In 1965, Frank
Morain and his family lived across the street from us in Shoreview. Frank was in
the business of selling recreation land. I asked him whether he would hire me if
I went back and got my real estate license. He said yes, so I took a course from
the Anthony Real Estate School. At this time, I was also building fences, but
the union got on me. The last job I completed was done with the help of my boys
and it had to be done before the next day. Who knows what the union would do if
they caught me out on another job? I wasn't about to find out.
In the late summer of 1965, I started selling recreational land outside of
Fresno at Bonadelli Ranchos. It was so profitable that I bought a new Grand Prix
2-door sedan. I had the old red Edsel station wagon, but it never had air
conditioning in it. I bought an air conditioner from Sears and installed it
myself. But the wagon was too big for the air conditioner to be efficient, so I
returned it. The weather in Fresno can become unbearable in the summertime, and
nothing could kill a sale quicker than a perspiring customer.
We were selling two and a half acre parcels of rolling land with weeds up to
your butt for only 2000 dollars. They went like kids devouring hotcakes. We
always tried to drive the customer down there from the bay area to make sure
they showed up. We'd put them up at the Rancho Motel which had a swimming pool
and a theater that put on top-line entertainment. After a big steak dinner, we'd
invite them to the show at no cost to them. The next day, we'd take them on a
little tour, all the time selling them on the agribusiness that was rapidly
growing, then out to the property. I always told them that once I'd shown them
the property, I would ask them just one question, "Are you going to buy
it?" In a couple of instances, my customers bought the land without even
going down to see it. They just took my word for it.
Whenever my customers wanted to drive down themselves, I would take mom down
there to enjoy an overnight at the Rancho Motel. One time, we got to see Shirley
Jones who really put on a good floor show.
That property today is a maze of beautiful homes and orange groves. When we
sold that out, we started selling at Hidden Valley, east of Fresno. It was
loaded with oak trees and beautiful views. An ideal place to live if you worked
in Fresno. I remember one piece that I sold that was up on a hill with more rock
outcropping than you could shake a stick at. I don't know how the buyer would
ever dig a well up there, but he bought it.
Bud Nall from Panama, now married with two daughters joined us; he could
really sell. It really showed when we started selling at Rancho Calavaras near
Valley Springs, about 30 miles south and east of Stockton. He would have really
made it big, but his drinking started getting to him.
One time he and I took Stanford and Steven up to Ten Lakes to go fishing.
Once we got to White Wolf, we hiked about seven miles to the lakes. The Lakes
were located near Tuolumne Meadows, up behind Yosemite National Park at about
7000 feet. Man, was it cold. The fishing was great, but at night we nearly
froze. I brought along a quart of apricot brandy, gave the boys a couple of
swigs and they were out for the night. On the way back, we learned that the
lakes were only two miles off the main highway.
In 1965, the boys were in high school. Stanford was at Aragon High, Steve at
San Mateo High, and Scott was at Burlingame High. Shelley started kindergarten
at Foster City Elementary. It was a great place to grow up. Most of the friends
they had then are still with them today.
Stanford started working for Doctor Art Gilger at the Hillsdale Animal
Hospital when he was twelve. When each of my other kids turned twelve, they all
started working there too. So with their job, and their school, and after school
sports, they were quite busy and never in trouble. They bought their own
transportation. We helped out with their insurance. Stanford had a 50 hp Yamaha
motorcycle that got him back and forth to school and to work. Steve's first
transportation, before moving up to automobiles, was a 90 hp Honda motorcycle.
After that, Steven even built his own dune buggy from scratch. I don't remember
what Scotty got, probably a hand-me-down from one of his brothers.
I remember when Stan had his Yamaha and my brother Max wanted to ride it on
Byron Avenue. I ran alongside him giving him instructions. When we got to the
corner of Daisy and Byron, he took off by himself. A minute later he came
tearing by at about 40 mph, but as he reached the corner of Daisy and Dale, it
was apparent that he'd forgotten where the brake was. All we heard was a bike
being laid down and then a crash. He'd slid into some guy's garage door. Max was
unscathed, but he had to cough up 50 dollars to repair Stan's bike. From there
on out, we called Max the Yamaha Kid.
