whom we packed into a tiny car and drove around Austin, Texas, like nitwits (once taking a shortcut by way of a downtown sidewalk). It was grand. He was a physicist, which meant he understood all the intricacies of adding and subtracting and beyond. Yet he never talked down to me when I’d offer a theory how we could record TV, then play it back on a television set. This was in the late 1950s, I think before color TV was broadcast far and wide. I outlined my theory that by sending images broken down into tiny dots they could be reassembled in a TV set to make an image. He said the theory, which might require some tweaking, was OK but the technology wasn’t there. This was a time when the transistor was Big News in the business section of the paper.

          Some writers even speculated we could orbit satellites that could relay telephone messages and stuff. That was before Sputnik. Then we could imagine enemy ICBMs reaching Chula Vista.  I don’t credit my friend’s brilliance to his short height. In fact, except for reaching something on a high shelf, it was no disadvantage either. So I wonder why critics of our in-house general go out of their way to mention his height. Too, some of the critics even act as psychologists or psychiatrists, without any formal training that I know of, to attribute his aggressive behavior to his short height.

          Isn’t it enough to simply say you don’t like a person’s attitude, leadership or background without personally attacking a sensitive thing such as “shortness.” Too, just because someone is tall, he’s not necessarily a good fighter. My father, who was more than six feet, a strong man with thick wrists and huge fists, once said, “If you are tall, there is always somebody much shorter than you who wants to pick a fight with you just to prove they can knock down a big man.” He avoided fighting. Sad to say, I failed at times to heed his advice. I never lost a fight (that I’ll talk about).

          Footnote to post-general workers: From 1969 to 1992, I had a W.C. Fields filing system on my desk. A huge pile of letters and other stuff that some who were ignorant would call a mess. Never heard from the general in all that time.

 

          BOB LAURENCE writes:

          Preston Turegano has it wrong. Napoleon suffered from a Krulak complex.

 

          STEVE SCHMIDT writes:

          Re: All the chatter over Krulak

          Funny cause I only have good memories of Brute, the brief time I spent with him. I never knew the newsroom ogre Brute, or the supposedly sharp-witted military man Brute (see the book "Bright Shining Lie").

          I interviewed Krulak about four years ago for a story I was writing about the Copleys. He was in his 90s. I quizzed him about his time at the paper and he didn't cop to much, except to say that he learned that running a media biz was nothing like running a military unit. Uh, duh. He said he thought maybe he had come on too strong and had not been a good fit for the paper.

          What I remember most from my interview was the fact I had to yell directly into his right ear because he was hard of hearing. I mean, I had to scream out each question, as his full-time nurse looked on, smiling.

          He died a few months after our talk.

 

          REBER: Krulak died Dec. 29, 2008, age 95.

 

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          REBER: The next message needs a lot of explanation. Patricia Dibsie is involved in the training and placement of assistance dogs. She mentions Ruthie. About the time Ruth McKinnie Braun died, the Polinsky Center (hope I have that correctly) was looking for an assistance dog to work with children. Patricia found a dog, named it Ruthie, and started its training.

 

         

 

          PATRICIA DIBSIE writes:

          Barbara Martin is too modest about her accomplishments on the field with her first black lab -- Barrett has national ribbons. She's going for top honors again with a second puppy -- meet Barrel on his first day of field work. Now that's what I call a puppy "fix."

          On the LOVE HEELS front, Ruthie was turned in for final training yesterday, many tears from her puppy raisers. She will be evaluated by three trainers to see if she has both the desire and talent to work as a service dog. No first impressions, not without all the facts so stay tuned.

          On a third front, another San Diego service group is taking applications for a full service placement, Pawsitive Teams specializes in wheelchair companions. If anyone living in this area is in need of an excellent working dog, contact them for an application. The dog is ready to be placed.

 

          BOB RODRIGUEZ writes:

          Joe Holly's fine photos of his dog, "Hana," reminded me our little (and late) Pekingese, "Rocky," when we lived in Brookings, Ore., not far from the California border and Pelican Bay State Prison. "Rocky" would go through our bedroom upstairs, onto the deck, and then onto the roof. He would stand up there for hours barking at passers-by and generally being lord of the manor over man and beast. He would not come back in for a long time, which meant that I had to pick up his droppings from the roof. I took a shot of him from our street, Tanbark Lane, and ran it xol in the Curry Coastal Pilot while I was editor/publisher. The bf lede-in was PEKE ON A PEAK, and my shot showed him barking, as well as his bulging eyes, as someone passed by.

 

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          REBER: This is the day to wish Happy Birthday (Feb. 24) to Kent Freeland. Have a great day, Kent.

 

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          BOB RODRIGUEZ writes:

          When Jan and I ran "Illinois Valley News" in Cave Junction, Ore., I nicknamed it the "Noose." Following is my recipe for "Noose Beans." It's not chili, but it makes a pretty tasty chip dip. (As some have said.) So I was incorrect in an earlier note in which I stated that I would share my recipe for chili, as dip is not chili. Who would believe that memories fade? Anyway, I have made some decent chili, but used pinto beans that I cooked myself. Here's the recipe for "Noose Beans" --

          Ingredients: Some beer (preferably a Mexican brand such as Negro Modelo, Carta Blanca, Dos XX or your favorite), chorizo (an appropriate amount), Old El Paso refried beans/normal-size cans/perhaps three or four, fresh cilantro, ground coriander, Old El Paso salsa (one or two jars/mild or medium), good quality corn chips, some more beer.

