{"id":50,"date":"2012-09-15T20:17:54","date_gmt":"2012-09-15T20:17:54","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/?p=50"},"modified":"2012-12-10T01:28:29","modified_gmt":"2012-12-10T01:28:29","slug":"the-beat-goes-on","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/the-beat-goes-on\/","title":{"rendered":"The Beat Goes On"},"content":{"rendered":"

“Life is just a bowl of cherries.
\nDon\u2019t make it serious.
\nLife\u2019s too mysterious…\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

George White’s Scandals, 1932<\/strong><\/p>\n

As the second year of the depression drew to a close and a third relentless year began, an ominous black cloud of disillusionment and fear hung over America and Europe. The disparity between rich and poor continued to widen. Inexorable conditions led millions of unemployed to desperate measures in order to survive. It was an almost unbelievable era.<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Sometime during this period in my life, I vowed to myself that I would be the first person in our family ever to graduate from college.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

In the midst of it all, many Americans turned to light\u00adhearted motion pictures to get their minds off their troubles. An evening out at the movies usually started off with a ten-minute newsreel, followed by lengthy coming attractions, a cartoon or two, and finally, the main feature. Zany comedies and happy, escapist fare like the Busby Berkeley musicals were especially popular. Who can ever forget Footlight Parade, Forty-second Street or Gold Diggers of 1933<\/em>?<\/p>\n

At neighborhood theaters, weekly \u201cBank Night\u201d drawings for cash prizes packed them in, too.<\/p>\n

During those dark days, many Americans also looked for answers in a new wave of astrology, fortune tellers, mediums and the Ouija board. They became fascinated, too, by such diversions as wacky flag pole sitters, elaborate new outdoor miniature golf courses, and the sleazy marathon dance craze.<\/p>\n

Marathon dance contests were sorry spectacles that attracted hungry and desperate young people with the promise of excitement and three square meals a day (or night) and a chance to win a pile of money\u2014sometimes as much as $5,000.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Agnes Peterson\u2019s niece was one of the many.<\/p>\n

Divorced and alone, close to the end of her rope, Emma Lindquist teamed up again with her ex-husband. They hitched a ride down from Spokane and entered what promoters called “The Grand Pacific Northwest Championship Marathon Dance Contest.\u201d<\/p>\n

Twice\u2014Agnes and my mother took me along to cheer for \u201cCouple Number 78.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

At a later time, I learned that Emma\u2019s\u00a0parents had died in a head-on crash when she was about 16 years old. Out on her own, she married early. Within a year, however, she separated from her surly husband, a young Spokane truck driver. It had been a bad teenage marriage from the beginning.<\/p>\n

For the next year or two, Emma worked in a small Spokane dance studio, teaching farm boys how to dance the Fox-Trot<\/em>. At the age of 21, she paid for her own divorce. Early in the depression, the dance studio folded. And Emma was dead broke\u2014left without a hope in hell.<\/p>\n

For months on end, she was out of a job. She started working the streets. The marathon dance contest sounded like a way out.<\/p>\n

The promoters\u2019 concept for these contests was simple:\u00a0You get the kids to dance \u2018till they drop. And you get the crowds to come out and watch<\/em>.<\/p>\n

In Portland, the contest was held in a fading dance pavilion across Highway 99 from the popular Jantzen Beach Amusement Park. We sat on circus bench seats surrounding the dance floor. At one end they had built a platform where people said an orchestra played on weekends. I never heard them play. On the nights we attended, amplified canned music blared over the air.<\/p>\n

Back of the platform, the promoters had draped a huge curtain. Emma told us later that behind the curtain were cots for the rest breaks, a dressing room area, food counter and washrooms.<\/p>\n

The contestants danced for one hour and 50 minutes a stretch. Then a whistle blew. And they got a 10 minute rest period for a quick sleep or something to eat or wash- up or whatever. That was it.<\/p>\n

About 150 couples entered the grueling event in Portland. Half of them dropped out during the first week.<\/p>\n

A big sign on the curtain back of the platform kept track of the elapsed time and the number of couples remaining. It\u2019s hazy for me now, but I think when we walked in that night, the sign read ELAPSED HOURS: 220. COUPLES LEFT: 66. Something like that.<\/p>\n

