Tee-Gee's: A Postwar Bar Frozen In Time

(Note to the reader: I published this post several months ago in another blog which I was planning to run as a sister site to this one.  Since then, I haven't been feeding and maintaining the other blog, so I'm republishing here.) 

Club Tee-Gee was founded sixty-four years ago by returning World War II veterans Neal Tracy and Joe Grzybowski.   As is typical in this city, most people probably enter from the parking lot side, but the street side entrance is worth a look.

Although the place has been rebuilt a couple of times since its founding, it's obvious that the building's design has stayed true to its postwar origins and heritage.  The inwardly angled walls give the building a vaguely Googie-esque shape which seems to suit a cocktail lounge well.  It seems the only thing missing is the neon-lit outline of a martini glass. The blank areas betray the former presence of windows, which are absent for a very good reason.  In the mid 1980’s someone threw a Molotov Cocktail into the place, nearly burning it to the ground.  As it turns out, Vyacheslav Molotov, was still alive in 1986, but I'm confident he was nowhere near Atwood Village at the time the attack went down. 

Club Tee-Gee's, Atwood Village

 

A sure sign of a good neighborhood bar is that the customers' ages run the gamut from 21 years and zero days to the chronological limits of human life.   This is certainly true of theTee-Gee, where you're apt to see a group of twenty-somethings holding down one booth, and a group of fifty-somethings occupying the next booth.   There's no live music, but the jukebox gets its music from the Internet.  After sixty-four years the kind of music chosen by the patrons usually sets up a pleasant kind of cognitive dissonance; the bar looks like you should be hearing Frank Sinatra, but you're much more likely to hear some kind of rock and roll.  Nevertheless, you can undoubtedly get some Sinatra if you want it.

Tee-Gee's Interior

Neighborhood bars do share a good deal of common ground.  They're almost always fairly dark inside, with the bar on one side of the room and the tables on the other.  But good bars need to have some kind of individual touches, because if they don't, they look like The People's Alcohol Dispensary #714.  Behind the bar of the Tee-Gee we see the customary indicators of beverage abundance--stacked up glasses and the typical array of bottles.

Behind The Bar

To the left, the Homely Lampshade adds a nice warm touch, but what's really individual here is the abundant supply of Betty Boops, one of which has pride of place in the middle of the bartenders' workspace.  Another rises imposingly in the corner, where the glittery ceiling above the Boop creates a nice effect.

In case you noticed some of the sketches behind the bar, those are another one of those individual touches I mentioned.  There is an artist in the family here, the sister of one of the owners, and most of one wall is devoted to her artwork.

Close-up of the picture wall

I don't know if these pictures were drawn around the time when the bar first opened, but it sure looks that way.  Regardless, it's clear the artist felt most comfortable expressing herself within that aesthetic.   The drawings of young women sporting 1940s-style coiffures call to mind the drawings of his sweetheart a forlorn soldier might have made during off-moments before turning in.

Griffith Park: Fern Dell

In this second installment of our series on Griffith Park, which began here, we look at Fern Dell, which is another one of the Park's oldest attractions.  From the Observatory, Fern Dell can be reached by a downhill hike of approximately 1.3 miles, which, in most cases, will be followed by a much more difficult uphill return.  It's probably a pleasant enough walk, but we used the car that day in the interest of time. 

The higher area of the Dell is a nicely wooded refuge from the city.  And, we might add, even from the Park itself, much of which isn't landscaped and reflects Southern California's semiarid climate.  Woods and groves are an important asset to a large metropolitan park, and all too often these things are missing from other parks around the city, partly due to the need of open space for games.

Picnic area, upper Fern Dell

The trees in this area are deciduous trees typically found in the area, including sycamores and oaks.   Redwoods and other non-native plants have also been brought in.

Sycamore

Being occasional viewers of the Ghosthunters franchise on the SyFy network, we initially thought we might have discovered an entity or spirit of some kind, hovering in these redwood trees:

Sun shining through redwoods

We went behind the trees to investigate, and to take some live action AV material, but as luck would have it, our equipment malfunctioned, as so often happens.  Besides, the entity seemed to recede at the exact same pace with which we approached it.  Ultimately, having just come from Griffith Observatory, we soon suspected that we were looking at something known as the "sun".  There was really no doubt, since we knew that it was daytime, and according to our ephemeris, the sun was supposed to be out, somewhere above the horizon.