          Open a beer. Cook the chorizo in an open pan. Be sure that it's completely cooked, or you're liable to hurt someone. Drain off all the fat. Heat the beans/stir them periodically. Chop the cilantro into teeny-weeny pieces and set aside. Have another beer. Put the chorizo and some coriander with the beans, and mix well, along with the salsa. Keep sipping the beer. Place mixed-up beans in a crock pot or similar to keep the concoction warm. Do not prepare too far ahead of serving, as you want to avoid a medium for bacteria. Place chips in a bowl; put it alongside the dip. Garnish the dip with the cilantro you set aside. Open another beer.

 

          MICHAEL GRANT writes:

          Thursday is National Chili Day. Says so right there in the online Abilene Reporter-News:

http://www.reporternews.com/news/2011/feb/22/national-chili-day-2011/

 

          BOB RODRIGUEZ writes:

          LOVELL, Wy. -- All the recent notes about tamales has made me hungry for some good Mexican food, which is hard to come by in these parts. In this town there is a Taco John's, but the food (fast) is mediocre at best. The town of Powell, 30 miles west, has three soul food cafes (Mexican soul food), but they are adequate or less. I think that folks in this part of the USA simply don't know authentic SOB food (south of the border), and so are satisfied with whatever they get.

          The talk about food also reminded me of a place that apparently still exists. My dad used to make me there: El Porvenir Tortilla Factory at 1786 National Ave. in Barrio Logan. When we went, only tortillas were available. A large group of women could be seen patting the tortillas and then slapping them onto a large grill. It was pretty neat. Apparently the place now also offers other food, just like a restaurant.

 

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          MICHAEL GRANT writes:

          Re attaching photos, we load ours from the camera into Picasa, which automatically places them in a dated folder inside the “My Pictures” directory. When I send a photo, I go into Picasa and find the dated folder and the DSC number of the photo(s) I want to send. Then I go to “My Pictures,” open the folder date that I want, and find the DSC number(s) I want, and attach that file to the email. Jack will have to tell you how he gets the attached photo into his text, but it works pretty well.

 

          REBER: Fine photos, Michael. There are various ways of getting photos to me, and most work. Message to Joe Holly because he and I have been talking about things like this: Michael's photos came to me at 300 dpi and 1200 pixels wide. The ones above have been scaled down to 72 dpi and 450 pixels, my standard sizes.

 

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          BOB ELLEDGE writes:

          Jack: I see they're predicting snow for Ramona Friday night. Let us know if you need a bunch of us to come up and dig you out.

 

          REBER: You may be sorry you asked. The photo below shows water running through one of the gardens after the recent rains. There isn't supposed to be water here. This is a drainage ditch I dug for to prevent flooding behind our house. My ditch has been overwhelmed. Logs used to edge garden paths have been washed away and silt has washed down into the ditch, slowing the flow. The reduced flow means our back grass is under water. From here, the water flows into our pasture, on to neighboring property and then across our road. When things dry out, I will be out there digging out the ditch and realigning the rocks which are supposed to line it but which have been buried. Sharpen your shovel. By the way, this photo was taken by a 10-year-old girl with a very low-priced digital camera. I don't send the Nikon out when the combination is 10-year-old, mud and water.

 

         

 

 

Jack Justus Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.

 

A present or a bribe?

          Good evening, 919 Gang. I have just read "The Great One, The Life and Legend of Jackie Gleason." It's a 1992 book written by William A. Henry, Time Magazine critic and winner of two Pulitzers and an Emmy. I feel it is a balanced look at Gleason. At times I was rooting for his success; other times I was wishing someone would punch the little egotist in the nose. One story: Impressed by favorable reviews and columns by Jack O'Brien of the Journal-American, Gleason sent the writer an expensive watch as a Christmas present. Later, O'Brien wrote some less favorable pieces, and Gleason demanded he return the watch.

 

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          PRESTON TUREGANO writes:

          The late Brute Krulak probably suffered from a Napoleon complex. His wife, Amy, tried to push her weight around, too. When I was arts news writer, she did not believe a story I wrote about the frequency of jets flying at night over Starlight Bowl on their way into Lindbergh Field. She was on the board of Starlight and contended I was trying to hurt the financially troubled arts company by pointing out the frequency of planes during Starlight performance hours 8 to 11 pm. The airport control tower provided me with the information, which said a jet came into Lindbergh -- on average -- every five minutes during the three-hour window. "It can't be true," she said to me over the phone. The flyovers, of course, caused Starlight performances to freeze (stop) for several seconds as each jet roared over. "Hard to enjoy a musical that way," I said. In the tradition of "Do you know who I am?", Amy asked for my editor's name, which I happily provided. She either didn't take her complaint further, or was told by a higher up to take a hike. I never heard another word about it.

 

          REBER: Anyone remember Circle Arts? I was there in the early 1960s for a performance of "Oklahoma." During the big fight scene a plane came in low just as one fellow had his fist cocked to punch out the other fellow. I was close enough I could hear him say, "I said wait until the plane goes over."

 

          WELTON JONES writes:

          The late Krulak (USMC ret)? I leave the final, definitive word on his deplorable national service (before President Johnson figured him out and neutered him) to the scholarship of Frank Green, who also does a good job in sketching one underdog view of the little guy's loathsome reign at the U-T. I will only add that his contemptible bully act marked the darkest days of the 45 years I've been around the paper (anecdotes on request.) and that he was tossed onto the scrapheap only when he finally was seen through (LBJ redux) by Helen Copley.

 

          JIM RICHARDSON writes:

          I have to say, I have never heard a good word about Krulak or his obsessions with clean desks, and I am thankful he was gone by the time I got to The Union. I doubt he would have hired me or that I would have accepted the job if he had.

          All I can say is, yikes! And thanks for sharing these stories.