Emma told us that during the first week, people actually danced. From then on, however, it quickly degenerated into a sad exhibition of dead-eyed couples, shuffling to the music, hanging on, supporting each other, swaying side to side, desperately trying to stay awake and to keep moving.<\/p>\n

Collapse…hit the floor…and you\u2019re out<\/em>.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

I was not there on that night when Emma\u2019s knees finally buckled. Agnes said that she fought it\u00a0hard\u2014she held on for dear life\u2014as she slowly slid to the floor.<\/p>\n

ELAPSED HOURS: 556. COUPLES LEFT: 14.<\/p>\n

When the ordeal was over, Emma moved in with my mother and Agnes. Her ex-husband cut out for California.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

The slumlord who owned our sagging Third Street tenement raised our rent. My grandparents searched and searched for another place to live. Eventually, they landed an arrangement that was good for them.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A few blocks east of our tenement area was a friendly old neighborhood of ‘morning’ houses, vacant lots, flats and small apartment houses. My grandparents took on the job of managing and handling the upkeep of two separate four-unit buildings in the neighborhood\u2014in return for a two-bedroom flat, rent free. My
\ngrandmother did the managing\u2014collecting rents. My grandfather did the upkeep and maintenance. The location was Southeast 15th and Salmon. And I was delighted. I happily shared the second bedroom with some storage boxes.<\/p>\n

Next to our building was a large vacant lot heavy with undergrowth and two old walnut trees, still standing. It was a great place for kids to climb trees or to play “Cowboy and Indians\u201d or \u201cCops and Robbers.\u201d (Same game. You stalk the other guy with your \u201crubber gun.\u201d)<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

In the new neighborhood, I soon learned that every kid above a certain age owned a \u201crubber gun.\u201d You had to make your own. That was part of the mystique. Some were ornately carved and decorated.<\/p>\n

The way you made one of these toy weapons was simple. Pick up a piece of scrap wood, about three- quarters inch thick. Cut out or whittle the outline of an old western long-barreled pistol. Carve a notch in the end of the barrel. Tape a clothes pin on the back of the slanted pistol grip handle. That was it.<\/p>\n

Ammunition for this wicked, single-shot weapon came from worn out inner tubes. (In the days before tubeless tires, old blown-out inner tubes were easy to find.)<\/p>\n

I cut an inner tube into half-inch bands. Huge, thick rubber bands. I loaded the gun by hooking a band into the notch at the end of the barrel, stretching the rubber back over the edge of the handle and inserting the band into the grip of the clothespin. At that point, the clothes pin would hold it tight until I squeezed my hand. Then\u2014 Snap! Zing!<\/em> Away it would go, a\u00a0good, straight 15-20 feet. Sometimes more.<\/p>\n

We’d stalk each other in the underbrush. The guy who got smacked first lost the game. You knew when you were hit, too. It stung. But not for long.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Sometime around the age of ten or eleven, I sold subscriptions to Colliers<\/em> and Liberty<\/em> Magazines. I worked the entire neighborhood, not very successfully. The job didn\u2019t pay a single dime. But they gave me a prize catalog. And I earned points towards a prize for each subscription that I sold.<\/p>\n

One prize I earned that I had fun with was a ukulele. It came with full instructions for fingering the chords and it included a small-scale repertoire of songs.<\/p>\n

My best rendition was a little depression era tune that became the theme song for many flat broke lovers:<\/p>\n

T can\u2019t give you anything but love, baby.<\/em>
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Love\u2019s the only thing I\u2019ve plenty of, baby.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Like most kids, I changed my mind countless times about what I wanted to be when I grew up. In ’31 or \u201832, with all the commotion about the new Empire State Building, I became enthusiastic about the world of architecture. I decided then and there I would grow up to be an architect.<\/p>\n

When the Empire State Building officially opened, the New York celebration was broadcast by radio to millions of listeners. It even became a subject our teacher had us write about at school.<\/p>\n

I got a good grade for a short paper I wrote that went something like this: \u201cThe world\u2019s tallest building shoots straight up 1,050-feet. It has 85 floors and 67 elevators. On the roof is a 200-foot mooring mast for big dirigible airships like the Graf Zeppelin<\/em>. I think it\u2019s terrific.\u201d What did I know about the future of dirigibles?<\/p>\n