On Flying Fish Street in Foster City when Steve had his Honda, there were no
homes either next to us or across the street. I built a course around all the
dirt mounds that were left to compact the ground. We would time ourselves going
up and down and around the course, trying to beat the other guy's time. This I
felt, would help the kids avoid accidents while riding their motorcycles on the
streets. Scotty was the best, and I was the worst. "Chicken" mom
never, and I mean never, would even get on a bike.
Living out here in Foster City with all the water around, I had to have a
sail boat of some kind. I think the first one we got was a rubber raft with a
sail on it. It went nowhere, so I moved up to the Aqua Cat. A catamaran that
really moved on a reach. I built a dock across the street on the lagoon since
there were no houses built there yet, and started teaching myself how to get out
to the main lagoon. Most of the time, I had to walk it out, but once out there,
it was anybody's guess where I was going. I ran into so many docks that the
people all knew me by name. Later on, when I got pretty good, I'd sail down
Bourbon Blvd (the main channel), over to Vodka Row and then to Gin Alley where
my friends Otto and Elva Fuls lived. There I'd have a couple of drinks, and then
try to get back home before dinner. Sometimes I didn't make it back home in time
for dinner. Someone would always holler at me to come in and have a tall one.
By 1968, I'd really learned how to fly that little beauty. So I joined the
sailing club and started going to their regattas. There were always at least ten
boats in my class and sometimes twenty. The competition was stiff. It took me a
year before I picked up my first trophy. It really depended on how strong the
wind was. If it was stiff, I won. If it was quiet, I was lucky to even place.
The reason I became the best heavy weather sailor in Northern California was
that I'd come home from school, and if it was blowing a gale, I'd put that
little baby in the water, rain or shine, and away I'd go. I'd head up to the
Port-O-Call area and sail back and forth on one pontoon putting on a show for
everyone in the Lobster Trap Restaurant (now called Senior Pepe's). I always
knew that someone who'd enjoyed the show would buy me a drink when I walked in.
For the next five years, mom and I would take in all the regattas in northern
California. Some lasted only one day, others two or three days. Some of the
regattas were held in Bodega Bay, Half Moon Bay, Richmond, Vallejo, Redwood
City, Black Butte near Redding, Lake Tahoe, Lake Millerton near Fresno, Bass
Lake east of Fresno, New Melones Lake, Hogan Lake and Folsom Lake. We'd either
sleep in our 'Jimmy' or stay in a motel. It was always a good little
mini-vacation. I'd probably still be sailing if the guys I competed against
hadn't decided to move up to a bigger cat. A bigger cat meant that it would take
two guys just to put it in the water, so I dropped out. A year later, I sold my
cat.
On one of our trips, we decided to visit the town of Volcano which is 15
miles above Jackson, California. We were driving down Main Street and we saw Jim
Grillo who was walking into the grocery store. I knew Jim because he was the PE
teacher at Fiesta Gardens School in San Mateo. He was born in Volcano and his
mother still lived in the old homestead that was built in 1849. We really had a
nice visit with them. Jim and I had lots in common; we both loved to fish and
hunt, so we became good buddies. From there on out, on every opening day of
fishing or hunting season, we used his homestead to operate out of. We never had
too much luck, but it was great getting out and communing with nature.
One year, I took Stan up to the top of Kit Carson Pass on Highway 88 for the
opening day of deer season. We parked and walked up to a butte where Jim said
that we'd have a great overview of any deer passing by. We had just gotten to
where we wanted to be at daybreak, when all of a sudden, it sounded like a war
broke out. Bullets were flying all over the place. We hit the dirt and then
crawled behind some rocks for protection. When it quieted down, we backtracked
to the car and got out of there. When we got to the car, some big black guy (a
third party) said, "Those mudder fuckers done shot my gas tank." I
think that that was the last time that Stan went hunting.
The one time that I did see a deer, correction, I've seen two, was when Jim
Grillo and I went over to his eighteen acres that the family owned near Volcano
on the other side of Highway 88. There was a very narrow ravine and Jim said
that there was sure to be a deer hiding there. He went on one side to 'bird dog'
the deer and chase him out. Sure enough, a buck jogged out and stopped about 90
feet from me. I fired, but I don't remember whether I raised the gun or shot
from the hip. "Buck Fever", they call it. The deer jogged up to a bank
about 75 yards from me and stopped again. I fired again, but I could see that I
was firing 8 feet above him by the ricochet off the rocks on the bank. I figured
that if I couldn't hit him at that distance, why fire anymore. So I put my gun
down as the deer trotted off.