 

          BOB CALDWELL writes:

          I came to the San Diego Union in 1978 after Gen. Krulak had been replaced as editor so I never had to work under him. But I certainly agree (then and now) that a Marine general was an egregiously inappropriate choice to edit a major metropolitan newspaper. Talk about a poor fit! I also recognize that the 919 Gang reports are hardly the appropriate forum to debate the Vietnam War. But in all fairness, some counter should be offered to former colleague Frank Green's roundhouse assault on Krulak as something akin to a war criminal for his role in Vietnam. I've read most of the major histories of the Vietnam War, served there myself in the U.S. Army (I volunteered) in 1966-67 and, as it happens, I'm currently writing my own book about Vietnam. Krulak's role as a counterinsurgency advisor to the Kennedy administration involved mostly traditional and accepted methods of resisting a communist insurgency including the strategic hamlets used successfully by the British in defeating a communist insurgency in Malaya during the 1950s. Green may imagine these as "war crimes" but the historical record doesn't support that allegation. Neither is there any evidence for the garishly fanciful charge that "whole villages" were obliterated for the entertainment of visiting American dignitaries. I saw pacification efforts first hand during my own tour in Vietnam and they bore no resemblance to what Green wrote. I did a Q&A for the Union-Tribune with Krulak in the late 1990s and found his views on Vietnam lucid, well informed and thoughtful. Yes, Brute Krulak was terribly miscast as a newspaper editor. That doesn't justify blackening his name and reputation with distorted interpretations of his role in the Vietnam War.

         

          REBER: I agree this is not the forum for dissecting the Vietnam war. We have read two conflicting opinions of Krulak's role in Vietnam, so we'll move off Vietnam as a topic. Obviously, his years at the U-T are fertile ground, so let's stick to that.

 

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          REBER: Our discussion of chili branched into other Mexican foods, and last night Jerry Rife provided a story and photos about meat from a cow's head used to make tacos.

 

         

 

          CHUCK BOYD writes:

          A few thoughts for food:

          The shot of Jerry Rife digging into his Central Mexico treat reminded me of a 2007 MLB tasty bonus. The entire nation was invited to stop by for a free taco after somebody hit a home run. The staff said I was the only person who came in that afternoon asking for the freebie. (Yes, I did buy a second one and a very large cola.)

          Not only did I see a sign I liked in a bar, naturally I had my camera with me and captured it.

 

         

 

          JOHN McPEEK gags:

          Thanks, Jerry Rife. I'll never be able to eat south of the border again.

 

          CAROLINE FENTON writes:

          The talk of chili and tamales inspired me to look up the address of the best place in Escondido (that I know of) to purchase fresh tortillas and tamales: Tortilleria Santacruz at 485 N. Rose Street (east of downtown and just off East Valley Parkway). Now I haven’t been there in a few years, and by the photo I saw online it appears as if the joint has  been cleaned up a bit – possibly at the advice of the health department. A former veep at Cal State San Marcos turned us on to the place. He is Hispanic and one day brought my husband a dozen fresh corn tortillas just because. They were still warm – the kind you rip open and devour. If you have a cube of butter handy, maybe slather some on and let it drip off your chin. One year I purchased a few dozen tamales for a holiday party and they were great. But when I am in the neighborhood, it’s the tortillas I can’t pass up. But remember, ask for the “fresh” ones which they keep in back for the regular customers.

         

          WELTON JONES writes:

          Tamales Ancira! That's it. Lacking access to Leslie W. Branscomb's Tamale Lady, Ancira is my rock. Until Christmas season, that is, when my Chicana first wife, my attentive daughter and various other family members make up a three-generation assembly line that might impress even Fernando Romero.

 

          T.R. REINMAN writes:

          RE: Romero recipe, Farmer drive-in.

          Almost 30 years ago I introduced my parents to the girl I intended to marry. They, too, loved her. A year later I called home for a family cake recipe handed down from my grandmother. Mom said, “You’re not going to tell Valerie what's in it, are you?” I did not, which surprised her, but did not lead to our breakup a year later. My wife of 11 years, bless her, who never has tried to make the cake, has not told a soul about its ingredients.

          Almost 41 years ago, three hours after I received my license in the mail, en route, late, to my first drive-in date, giddy at the prospect of my first opportunity to explore the wonders of human topography, I was pulled over for speeding two miles from the house, mine, not hers. The buzz killed, I actually watched most of The Molly Maguires. As penance for my ticket, I got the car once more that summer and not again after I returned from the senior prom five minutes past my 11:30 curfew.

 

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          MICHAEL GRANT writes:

          We spent the weekend in Idyllwild and, given the weather forecast, took the makings for snow ice cream, which my wife, Karen, had never heard of. But by Saturday afternoon, the skies were trying to clear. Disappointing. I am such a weather freak that the weather always seems to dodge me. But: we watched a movie and looked outside at dusk to see snow coming down hard. By 8 p.m. the table on the cabin’s small deck was eight inches high with fresh, soft, snow. It looked like a giant white wedding cake. We scooped snow into a big bowl and added whipping cream, vanilla, cinnamon, and sugar, and beat it all together. Karen liked it. She said because I made it, she loves me more. By Sunday morning, the snow we had scooped away from the table was filled in again, plus another four or so inches. “A winter wonderland,” Karen said, and took 461 pictures. The storm was piddling, compared to the experiences of many 919ers, but it was the most snow I had ever seen in my life. From the 919 dialogue is emerging a tantalizing winter menu: chili, tamales, and snow ice cream.

 

         

 

          CAROLINE FENTON writes:

          The snow photos of Julian and Wyoming inspired me to put on my wool socks and a sweat shirt. Brrrrrr. I have never been this cold in San Diego. Is it possible to have a good old fashioned case of hardening of the arteries at 52? Or is it just the damp air and slab floors? I am ready to sell off this poorly insulated stucco tract job with its drafty windows and high designer ceilings and relocate to our Central Oregon home where it may be cold and snowing, but I am suitably warm in a home heated to only 65 degrees that sits on a stemwall foundation!