Fern Dell used to have an artificial stream running through it, fed by runoff from Griffith Observatory's cooling system.   Unfortunately, when the Observatory was renovated and expanded a few years back, this water source was eliminated, and the Fern Dell stream is now dry.   However, the existence of a spring in the immediate area has been known since 1929, when it was rumored to be a fountain of youth.  This does sound bogus, we must admit, but not altogether surprising given the time and place.  This was the era of the first flush Hollywood celebrities, of early Pentecostals and other evangelists.  It was the end of a decade during which the population of the Los Angeles had increased twenty-fold.  Most of that increase was from new arrivals from other states and countries, most of whom hoped to re-invent themselves--or at least their lives.   A definite contributing factor was an influx of young men and women hoping for a career in motion pictures.   We shouldn't be surprised if a continual stream of visitors showed up  at this alleged Fountain of Youth, armed with bottles and jugs in which to carry some of the magic water home.  

Presumably in response to traffic concerns, at first  the city capped the spring,  but this caused unwanted seepage in neighboring houses and streets.  In the end, they  simply routed the water instead to spigots in the Fern Dell ranger's house, which has been lost to the passage of time.

It's too bad we no longer have the sound of a running brook here.  Still, as we saw at Franklin Canyon,  sheltered canyons in this area do support a greater variety of trees and plants than you find on the hilltops.   Chapparal scrub and stunted live oaks give way to tall sycamores, oaks, and spruce where the surrounding hills reduce the exposure to sunlight and help the plants to retain what moisture they can get.  There's usually more groundwater in these canyons, where springs are relatively common.

The lower end of the canyon features more definitely exotic plants, especially for Southern California.   Although this fine cycad looks like a palm tree of some kind, is actually a holdover from a much more primitive era of plant life.

Cycad plant at Fern Dell

While it is a seed bearer, it first evolved hundreds of millions of years before flowering plants like the true palms.  Incidentally, only one kind of palm, the Desert Fan, is native to Southern California, the rest being imports.


As we might expect, there are also actual ferns.

Lower Fern Dell

Here we also find elephant's-ear, banana, and hibiscus among other non-native plants.  Although they come from areas with warmer climates, they do well given plenty of shade and water, and are often seen in people's front gardens around town.  In fact, banana plants can be made to produce fruit here, contrary to common belief.  


Along the main road in this area is Trails Lodge, where they pour a decent cup of coffee.

Trails Lodge

When we went, it looked as if  something odd had  been happening to the birds which roost around here.

Or maybe they just hadn't taken down the Halloween decorations yet.

What do you know, there seems to be another apparition. Behind the man in a short-sleeved shirt, walking out of the picture to the right, a shadowy form seems to hover, as if just on the point of rising from the table.  Was that there when we took the picture?   I don't remember.

Leaving Fern Dell, we encounter a statue of a small bear where Fern Dell Drive meets Los Feliz Boulevard.

As the plaque informs us, it is a Cold War monument, presented to the people of Los Angeles by the people of West Berlin.  Berlin and Los Angeles are sister cities, a relationship which, at the time, was presumably recognized only by West Berliners.  A bear standing in this posture is the main design of Berlin's coat of arms, and is an example "canting" arms, since the German word for 'bear'--Behr--is pronounced very much like the first syllable of 'Berlin'.

Griffith Park: The Observatory

In this installment we begin a series of occasional posts about the attractions of Griffith Park. 

Since it was established in the mid-1930s, generations of Angelenos and tourists have come to Griffith Observatory to watch planetarium shows, look through the Zeiss 12-inch refracting telescope, and enjoy the views of the L.A. Basin.   In 1896 Col. Griffith J. Griffith, donated over 3000 acres (1291.9 ha) for the city park that bears his name, and in 1919 he bequeathed additional funding to the City for the construction of an observatory, planetarium, and Greek styled theater.

The Observatory Building

First, though, let's take a look at the building, which is a fine example of the Art Deco style varied with elements of Federal neoclassicism, and even touches of California Spanish style.  

Approaching Griffith Observatory

 By their nature, nearly all astronomical observatories are at the tops of long winding roads, and this is no exception. Situated as it is on the hilltop, the building's white color suggests a classical acropolis in a way that can't be coincidental.  Prior to the second World War, an echo of inspiration from the classics was standard for the buildings that housed schools, museums, and similar institutions like this Observatory.  Ancient Greece was considered to be the font  and origin of Western civilization and science, and of astronomy not the least.   John C. Austin, who designed this and many other local landmarks of the era, was deftly able  to heed the traditional expectation that the Observatory would be an acropolis of learning, and culture, yet at the same time avoid the use of virtually all "neo-" stylistic elements.   Here there are neither Ionic columns, nor Roman vaults, nor Gothic arches.   Instead, most of the details are Art Deco, which, given the unusual shape of this building, seems more than modern: it seems futuristic.   If we didn't know what this building was, it could almost be a backdrop from an early Star Trek episode, the kind they used to smash cut to, accompanied by an imperious trombone passage to let us know we were looking on the works of a mighty and alien civilization.