The other time that I saw a buck was when Max and Kermit Jr. came up to hunt
with us. I heard Max get a shot off, so I wandered up to see what he got. On the
way there, one of the largest bucks imaginable stepped out from behind a fallen
log about 35 yards away. I stopped and was admiring the spread of his horns,
which was at least 4 feet. When he noticed me, he just turned around and walked
back behind the log and disappeared. Talk about "Buck Fever", I never
even thought of getting a shot off.
On one of the first opening days of fishing season, mom accompanied Jim and
me up to his home in Volcano. Naturally, we stopped to have a couple of drinks
on the way. Just as we left Pine Grove, a very small town near Volcano, to go
down the hill into Volcano, Jim said, "What is that donkey doing, following
me so closely? Lets take him." Jim slammed on his brakes and skidded off to
the shoulder of a very narrow road. The other car followed right behind him. Jim
jumped out of the driver's side and I jumped out of the passenger's side.
Whoever it was must have recognized Jim because they sped off down the hill.
When we got to Jim's house, we dropped mom off and then ran down to the bar at
the old St. George Hotel. When we walked in, the bartender said, "The
sheriff just left. He said you were in town." It turned out that the
sheriff was the one who'd been following us so closely. We never did figure out
what he was up to. Jim was a tough little mountain man who had earned the
respect of everyone who lived in that county.
Let me tell you about a couple of times that I was with Jim. On the way up to
Jackson one time, we stopped at the Long Branch Bar in Waterford. We had just
ordered a beer when a big guy in a hard hat came over and wanted to arm wrestle
me. I said, "No thanks but I'll bet you ten dollars that my little buddy
can take you." He looked at Jim, who was smaller than me, and said,
"Here's my ten dollars, let's get with it." They walked over to an
empty table, grasped hands, and the contest was on. It took Jim about five
seconds to nail him to the table. I picked up the money and we walked out
without even drinking our beer. I knew that guy had lost face with some of his
buddies, and I didn't want to be around when he realized that there was more to
arm wrestling than just strength. Jim had told me about leverage and the
placement of your feet to get the best advantage.
Another time I was with Jim one evening after we'd caught our limit of trout.
We were wrestling around when I knocked a old scab off my arm. Jim said,
"Let's be blood brothers." So he bit into his hand, causing blood to
flow, and then placed his hand over the scab that was just bleeding slowly. When
I saw him again two weeks later, he had the ugliest wound, black, blue and
green. It was still infected.
When he got cancer at age 64, we had him stay with us at our house in Foster
City for two weeks before he entered the Hospice at Sequoia Hospital in Redwood
City. The day he died, he told me we should plan one more fishing trip. Lord,
that man's death sure left a void in my life.
It was near Pine Grove that your mom and I bought our first piece of
recreation land. Five acres amongst a group of pine and oak trees. We had plans
to build our home near the top of a hill we shared with a neighbor. It
overlooked a small valley which had a little stream running through it. But when
we got ready to build, we found that the guy who bought the property next to us
had built a damned pig pen and chicken coop right next to the top of the hill. I
put our property up for sale and made a good profit. I sold it to a guy in San
Diego, sight unseen. The money helped us build our Lake Tahoe home in Tahoe
Keyes.
The home at Tahoe was really a 'good go for short dough.' We purchased the
land from a couple getting divorced for only 6000 dollars. We had a local
contractor build the house for only 20,000 dollars. I'm surprised that mom
didn't divorce me over the changes that she wanted to make. I got my way, but
the final design sure had a lot of shortcomings regarding bedroom space. It was
completed in 1971, a very pleasant place to spend all of our vacations.
One summer, I tried to sell real estate up there, but hardly made expenses.