          Now that I am “retired,” I spend nearly half of the day walking the two Labradors. They are an unruly handful when walked together so I do two separate hour-long adventures. I prefer to get up and get out early so I can have the afternoon for other projects. But this cold weather sometimes whispers to me to stay inside with a hot cup of Mr. Joe and stall the exercise. The other day it appeared the clouds were moving in fast so I grabbed my Nikon D60 (best money ever spent) and managed to get the above sunrise pic. Sunrises and sunsets are not easy to capture (at least for me) unless you have one of those precious tripods discussed earlier (I do not own one). This pic was actually shot through my front window with my arm resting against the glass. It is a true representation of the colors that frigid morning.

          And speaking of Dudley’s Bakery and slathering creamy butter on hot carbohydrates – the best bread I have ever tasted was a loaf of “pull apart” (like egg challah as I recall) I shared with a family on our drive home from picking up their son at Boy Scout camp. A hot, soft, yeasty loaf of heaven and a stick of butter and we were all happy. This was probably 40 years ago but I can taste it all the same.

          For those of you who need a puppy fix, I have attached a new photo of Boise, our 6-month-old Labrador. She is starting to train for the field and is keen on the birds. This weekend she will be a spectator at our 2-year-old’s “Hunt to Retrieve” match near Jamul. We hope she picks up some “pointers” – and not the dog kind.

 

         

 

          KARLA PETERSON writes:

          Belated thanks for the gorgeous snow photos and the cat pics. The snow is beautiful, and the cats are magnificent. Hope Scrappy's surgery goes well. He would look dashing in an eye patch.

          All the best to the 919ers.

 

          JOE HOLLY writes:

          Hello, Bob Rodriguez, there is no mystery concerning my snow pix. Recently I noticed some very sharp photos in the 919 Posting, e.g.: Steve Prosinski's Duck with Arrow Through Head and Michael Grant's wife's terrific time exposure, and wondered if I could do anything to improve the sharpness of mine.

          Our latest attempt was for me to put the pix into a folder and attach it, rather than imbed the photos in the body of the email, as I had been doing. I didn't include any text, so Jack just stuck them at the end of a message.

          I'm still working on it, and I will let you know if ever I figure anything out.

          Meanwhile, the shot of our little Hana on the roof has been a hit. Here is the series.

 

         

 

          The last one is a get-better card for a friend who fell, broke a hip and is in the hospital. John Peters. Ex-Navy pilot (Korea), ex-professor (Psychology, Mesa College). Please send a good thought or two his way.

          Email would be good, too:

lpeters9@san.rr.com

 

-------------------------------------

 

          JOE BROWN writes:

          The LA Times this morning dragged up a 41-year old story again for debate and discussion among us. It involves the circumstances of the death in 1970 in Los Angeles of Ruben Salazar, a pioneer Hispanic journalist who was killed by LA sheriff's deputies during a Hispanic anti-Vietnam rally in an LA park. The official feeling was that Salazar died when deputies fired a tear gas grenade that went through Ruben's head, and that Ruben simply was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Others, mostly leftwing Hispanics, contend that Ruben was deliberately assassinated by law enforcement officials whom Ruben insisted on criticizing in his writings.

          Ruben and I were close friends in Vietnam in 1966 and we traveled many a road together for our respective papers, Ruben for the L.A. Times and me for Copley News Service. He was scheduled to attend a party at my home in San Diego the night before he died but called to cancel because he was planning to cover the rally. I wrote a piece about Ruben from a slightly different angle as part of a "Remembrances" series some time ago.

 

         

Remembering Ruben

 

          Whenever I see a new postage stamp produced by the Postal Service, I think of another one issued three years ago which honored an old friend of mine.  He was Ruben Salazar, a pioneer Hispanic journalist from California I met during our mutual tours of journalistic duty in Vietnam in 1966.

          You won’t find the following in Salazar’s official biography because it’s very personal with me. But, added to the many published anecdotes about his life and death, it may shed some light on the character of a very unusual man.

          Ruben Salazar was born in 1928 in Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico, the son of a watch repairman. A year later Salvador Salazar moved his family across the Rio Grande to El Paso, Texas, where young Ruben lived when he later attended the University of Texas, graduating with a degree in journalism.

          Early on, Ruben had two goals in life: perfection as a journalist and an activist’s regard for the betterment of other Hispanics.

          Salazar served his journalistic apprenticeship at the Sonoma (California) Press-Democrat, spent two years in the Army in the Korean War, and then landed a reporter’s berth with the Los Angeles Times.

          I met Ruben in Saigon, Vietnam.  Since he knew I had come to Vietnam from San Diego, a stone’s throw from the Mexican border at Tijuana, and because of our mutual love for journalism, we struck up an immediate friendship.

          Many nights when the tropical heat of our city became almost unbearable in the one-room non-air-conditioned apartment I rented, Ruben invited me to share his own refreshingly AC-cooled room in the downtown Caravelle Hotel, a modern, high-rise hostelry owned by Air France. There, we swapped endless stories of our respective careers, drank copious amounts of Cutty Sark scotch, and shared thoughts about the war that now seemed determined never to end.

          We worked together on many news stories in Saigon, Ruben for the Times and me for Copley News Service out of San Diego.  One story I’ll never forget was the trial of a Chinese merchant from the Cholon section of Saigon accused of black marketing.  That crime might have brought a slap on the wrist in America.  In Vietnam, where the hatred of Chinese by the Vietnamese ran deep, it resulted in a death sentence.