As we'll see, Griffith Observatory functions mainly as a museum of astronomy, which makes the numerous large windows unusual.   Windows can reduce a museum's interior exhibit space; yet in this case that doesn't happen.  From the inside, unless you look for clues as to how the space is divided, it's impossible to tell where the windows are.   It's hard even to be sure that they are actually windows at all, and not just blind recesses in the exterior with shades and lights that are turned on at night.

Griffith Observatory front view

Without the domes it would look like a federal government agency of some sort, like a Post Office or courthouse.

Detail of planetarium dome

A close-up examination of the dome reveals the sole concession to ancient Greece: a narrow band of simplified Greek key decoration  running around the dome, and across the top of each arch.   As a matter of fact, this decorative device runs around most of the  building. 

Further details are in keeping with that aesthetic.   The wrought iron doorway embellishments, both in front and at several side entrances provide a satisfying sense of permanence and tradition, but do not emulate any specific style.  Incidentally, the side entrances are usually unlocked, because the policy of free admission, which was once standard for museums, has been maintained here.

Griffith Observatory: Side entrance to the exhibition halls

 The Hall of Science and Planetarium

The name Hall of Science reflects the simple dignity with which museums branded their exhibit spaces in the early twentieth century.  


The Foucault pendulum is one of the best known exhibits in the hall.

The famous Foucault pendulum

Because of the Earth's rotation, the direction of the pendulum's swing seems to rotate, making a full circle approximately every one and three-quarter days.   A pendulum's period of rotation is a function of its latitude, and varies from a minimum of 24 hours at either Pole to infinity at the Equator.

Overhead is a typical example of public art from the 1930s, although naturally with an astronomical theme.

 

Among other things, we see signs of the Zodiac, notably Taurus accompanied by the Pleiades, who, with their halos, look more like a half-dozen Early Christian saints than the daughters of Atlas.  Atlas himself is seen holding up the sky.  As we all know, Atlas was punished, for something or other, by being made to hold up the heavens for all eternity.   One day, however, Hercules passed by, on the commute to his next Labor, and Atlas nearly succeeded in tricking him to take over that holding-up-the-sky gig.   Wouldn't you just know it, though:  Hercules said, "Atlas!  Dude!  Could you just hold up the spheres of the heavens for one more minute while I re-arrange my lion pelt to cushion the load on my shoulders?  I swear, it'll only take one minute if that."  Atlas very obligingly did so, and before he knew where he was, Hercules was already on his way down the road, chuckling to himself about that dumb ox Atlas.   
Other prominent exhibits include the 12-inch refracting telescope, a current and continuous view of the Sun, magnified and projected on a screen in the hall, and a large periodic table of the elements, comprising samples of the actual elements.

Carbon.  I thought there was a diamond in here, somewhere.

This part of the exhibit also shows some of the noble gases, which are sealed in tubes and subjected to an electric current, causing them to glow in their characteristic colors.


For example, here's krypton.

Krypton

And here's helium.

Helium

While we're here it would be nice to show what a typical planetarium show looks like, but that's not really easy to do on a blog.  But here's a screen shot from an excellent freeware program called Celestia.

The Northern Sky

Even in 1935 local skies were too beset with light pollution to allow serious work in optical astronomy.  Instead, the Observatory's role has been mainly to inspire and educate the public, both through planetarium lectures and through allowing visitors to peer through the telescope at bright objects like the Moon and planets. Even so, the institution is run by qualified astronomers, and it does occasionally take on more serious work. For example, during World War II, military pilots came here to study celestial navigation, as did the astronauts in the Apollo program a couple of decades later.   

Outdoor Exhibits and Views

Prominent outdoor exhibits include the Astronomers' Monument, sundials, and a scale map of the Solar System.   A monument to James Dean is one of the newer additions.


The Astronomers' Monument honors several great astronomers including Johannes Kepler, Galileo Galilei, Nicholas Copernicus, Hipparchus, William Herschel, and Isaac Newton.