(In the early \u201830s, “aeronautical experts\u201d predicted that dirigible airships would soon become the favored mode for crossing the Atlantic and the continent. The planners of the Empire State Building were looking ahead. All such predictions came tumbling down, however, when the Hindenberg<\/em> exploded in flames in 1937.)<\/p>\n

Building the Empire State Building in the face of the Great Depression was hailed as a symbolic triumph for the country. And for me, that exciting structure will always remain \u201cthe world\u2019s tallest building.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

My all-time favorite\u00a0skyscraper, however, is still the 77-story Chrysler Building, with its sleek, art deco aluminum-banded facades and its graceful pointed spire. The Chrysler Building was completed in 1930.<\/p>\n

The Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building remain our two most distinguished Manhattan Towers.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

My mother and Agnes loved Chinese food and they loved to gamble. In Portland\u2019s teeming Chinatown of the early ’30s, they found plenty of both.<\/p>\n

One early evening, on their day off, they took me to a Chinese restaurant on Southwest Couch Street in the heart of the old Chinatown, a few blocks from the Union Pacific train station. Both sides of the crowded street were lined with a jumbled array of herb shops, seedy rundown hotels, open markets and restaurants.<\/p>\n

The place they picked to eat was on the corner of an alley leading into Couch Street. It was a narrow restaurant with high-backed wooden booths and a small counter in the back. Garish Chinese lanterns and red dragon panels on the side walls made up the decor.<\/p>\n

The three of us sat there in a booth and joyfully worked our way through fragrant platters of good, cheap Chow Mien. Nothing fancy.<\/p>\n

What my mother and Agnes didn\u2019t tell me was that this unobtrusive family restaurant was the front for a popular Chinese gambling joint.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t think they really planned in advance to take me with them into the gaming room. One thing led to another and it just turned out that way. About the time we were opening our Chinese fortune cookies, somebody\u2014 I don\u2019t remember who\u2014said, \u201cAslong as we\u2019re here, let\u2019s try a little Blackjack. Okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

The next thing I knew, my mother had me by the hand, edging me through a curtain at the back of the restaurant and on through a door leading down a short hallway. At that point we faced a second door, with steel straps across its face and along its edges. A buzzer sounded, the heavy door opened, and there I was\u2014 standing in a live gambling joint for the first time in my young life.<\/p>\n

I found out afterwards that a thin, little Chinese man sitting at the back counter in the dining room was the spotter. He made the decision who went in and who didn’t. And he pressed the buzzer. He knew both Agnes and my mother.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m still astonished they let a ten-year-old kid in the joint. However, since the entire operation was\u00a0illegal anyway, perhaps they rationalized that it didn\u2019t make any difference one way or the other.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The gaming room setup was bewildering. But later in life, I learned what they had. It amounted to one craps\u00a0table, two blackjack tables, a Chuck-a-Luck table, plus a back alcove with a money cage, a counter and a few chairs where they played Chinese tickets. Today, they call that Keno. At the rear of the alcove, next to the money cage, they also had a drink cooler and a little table with a few magazines. A Chinese kid about my age sat on one side of the table, thumbing through a magazine. I found out later he was part of the family. We ignored each other.<\/p>\n

My mother got me a creme soda. Then, for the next hour or so, I scrunched down in a chair on the other side of the table, also leafing through magazines.<\/p>\n

It was all pretty boring.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

During the first week in February, 1932, for the first time ever, the Winter Olympics were held in the United States\u2014at Lake Placid, New York. Sonja Henie of Norway won the gold medal in ladies\u2019 figure skating.<\/p>\n

Across the continent in Seattle, Washington, that very same week, a little girl named Mary Bovee celebrated her sixth birthday. A strong admirer of Sonja Henie, Mary went on to become the Junior Pacific Northwest figure skating champion. Later on, shortly before the 1944 Olympic trials, she turned pro and opened in Madison Square garden with the Ice Capades. By the following year, she was one of the Ice Capades\u2019 featured stars.<\/p>\n

My second (and final) visit to the Chinese gambling joint turned out to be far livelier than my first visit.<\/p>\n