          Ruben and I decided to cover both the trial and firing squad execution jointly, sharing our notes.  The trial itself was a first class circus, complete with a brass band in the courtroom which performed during every recess.

          Next morning at dawn, after steeling ourselves all night with Cutty Sark to deaden our disgust and nervousness, we stood only a few feet away from where a South Vietnamese rifle squad carried out the sentence.

          Many times during our Vietnam duty tours, Ruben and I rattled around the country together in search of news copy.  And here is my favorite story about my good friend.

          We were in the coastal village of Bong Son, covering an Army military operation.  Not wanting to sleep in a tent with the troops that night, we booked the last available two-bed room in an old motel in the village itself.

          About 8 p.m. the owner of the motel knocked on our door.  In broken English he explained that the Viet Cong had attacked a nearby village and refugees from the incident were pouring into Bong Son, but had no place to stay that night.

          “Many are children,” the old man said.  “I have no place to house them.  Could I put some of them in your room?”

          Ruben answered yes immediately, but another question followed.

          Where would these kids sleep?

          Ruben’s next response was as swift.

          “Let them have our beds,” he said firmly.

          With six kids snugged down crosswise on our beds, Ruben and I spent the rest of the night slumbering on the floor.

          Ruben and I returned to our respective newspapers in June 1966, but we vowed to keep in touch.  Twice, he drove from L.A. to San Diego when my wife and I scheduled a party at our coastal apartment.

          We invited him a third time but the night before, he phoned to cancel out.  Having left the Times for a new job with Spanish language TV station KMEX in Los Angeles, he said he planned to cover an anti-Vietnam War rally the next morning at an LA park, labeled the “National Chicano Moratorium March” against the war.

          The rally drew thousands, and at noontime, Ruben dropped into the nearby Silver Dollar Café for lunch.

          Accounts of what followed vary widely.  But that lunch on August 29, 1970, was Ruben Salazar’s last.

          As he sat sipping a beer, the noise of a jukebox drowning out  the command of sheriff’s deputies outside to vacate the bar,  Ruben was  killed instantly by a 10-inch tear gas projectile that penetrated his head.

          A few days later, I attended Ruben Salazar’s funeral in Corona del Mar.  So did hundreds of others including Ruben’s wife Sally and their three youngsters, John, Lisa and Stephanie,  whose portrait Ruben always displayed so prominently in his room in Saigon’s Caravelle Hotel.

          Then I remembered six other kids, stacked comfortably sideways like cordwood on two beds in an old motel in Bong Son, South Vietnam.

 

          REBER: Well-done, Joe. Thank you.

 

Jack Justus Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.

 

Vietnam, Julian, Mexico

          Good evening, 919 Gang. Last night Mike Richmond talked about reading a biography of "Brute" Krulak and asked if members had some thoughts about him. We have some interesting comments.

 

          FRANK GREEN writes:

          This is getting tiresome, but I must once again try to counter the idealized notion often rendered in your newsletter of Victor Krulak as selfless upholder of national security and honor.

          As Kennedy's counterinsurgency expert in Vietnam, Krulak helped oversee the murderous U.S. "pacification" program in South Vietnam, the sabotage of the North, and the displacement of hundreds of thousands of peasants into "strategic hamlets" and "prosperity zones" in the Mekong.

          This grand design included such war crimes as the wholesale destruction of villages, sometimes perpetrated simply to demonstrate the efficiency of new weapons systems to visiting dignitaries like Hubert Humphrey, Walter Cronkite or Bob Hope.

          The complete Pentagon Papers (Beacon Press; Sen. Gravel edition, vols. 1-4) also reveals Brute as mendacious self-promoter, consistently painting a far more upbeat picture of U.S. aggression than even Westmoreland ventured to offer.

          Indeed, Lyndon Johnson declined to further Krulak's odious military career not because he was so contemptuous of the president in presenting his case, but because even LBJ could see that his appraisal of the war was delusional (a la Curtis LeMay's proposal that the conflict be quickly concluded with a well-placed nuclear strike).

          As for Krulak's journalism career, he ran The San Diego Union just like a '60s-era Marine battalion.

          Among the slew of notorious memos bearing his initials was the vile directive (so eagerly adapted by then-Editor Herbert Klein) that pictures of African-Americans were not to appear on section fronts.

          Krulak was also behind the sabotage in the early-1970s of newsracks operated by The San Diego Street Journal, O.B. Rag and kindred alternative weeklies. This destruction was carried out by U-T circulation managers under the direction of company officials offended by the irreverent portrayal in the underground press of James Copley and other corrupt local politicians.

          I came into Krulak's line of fire in 1971 when I became San Diego co-coordinator of Sen. George McGovern's campaign for the Democratic presidential nomination (at the time, Sen. McGovern's poll numbers were a dreary two percent or so).

          Then-M.E. Jerry Schniep told me that Krulak was pushing to have me fired for my political activities at a time when my byline was regularly appearing above rock music reviews in the Union's arts pages -- a conflict which might unduly influence impressionable youth to the detriment of Nixon, he said.

          I eventually won that little skirmish after the Newspaper Guild defended me in front of a federal mediator, who ruled that I could do anything legal that I wished on my own time.

          I was much more disturbed by Schniep's revelations that pictures of me speaking on behalf of Sen. McGovern at antiwar rallies (usually alongside such luminaries as Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden) were routinely being snapped by Union photographers, and that the shots were then being shared with the local FBI office.

          I vividly recall the words stamped on the back of one such photograph Schniep showed me: "Joe Flynn Staff Photographer" and "Property of the FBI."

          All of this wayward history remained in my U-T personnel file well into the 1980s.