Astronomers Monument

The team of sculptors responsible for this monument were commissioned as part of the Public Works of Art Project, a Depression-era program that was part of President Roosevelt's New Deal. If the way the statues are posed looks familiar, it's probably because one of the artists on the team was George Stanley, who had designed the Oscar statuette a few years before.

The Solar System Diagram is in the grand tradition of embedding in pavements things to edify and amuse us.

Solar System Layout

It is rather well done at that.

Unlike  a typical garden sundial, the Armillary Sundial  can tell  you the time down to the minute.  You can set your watch by it.  It's possible to see the gnomon's shadow moving much like the minute hand of a large clock.

Armillary Sundial

The James Dean monument is in honor of the movie Rebel Without A Cause, a key sequence of which was filmed here.

The James Dean Statue

Rebel Without A Cause is without doubt a classic, and James Dean's performance in it is legendary.  However, the administrators of the Observatory had an additional, special reason for honoring the late actor, explained in the plaque on the plinth. 

Among other things, it points out that, while many movies have been filmed here, RWAC was the first one to portray the observatory as what it is, and to contribute positively to its international reputation.   


The views from the Observatory's terraces are renowned, and in recent decades more so since the problem of smog, and especially the visible, brown kind, has been very much abated.


Here's a view to the southwest, showing the ocean in the distance.  

And this is looking toward downtown L.A.

Winter 1923 Los Angeles High School Semi-Annual

For some reason I can't quite fathom, I have a fascination for old public schools.  I'm not a teacher or anything else connected with the system, and my own school days were nothing spectacular.  It seems that the entire process was nothing more than a lengthy preparation for university, and it often seems that I learned absolutely nothing in the entire eleven years (I skipped a grade) that I haven't found out for myself elsewhere, usually from books.  

It might have something to do with the fact that so much of the physical structure of Los Angeles has changed in the past 100 years.   Few commercial enterprises from the 19th Century have survived to the present day, but there are numerous schools in the L.A. Unified School District that have survived, including Los Angeles High School, founded in 1873--or, as they used to style it through the early 20th Century, The Los Angeles High School.  That's not to say it still has any of the old buildings from 1873, or even that it's on the same site.  But it does still have the continuity of existence, extending over 137 years, which is rare in this town.

One day, I went to visit the LAHS library, just to look at old yearbooks.  To be precise, they weren't yearbooks in the early days, but Semi-Annuals, since there used to be Winter and Summer graduating classes each year.  On my way back to the car, I happened on a small bungalow where they were selling old Semi-Annuals for $5, to fund an Alumni Memorial or something like that.  I plunked an Abe Lincoln down on the table and came away the proud owner of my very own copy of the LAHS Winter '23 Semi Annual.

The first item in the book is the Principal's Message.

And a picture of the good Dr. Housh opposite:

Those most familiar with this view of a principal's desk do not generally count it among their fondest memories.  Even the good kids don't usually like the principal very much..  But William Harvey Housh seems to have been able to strike just the right note with everybody.  Over the years of his tenure, he persuaded the Board of the need to fund successively bigger buildings as the High School enrollment ballooned from 300 to 3000.   Looking back on his era, from the early 1890s to the mid-1920s, it seems to have been more commonly assumed that young people were innately depraved reprobates and in need of constant homily, badgering, and punishment to keep them in line.  Housh, by contrast, succeeded by believing in and trusting the kids, which was explained in a 1925 Times article.  After he retired, grateful alumni of more than two decades clubbed together to present Housh and his wife with a round-the-world cruise.

In those days graduating from high school was still a very big deal.  The class of W '23 expressed this metaphorically as a boat finally reaching the shore.

 

Ye Ship Of Class hath reached the shore!

It's true that high school student dropout rates are still a big concern even today; yet even that comes with the notion that if you do at least show up, passing and graduating is a snap. The kids who do drop out do so because they don't show up, and the reasons they don't show up are largely external to the school itself. Looking at this Semi-Annual, though, you get the impression the work was very demanding in 1923.   I think there may be something to that; it seems that everyone had to read Chaucer at some point, and a great many of the students took Latin or Greek.

Not far into the book, there's this ode to the school.  With due respect, because I'm sure the writer tried very hard, the overall effect one of great clumsiness in the effort to uphold the rhyme and meter.

O'erlooking all our city wide and fair,
   Not far from mighty Neptune's ceaseless roar,
   Upon that very place where long before,
The mammoth roamed and tiger had his lair.