The following summer, I was hired as the Recreation Director for the Tahoe
Homeowners Association. I hired a married couple to run the day camp, two girls
to run the indoor pool and give swimming lessons, one gal to teach tennis, and
another to be a lifeguard at the outdoor pool at the beach. I took charge of
teaching other sports. I arranged for and taught softball games, flag football,
archery and sailing. I had to let the girl go that was teaching tennis; later I
hired Scotty. I also let go the little gal who was supposed to be the lifeguard
because she was always reading or writing letters instead of watching the kids
that were swimming. But just before that, I had them all over to the house for
coffee and pastry. They were complaining that I was being too hard on them, that
this was summertime and that things should be more relaxed. I got bad vibes from
the meeting, so I went to the head of the Homeowners Association and told him
that I was going to fire three of them and that I already had replacements for
them. He okayed it. I kept only the two girls that were doing a good job at the
indoor pool. I wasn't about to work at that job the following summer. It was
just too much work.
The next summer, I was busy selling recreation land up at Willets. Scotty was
attending the University of California at Davis, so he spent the summer with us
at Tahoe. Lucky him. That's when he met Dulcie, his future wife, who was working
at Denny's.
A little sidelight. Gene Havrolenko got Scotty and together they put on a
doubles exhibition match against Bill Cosby and Rich Little. Bill was a darn
good player, but he played to the crowd, so it ended up as just a fun match.
Scotty and Gene then switched partners so it wouldn't be too one-sided. Rich
Little was probably on the court for the first time in his life, so he sat down
and entertained the crowd with his impersonations throughout the match.
When I was up there, I got hold of Dr. Stedman, whom I'd met on the tennis
court, and another doctor who also played tennis. We talked about putting in a
Tennis arena with six courts inside and six outside. I put out 1000 feelers to
the local residents to see if they would support such an enterprise. I got back
200, of which 100 said they would join. I then contacted Mr. Gross at Harvey's
Casino and Mr. Smith who owned Harrah's Casino. I didn't want to build the
courts and then have them do the same. Both said that they had no intention of
going into the business of tennis, but both said they would like to buy at least
six memberships so that their entertainers could come down and play. I located
five acres about three blocks from Denny's that we could lease with an option to
buy. We had already priced the cost of the building including a furnace for
wintertime. If we all put down 50,000 dollars, the financing would be a piece of
cake. I had one more meeting with them and told them that I was going to Foster
City to sell my home. My home, at that time would go for 60,000 dollars. I
wanted to do more than just run the operation; I wanted part of the action. At
the very last minute before I left for Foster City, they both backed out.
Instead of a tennis pavilion, they decided that they wanted to open a french
restaurant on Highway 89 about a mile form the "Y." Boy, was I
disappointed. Well, they opened the restaurant six months later; three months
after that, they went broke.
About 1976, I sent away for a map that showed where all the turquoise mines
in Nevada were located. Mom and I took off in the "Jimmy" hoping to
rediscover some turquoise since the price had doubled the previous year. The
first mine we located had armed guards all around the property, so we went on to
the next mine about three miles away. It was on top of a very steep hill with a
sign saying that it was guarded by a vicious dog. We didn't see the dog, so up
the hill we went. At the top we found a small amount of camping gear, but no one
was around. Mom jumped out of the car and "high graded" a few big
chunks of rock that contained turquoise nuggets. "High graded" hell,
she just flat stole them and down the hill we went. Anyway, they look great in
her rock garden. It "peers" to me that she got some petrified wood in
Arizona the same way.
Kermit died on June 3, 1976. Scotty came to Foster City from Tahoe to attend
the funeral. It was Saturday morning when Scott got a telephone call in Foster
City from Tufts Dental School in Boston. He was the first of 500 alternates to
be selected. Mom and I were still in bed when he came in and jumped all over us.
Boy, was he happy. I had heard him saying, "No problem, no problem" on
the telephone, so I asked him what was 'no problem'. He was referring to the
fact that he had to be back in Boston the following week with 13,000 dollars to
begin school. Hey, sure we could borrow the money on either one of our houses,
but that would take at least three weeks. So we contacted Emily. Her husband
Lindee died in 1973 and left her with a lot of cash. We told her that if she'd
loan Scott the money, we'd sell the Tahoe home and pay her back. No problem, she
was more than willing to loan Scott the money.
Scott was a busy little guy the following week. He bought
Kermit's pickup from his wife, married Dulcie and away they went to Boston.