          I realize I'm up for criticism for having worked for Sen. McGovern (as well as Hayden, Jessie Jackson, Gore Vidal and others), but at the time I thought I was simply doing my part to balance the paper's pervasive rightward political slant.

          After all, most everyone on the Union side knew that Copley and Krulak regularly lent out the paper's political writers gratis to the Republican campaigns of Nixon, Wilson and others.

 

          DON BAUDER writes:

          Jack: You may have never heard any U-T staffer praise Brute Krulak's work. Certainly, he was not the man for the job, and probably no ex-Marine general belongs in a top editorial slot of a metro daily. But I will say this: In my 47 years of financial journalism, I can only remember one editorial side honcho telling me that he had been woefully wrong. And that was Brute Krulak.

          I had written a column about a commissioner of the Securities and Exchange Commission with organized crime ties who, as a lawyer, had helped a group of businesspeople -- also with mob ties -- pull some swindles. The most egregious swindle was through a tiny Swiss bank, also mobbed up. I had written about these scum when I had been at Business Week, but  both its publisher and editor had been conned and BW had left out the guts of the story, even though it was a matter of public record -- all in SEC documents. So I laid out the full story correctly for the Union. The SEC official conned the hell out of Krulak, and the Union printed a complete retraction of my column. Not long after that, the SEC revealed that the commissioner, who had been under investigation, would not be allowed to succeed himself. Krulak called me, admitted he had been conned, and even told me that he had trouble sleeping when he thought about the incident. I have always thought he was sincere, because he mentioned it to me several times and I honestly believe it was a very humbling experience for him. Later, I was called by Forbes. It was doing a story about these crooks and had heard I had information. I gave them a long memo on what could be found in the public record. Forbes did a blistering story. It was one of the most satisfying stories I have ever been involved in, even though my name was nowhere on it.

          And an addendum: the SEC commissioner was tipped off that I was feeding information to Forbes. That tip came from within the Copley organization -- from somebody who had worked with this commissioner while serving in Washington. Great, huh? All this doesn't mean Krulak was perfect. One of the first columns I wrote for the Union was a prediction that C. Arnholt Smith's bank would fail (even the president, Jim Mulvaney, had admitted it to me.) Smith blew up, so did Krulak, and the Union then ran a puff piece the next day about how wonderful the bank was (under my byline, but I didn't write it). About a month later, the bank failed. That time, Krulak didn't admit he had been wrong.

 

          JACK GREGG writes:

          Dick Eby, Gene Gregston. Leo Bowler and Larry Lusitana all declared I was their canary -- the kind they take down in the mines. If the canary dies suddenly, miners know the air is poisonous and beat a retreat. If I were to die due to the evils of alcohol, the four of them would clean up their acts and live long lives. Only one is still standing and still sipping Vitamin V.

          But I'm here to discuss Brute Krulak. Early on while he was at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Krulak would golf with Trib editor Gene Williams, and some of us jived him about letting Williams win. He didn't take it well -- the first ominous note. Then he came aboard the UT and soon switched the editors, Gregston to The Union and Fred Kinne to the Trib, no harm to Fred because many of us liked him and had worked under him before. Bad move for Gregston. He wasn't allowed to take any of his staff with him and Unionites soon made a fine editor dog meat.

          Gregston boozed even heavier and got fired by Krulak. The general's dog robber, Ben Pavia, mingled with the usual drunks at Kelly's and other dives and, we suspected, was Krulak's informant. When Krulak lost power at the UT, he was kept on board because he was needed in some sort of lawsuit over newsprint. Once at a Wild Animal Park event, the general caught some of us Trib types leaving and ordered us to stick around and take the monorail trip. Lusitana, who knew about the loss of power, told him to stick it where the sun don't shine.

          Early on and downtown, the general entered the Pressroom Tavern on a scouting mission before the dying Jim Copley was to visit (and that's another story). That wonderful Trib rim man David George Molina sat down on a barstool next to Krulak and said, "My Heneral, I'm not escared of you!" Molina always wanted to run for president with the slogan, "Una Molina in cada cocina". Molina had a great love for a Trib female staffer and said he would crawl through a kilometer of Mexican cactus ... but that too is another story.

 

          REBER: The way I figure it, Jack, you owe us two more stories, and they sound interesting. David Molina was the subject of one of the strangest phone calls I have taken. I was at home, something like 9 or 10 p.m., and I received a call from a nun in New Mexico, asking about Molina. Why she should call me I have no idea; Molina did not work for me, and I doubt there were ever more than 10 words between us. The nun said she had been one of his teachers (I assume grade school) and she was worried about him. I couldn't tell her anything except he was alive and working at the Trib.

 

          JOE BROWN writes:

          I remember Brute Krulak well (as mentioned by Mike Richmond) because he was the one who sent me to Vietnam in 1966. Later, I was with the Marines on one maneuver out of DaNang and having no place to bunk me that night, the Marines gave me Krulak's cot when he was away. Next morning someone asked, "Where were you last night when this base was hit?" I must be a sound sleeper because I snoozed completely through that Viet Cong attack, not even being awakened by the roar of 105mm howitzers 200 yards of so away.

 

------------------------------------------

 

          JAMIE BRYSON writes:

          Bob Rodriguez and his recollections of Julian brought some memories for me. I covered the town as part of the Escondido beat too, in the early 60s, and always enjoyed going up there. Covered some night meetings there and can recall closing myself into the telephone booth downtown and dictating a story to the city room in S.D., then going out and tooling my 53 Ford station wagon down the mountain, heading for 638 S. Juniper in Escondider (as Joe Stone used to pronounce it).