I think it's the "O'erlooking" in the opening that makes me groan first, and then the nearly obligatory reference to Classical mythology in the next line.   After that it's that place, the mammoth, and then simply tiger.   Anything to force it into the meter.  And so it goes on, now with the painfully awkward lines:


You stand, dear L.A., lifting high in air
   Your tower; the pride of all who by your door
   Have entered, and at last, to come no more 
Will pass into the world of joy and care.

What's wrong with joy and care?  Probably it's the fact that we would have expected her to choose two exact opposites, and those two words don't meet that criterion.  But she had to find something to rhyme with that air in the first line of the stanza.


This is what Latin, inappropriately applied to English does.  Latin usually doesn't have articles, so this writer has omitted them at will to force the meter. This is too much sorrow to go on thinking about, so we'll move on.

In 1879 the students founded the Star And Crescent Society.  At first every student was considered a member, but over the years the lower grades were excluded so that by this time only the seniors were considered members, along with the alumni.   On the day before graduation, every graduating student was presented with a Star And Crescent pin.  S&C is still mentioned in in the school's 1935 Student Handbook, but it appears to have sputtered out during World War II, or shortly thereafter.


Is it possible that a student organization that styled itself The Star And Crescent Society would ping anyone's radar today?

Early on, this organization was the student government of the school.  Some of this role was gradually taken over by Greek-letter fraternities, until the early 1900s, when a state law was passed banning fraternities and sororities in the public schools.  At that time a more recognizable form of student government was instituted.


By 1923, each gender of the senior class had a Senior Board, which was the basis of student government.

Holmes Bowers was the student body president. William McQuaid's also name comes up quite a bit, so he was evidently a big man on campus.   Evidently, in those days Dame Fashion dictated that young men should try to look as much like Herbert Hoover as possible.

Instead of taking group pictures of the student organizations, the editors of this book simply reused the senior class pictures from elsewhere in the book.   This system had some definite merits.  Today there are millions of people who attended high school in the 1970s and now regret the group pictures of them in high-rise bell bottoms that still exist in their yearbooks.  Re-using the head shots avoided all that sort of thing.



It's evident from the copy above that someone had gotten agitated about smoking.  It's remarkable how little things change.  From the joke section, there's this:

Officer, arrest that man!  I think he's thinking of smoking.

Not too much ahead of its time, at that!


Here's the Senior-A class history, and there's that sea-voyage reference again:

  The reference to Jade and Silver is to class colors.  I don't know if anyone still does this in high school; I don't believe we did in the 1970s.  A century ago class colors were a very serious matter.  One of the earliest Semi-Annuals, from around 1899, recounts that on the occasion of a Field Day--a sort of intramural track and field meet--one of the junior classes inadvertently adopted, for the day, the same colors as the senior class.  Just for that, they were presented with a beating by the seniors, or, as they put it, the seniors "adorned our optics with the more somber shades of black and blue."   (Evidently the beatings hadn't diminished their general level of wit and their ability to turn a phrase.)  Although I would rather that nobody got a beating at all, I do hope the seniors spared the girls of the lower grade.  Today, just about the only people who will stomp you  over their colors are outlaw bikers.  

As noted above there's a picture of every graduating senior, accompanied by three humorous tidbits: Natural Gift, Acquired Trick, and Future Accomplishment.  

 
Note the name I have partially censored on the lower left: Lambert B_____.   His Natural Gift and Acquired Trick, respectively, are  "His wisdom" and "Acting".  His future accomplishment is "Managing B_____ Brothers", a prominent Downtown Los Angeles furniture store which continued into the early 1980s.   Wouldn't you just know it.  Clearly some people made no bones about advertising their family connections.   His picture is in the upper row of head shots, at the extreme right.   From the looks of him, I think he was the president of the school Geriatric Club, to be a member of which you had to look at least thirty years older than you actually were. 

Be that as it may, it's clear the students put a great deal of work into this book.  Comments on individual students were par for the course in those days. Even more unsettling is the fact that some yearbooks listed every student's home address.  I've seen one example of that from the same era, but that was in another school in another city.

Advertising

As with most school yearbooks, the editors of this one sold advertising.  As is also typical of any old publication, the nuisances of today become the interesting ephemera of days gone by, and there is probably no better example of that than old print advertisements. We have a modest selection of examples below.