It happened on a Saturday afternoon when my grandfather had me in tow. The gaming room was filled with a loud crowd. When we entered, I spotted the same Chinese kid, along with a little girl who appeared to be his younger sister. They were sitting around the small table in the alcove. This time he waved me over and greeted me as if I was anold buddy. Said his name was Ben.<\/p>\n

My grandfather really didn\u2019t have the money to gamble. All he did was play two-bit Chuck-a-Luck a few times and mark some tickets Then he stood around the craps table for awhile, watching the action. In about a\u00a0half an hour, maybe less, he was standing in front of me, telling me it was time to go.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Suddenly, all hell broke loose. A piercing bell\u00a0started ringing and a red light above the main door started flashing. Someone yelled, \u201cIt\u2019s a raid.\u201d I heard loud pounding and crashing on the other side of the door and muffled yells. \u201cPolice…Police. Open up.\u201d A woman screamed. Confusion reigned on all sides. Noise in the room reached bedlam level.<\/p>\n

Out of nowhere, the large Chinese manager in a dark blue suit appeared in the alcove. Fast on his feet, he swept the young kid, the little girl and myself in behind the cage, where we were shielded from view. A jabbering woman in the ticket cage slammed shut a money box and closed down a curtain in front of the cage. My grandfather surfaced at my side. So did two Chinese dealers. A narrow panel in the wood-paneled wall opened behind us.<\/p>\n

At this point the main door splintered and the police came crashing through, just as we were shoved brusquely into what appeared to be a downward tunnel. Behind us, the wall panel silently closed.<\/p>\n

One of the dealers led the way. We were herded quickly down several steps and along a narrow, dimly-lit passageway underneath the alley. Eventually, we climbed several steps. A door opened. And we emerged in the kitchen of another Chinese restaurant across the alley. It was then I realized there were nine escapees in our underground party: the big man in charge, the woman with the cash box, two dealers, my grandfather, one other gambler, and three kids.<\/p>\n

My grandfather and I walked out of the restaurant and mingled with the crowd that had gathered on the corner. A paddy wagon and two police cars blocked the street, with lights flashing. We watched wordlessly from across the street as the police escorted people into the paddy wagon.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

In the 5th or 6th grade, I thought I was in love with Nancy Kazarian. She had an exotic, sloe-eyed look, with high cheek bones and velvety, olive skin and a long, graceful neck and shining black hair. She wore colorful,\u00a0expensive-looking clothes. And when she walked, she walked with her head held high. There was a cool, detached, mysterious air about her.<\/p>\n

I thought she was the most glamorous creature in all of Buckman Grammar School, for sure. To my young eyes, she looked every inch like a royal princess out of The Arabian Nights<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Trouble was\u2014she had me mesmerized from afar. All year long I could never even get up the nerve\u00a0to speak withher. Looking back on that now, I wonder why I was so shy?<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Throughout my childhood, I always wanted a Lionel electric train and a dog. I never got either one. In later years, dogs did become an important part of our family life, of course. The loving friendship of a dog can be a very precious thing.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

On Halloween, kids in our neighborhood would sometimes head for what we thought was the “rich\u201d section up around Laurelhurst Park to do our Trick or Treatin’. We figured we’d get more and better treats up there, although it never seemed to turn out that way. Nevertheless, I did it for two or three years in a row, because I liked to look at the big, impressive houses. Usually I would get a chance to peek inside the front doors, too.<\/p>\n

The last time I did this, it was a frosty Halloween night. In my mind\u2019s eye, I can see the place now. A large, two-story Italianate house set far back on the property. An expansive lawn curved down to an edge of shrubs and an ornate iron fence. The windows were ablaze with light and Halloween decorations. On the wide front porch, jack-o\u2019-lanterns welcomed us.<\/p>\n

The kid I was with, however, didn\u2019t want to take the time to go up to that mansion with me. He said he could hit two or three houses to my one by heading on up the street. So I did it alone.<\/p>\n

Clutching my paper sack half-loaded with goodies, I opened the gate, walked up the path, bounded up the steps and rang the bell.<\/p>\n