          A helicopter fell on Julian one day and I went up and got photos and the story. It was a military chopper -- Navy maybe. Nobody hurt but for bumps and bruises, but the chopper was history, draped over a garage and the downtown alley. Big news for a day was old Julian. Julian used to have an apple festival every year and it drew thousands of visitors and it kept me hopping. Is that still going on?

          Julian was good for features. An old guy and his wife ran a little sawmill in the woods above town. The mill was powered by a Cadillac flathead V8 engine bolted to timbers that made up that rough operation. Man's name was Birdsill. A rustic character and a good interview. When my oldest son, Mark, had a birthday, 11 or so, he and I took a couple of days and rode our bikes from Escondido to Julian. We stayed overnight in the hotel and rode our bikes home the next day. We ate in the Julian Cafe and that was a real treat. We didn't have money for restaurant meals in them-there days. Now Mark's a jet pilot and I am ensconced in a bungalow in the Colorado Rockies watching the days flip by.

          And speaking of cat names, I recall Ernest Hemingway kept catsl. One was named Fur House, I recall, and I always thought that was a clever name. Our cats are named Meow, Scruffy and Toots. They are great company, and at this stage of life great company is a pretty nice thing.

 

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          REBER: Join me in wishing Happy Birthday (Feb. 22) to Sandra Dibble.

 

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          LESLIE WOLF BRANSCOMB writes:

          I must comment on Welton Jones's remark about the best tamales in San Diego County. I do know the tamale place he's talking about just off of I-5 in Chula Vista, and it has served me well on many occasions in my past 25 years living in the South Bay when I was expected to come up with tamales but didn't want to admit that I had neither the recipe nor the knowledge to make them on my own. (From what I know from my traditional Latina friends, this takes days and at least three generations of women sweating and slaving in the kitchen.)

          But I forgot about the woman who used to come by the UT's (now-defunct) bureau office on 3rd Ave. in Chula Vista once a week to sell her hand-made tamales. THOSE were the best. (Except the ones made by my children's daycare lady, but then we can't lean on her forever, as the kids are now teens.) Then, last week, I was at my new job at Chula Vista City Hall when the receptionist called back to the council offices to announce that the "tamale lady" was here. Oh my God, it was her. I don't even know her name, but next week I'm bringing cash so I can stock up.

 

          BOB RODRIGUEZ writes:

          Try Lola's in Carlsbad for good tamales. Other food muy good also. A small, popular place (especially with high school students during lunch) that also sells some Mexican fixings for making your own meals.

          Coming attraction: My recipe for chili. In competition at Carlos' Mexican Restaurante in Cave Junction, Ore., it was the best among 15 entries. Unfortunately it was not recognized as such. The $150 prize went to a woman who simply dumped a pound or so of chili powder into some ground beef and canned beans. The judges, gringos all, felt that the hotter the better; not considering actual sophisticated taste. That's my view.

 

          JEFF ROSE writes:

          In the interest of dragging the tamales conversation out further, I believe the Chula Vista factory Welton Jones speaks of is Tamales Ancira. They have another outlet on Garnet in Pacific Beach. They make each tamale to order, scooping the fresh masa out of a giant pot. Eat them on the spot and you've entered tamale heaven.

 

          FERNANDO ROMERO writes:

          Jack, this is an answer to Mr. Jones on his statement that Tex-Mex tamales are the best:

          Mr. Jones,

          I have no doubt that the tamales in Texas are good, probably very good. But, please, you cannot say they are the best if you haven't tried the many varieties made in Mexico. In fact, just in my grandma's house in the '50s, every December I would witness the most astonishing tamales production line ever assembled (I'm using a bit of hyperbole myself), with my mom and aunts standing side by side a whole afternoon, following my grandma's specific orders in putting together these delightful gifts from heaven.

          My mom was in charge of the fillings, which meant she had to cook -- together with Grandma María -- a wonderful thick beef stew with potatoes, tomatoes, onions, raisins, and secret spices (my grandma never revealed them, not even to her daughters). For the pork tamales, my mom and grandma would cook a similar thick stew, although they added pumpkin seeds. The entire crew would also made sweet tamales (pineapple or cinamon).

          Now, I'm not going to say they were the best ever, but only in Mexico City have I found tamales good enough to match them, although I have tasted very good ones in Oaxaca, Sonora, and Jalisco (Guadalajara).

          I know the taste buds of the 919ers are as varied and knowledgeable as they come, but as far as tamales are concerned, I'll match my know-how to anyone. But thanks for reminding me. I'm going to call one of my cousins in Riverside County who wrote down my Grandma María's recipes and ask her to make a batch for me (we share the costs and the bounty, you know).

          Oh, and by the way, the tamales place you referred to is called Tamales Ancira. And they are good.

 

          MICHAEL GRANT writes:

          Jeff Rose, thanks for the news, and the irony, about XLNT. We did have it, in Abilene in the ‘50s and ‘60s, after which I left. I side with Welton (Caprock) Jones about Tex-Mex tamales. I wish they weren’t so hard – tedious, actually – to make.

 

          JERRY RIFE writes:

          The chatter about Texas chili made me so hunger that I hit the streets in search of sustenance. Since I live in central Mexico, hundreds of miles south of the Rio Grande, I had little hope of scoring the chili beloved by the likes of Michael Grant.

          However, we have several regional specialties here in the state of Guanajuato. One of them is a taco called cabeza de res.

          My neighbor Felipe (called Pipo by amigos like me) has one of the ubiquitous taco carts that are set up throughout the city. Pipo's menu is a bit sparse (beef consume and tacos) but cheap (about 30 cents a taco). The taco consists of beef, onions, cilantro and hot sauce wrapped in two fresh corn tortillas.