After what seemed like several agonizing minutes, the great door opened wide. And there\u2014oh my God\u2014 there she was\u2014a bemused Nancy Kazarian, beautifully backlit by the lights of a huge chandelier hanging in the entry hallway.<\/p>\n

I stood there in stunned silence. Embarrassed. Speechless. My face flushed beet-red, like a damned fool. All I could do was sort of stammer out \u201cHappy Halloween.\u201d Then I turned around, stumbled awkwardly down the steps, and headed for the street. I kicked myself all the way home.<\/p>\n

At the end of the school term, Nancy Kazarian transferred to a private school. The next time our paths crossed was in Seattle, some 13 years later.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

I saw little of my dad during the early \u201830s. He didn\u2019t escape the depression. The construction firm he worked for\u00a0went belly up. Then he was in and out of town on various jobs, including about five months up the Columbia River on the Bonneville Dam project.<\/p>\n

On one of his infrequent visits, he took me to a fancy miniature golf course far out Sandy Boulevard, on the way to Mt. Hood.. We played three rounds of golf.<\/p>\n

Started in Florida in 1929 by a creative entrepreneur named Garnet Carter, miniature golf courses developedinto a national craze in the early \u201830s. By the summer of 1932, some 30,000 roadside courses regularly attracted hundreds of thousands of Americans. These were true fantasyland courses, far more elaborate than the pale imitations that exist today.<\/p>\n

Playing against my dad, I won two out of three rounds. But I really think he let me win.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Arthur Murray was probably the most successful ballroom dance instructor and dance promoter ever to appear on the American scene. He devised the idea of teaching simple dance steps with footprint diagrams, in two years during the late \u201820s, he reportedly sold more than 500,000 dance courses by mail.<\/p>\n

After he married his dance partner, Kathryn, he started opening popular dancing schools. By the middle\u00a0of the 1930s, they operated hundreds of dance studios around the world.<\/p>\n

Emma Lindquist landed a job as an instructor at the new Arthur Murray Dance Studio<\/em> that opened in Portland. Finally, she got a lucky break.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

By the early \u201830s, prohibition laws were being flouted more openly than ever before. After ten years of prohibition, most people held \u201cthe noble experiment\u201d in complete contempt. A full-scale national straw vote indicated an astounding 70% of adult Americans favored repeal of the 18th amendment. Politicians began to listen.<\/em><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Battuzi’ s speakeasy was booming. Agnes said she was finally making some good money. My mother was getting by on heavy tips, too. At the same time, she became involved with the drummer in the club’s Chicago jazz band. The drummer’s name was Freddy something. I don’t remember his last name. They had some wild times, my mother admitted later. It was fun and games for awhile.<\/p>\n

I never did get to meet Freddy, however. Everything fell apart when a new reform mayor announced that he was \u201ccleaning up” the City of Portland.<\/p>\n

They\u00a0raided Battuzi’s speakeasy. Closed it down tight. Agnes and my mother were thrown out of a job. Freddy and his buddies in the band returned to Chicago.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

My mother was a tough-minded optimist. She was a survivor. After several weeks of enduring once again the hardship of finding a job where no job exists, she went to work as a waitress in a popular diner up near 39th and Hawthorne. She worked hard\u2014very hard. Long hours.<\/p>\n

Agnes eventually landed a hostess and cashier job with a remodeled seafood house in the Skidmore Fountain district of downtown Portland.<\/p>\n

About this time, Agnes, Emma and my mother went on the prowl for lower-cost quarters. They were fortunate.<\/p>\n

They found, a comfortable old. flat for rent on Southeast 17th and Taylor, only a few blocks from my
\ngrandparents. At that point, I moved in with the three women.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chapter Six: A New Deal<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“Life is just a bowl of cherries. Don\u2019t make it serious. Life\u2019s too mysterious…\u201d George White’s Scandals, 1932 As the second year of the depression drew to a close and a third relentless year began, an ominous black cloud of disillusionment and fear hung over America and Europe. The disparity between rich and poor continued […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","_disable_autopaging":false},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-50","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-beat-goes-on"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/50","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/6"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=50"}],"version-history":[{"count":51,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/50\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1102,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/50\/revisions\/1102"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=50"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=50"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/byronwmayo.com\/memoires\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=50"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}