          The beef is prepared by boiling the head of a cow until all the meat falls off the skull. The eyeballs are a prized part for some aficionados. My favorite part is the tongue which reminds me of my childhood when my mom would fix it.

          Buen provecho!

 

         

                             From head ....

 

         

                             -- to hand ...

 

         

          ... to mouth. Pipo is preparing the taco and I am eating it.

 

          DAVID FARMER writes:

          Michael Grant's mention of XLNT chili stirred memories about, of all things, drive-in movies. (Marcel Proust's madeleines have nothing on chili for me.)

          When I was a teen in Ramona in the mid-50s, the nearest drive-in theater was in Escondido, about 45 minutes away on a narrow and dangerous two-lane highway. We'd load up our 1950 Ford V8 and tool down there on weekend nights. (Now, here's where this starts making a tiny bit of sense.) At intermission, the theater would screen a commercial for XLNT tamales, "so good when you are hongree!"

          And of course there would be ads for Coke or Pepsi, whichever had paid the largest bribe to the theater chain.

          And nachos with sodden chips and melted "cheese" that apparently was concocted in a high school chemistry class from Crisco, yellow dye, and some kind of clotting agent.

          And hot dogs made of pork scraps and meat by-products in a skin with the tooth-resistance of duct tape. The dogs sat for hours and days, slowly twirling between the heated rollers that kept them lukewarm. When you bit them, you got a squirt of tepid meat juice out of one end or the other.

          For dessert, those tasteless NECCO discs, Walnettos, and other candies so repugnant that they could not be found in stores, only in drive-ins with their captive audiences.

          Even before the third-rate movie and the fourth-rate food came the task of locating a working speaker. These were heavy, cast-aluminum things you hung on the driver's-side window (leaving a gap for freezing air in winter.) You had to turn the volume knob on several before you found one that gave out even scratchy sound. This entailed driving up a series of those asphalt inclines that pitched your car at the proper viewing angle, only to move on to another.

          And you know what? We loved the whole experience.

          Especially if we were a boy and a girl with a rare opportunity to explore the wonders of human topography. Oh, they showed a movie? It was kind of hard to see through the steamed-up windshield.

 

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          TODD DAVIS writes:

          I can relate to Bob Rodriguez's experience with the snow in Wyoming. When I was in junior high in the late '70s, I delivered the Wyoming State Tribune to about 70 subscribers in Cheyenne for about a year. Warm weather allowed me to make my rounds on my bike, but the winters took no prisoners.

          One day I trudged from door to door in sunny, below-zero weather (a truly sadistic twist of nature). The snow was one thing, but the wind had blown drifts that looked like white-washed sand dunes. The killer was the wind-chill factor, which was probably higher than my IQ, being as I was schlepping a product about half the size of a weekday edition of the new U-T, and had to walk a half-mile just to get to my delivery area. (So there it is: Some of those life lessons of struggle that we tell our kids are true!)

          I wondered whether the news contained in that edition of the local historical record was worth the two-hour sacrifice I was enduring to fulfill my obligation to my subscribers. I mean, wouldn't they understand that my labors took more than twice the usual time today because we as a people were buried literally up to our waists? I briefly thought of using their mailboxes as a shortcut and saving myself a few plodding steps to each front door. After all, the supposed stalwarts of reliability, the letter carriers, had ducked out on their creed several times that winter by declaring snow days that left the mailboxes unavailed of. But as my supervisor had explained at the start, federal law and customer sensibilities ruled that option out.

          I knew how they'd feel if they missed even this one day. These were my people. For some, a delivery of any kind, a bit of interaction with the outside world, was a treat. For most, this delivery was part of the daily ritual that was woven into or around the dinner hour. And for one elderly man who always met me at the end of his driveway, it was a five-minute-minimum engagement with history -- tales of war, lessons from a career in civil engineering that tied in neatly with the state of Cheyenne's infrastructure and impending building boom, snippets about goings-on in the Truman White House, and many other topics. Every day was enlightening, but as the minutes on that brutal winter day ticked by, the mailbox option was becoming a mighty temptation.

          The shlepping done, I was on my way back home when I registered the sensation of no sensation on my left ear. I learned that even my mother's knit cap had its limits, and I narrowly escaped frostbite.

          Despite the harsh winters, Cheyenne remains the most endearing place I've ever lived. The scenery was natural not manmade, the resources were local not imported, and the people were outwardly real, for better or worse. As for the snow, I always said the more the better. After all, we lived on a corner and got the biggest drifts. All the better to make the strongest forts, from which to devastate our friends in snowball fights.

          The paper merged with The Wyoming Eagle two years after the San Diego's Union and Tribune merged. I wonder if the Wyoming TribuneEagle is hiring.

 

          REBER: That is a neat story, Todd. I suspect a lot of ex-paper carriers can relate. Thank you.

 

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          REBER: Recently I mentioned a restaurant sign for Mexican food that said "Food so authentic you can't drink the water."

 

          JANET LOWE writes:

          Jack -- your recollection of the sign in Las Vegas reminds me of one I saw at a buffet in Laughlin. Among other buffet delights -- "all the desert you can eat."

 

          REBER: Another sign I liked (I believe the Monte Carlo in Las Vegas) said, "Food you can't forget; drinks you can't remember."

 

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          BOB RODRIGUEZ writes:

          Those shots from the Reber/Holly Experimental Photo Farm look good. They are quite fine. Are you going to let us in on the details?

 

          REBER: Bob refers to the Julian snow photos we printed last night. Joe is looking to improve the way his photos appear in the 919 Gang report, so he is experimenting with different ways to send them to me. Those photos appeared excellent to me. Hope they were as good on your computers.

 

Jack Justus Reber

P.O. Box 2239

Ramona, CA 92065

U.S.A.