Eat the Best

We can't help but notice the ad copy.  It seems to be telling us that if and when we happen to be one of those life forms that need food to sustain themselves, we should shun all but the best foods.  Others who didn't need food to survive were not the target market of this ad.   Also there's the fact that it tells us merely that M.A. Newmark sells "food".  Did I mention they sold food?  They did!  But what kind we don't know--it could have been anything from ginger snaps to sides of beef to Marmite.

M.A. Newmark's father Harris published his well known memoir in 1913--Sixty Years In Southern California. 

Capitol Milling went back to 1883, and the antecedents that merged to form it went back well before that.  According to records of one form or another, flour milling at this location goes back even to the days of Mexican rule.  Today the company still exists, but ceased using its North Downtown facility  in 1991, and that now serves as a filming location.   

Capitol Milling 

Several of the advertisements were for business colleges.   This was a good way for graduates to make themselves useful in an office, in an era when most high school graduates didn't go on to obtain bachelor's degrees. 

Doesn't taste great, and filling too.

In case you can't read the copy, the school offers among its many courses one in "Filling and Indexing".  Maybe it's just me, but I'd tend to avoid a business college that doesn't know how to spell the word "filing."   Or maybe filling is the name of some now-forgotten office task that was considered essential at the time.  Filling boxes perhaps?  Or maybe it was  filling inkwells.

Germain's held forth at Sixth and Main, opposite the Pacific Electric building, providing its customers the best in domestic fauna and flora. The PE Building  was was the main Red Car terminal in those far-off, pre-freeway days.

What's that you say?  A pet shop--or, as the owner styled it, a Pet Shoppe--at 6th and Main, and across the street from the main mass transit hub? That's a clear demonstration of how different the downtown L.A. of 1923 was from that of the late 20th Century.   What's more, in the 1920s, businesses could still use the "shoppe" spelling in a completely non-ironic and non-derisive way.

Germain's Pette Shoppe  is long gone, but the building it was located in survives.

Germain's Pet Shoppe today

  
And so does the Pacific Electric building across the street.   Cole's was founded in 1906, and is tied with Philippe's as the city's oldest restaurant. 

Pacific Electric or Subway Terminal Building

The upper floors of both buildings are now residential lofts.  As for Philippe's and Cole's, the debate as to which one invented the French Dip beef sandwich rages on, and probably always will.

Mass Media Artwork

The late 19th and early 20th Centuries saw the creation  of numerous advertising logos, and commercial artists and cartoonists often followed this lead in creating the personal logos with which they signed their work.  The yearbook is clearly a product of its time in this regard. 

Charles Philippi graduated from LAHS in 1915 and had become a well known cartoonist by 1923.  Given the somewhat exotic name and considering the geography involved, it appears that he was the same C. Philippi who later did artwork for Walt Disney in the early Silly Symphony animated shorts.   He would continue working for Disney until the late 1950s.

He was probably the inspiration for one Minerva Ellis, who tried to come with her own logo when she signed this book for the owner.

Minerva Ellis poem and logo

From both of the examples above, it seems that lunar motifs were highly popular in commercial iconography.  Procter and Gamble's famous crescent moon logo goes back to the 19th Century, but elicited protests by some misguided Christians who believed they could make out the number 666, and other satanic iconography, in the curls of the man's hair and beard.  This opinion was in no way  held by most Christians, much less by non-Christians, but responding to the protests had become so troublesome that the logo was changed in 1985.

On the other hand,  Miller Brewing has recently revived its Girl In The Moon logo for its High Life brand of bottled beer.

LAHS 50th Anniversary

Because 1923 was the 50th anniversary of the school's existence, there is quite a bit of remembrance of things past here. Several prominent alumni are featured in short biographies. 


Homer Lea graduated from the school in 1901. Though afflicted with hunchback from an early age, he enjoyed an active childhood and youth, for example accompanying friends on hiking and camping trips to the San Bernardino Mountains.   After attending Occidental College for one year, it's told that he somehow managed to get an appointment to the US Military Academy at West Point, but was dismissed after one year for health reasons.  According to other accounts he never entered West  Point at all.  Whether he ever attended West Point or not is beside the point; his brilliance as a military strategist would not be hindered.   Leaving West Point, he entered Stanford where he studied military history and also became enamored of the Chinese culture.   In books published decades before the events, he predicted the rise of the Japanese Pacific empire as well as a resurgent and militant Germany.  

Eventually he became a general in the Chinese Republican army who was instrumental in bringing down the monarchy.  When Dr. Sun Yat-Sen was sworn in as the country's first President, Lea was the sole white man in attendance.

The redoubtable Homer Lea

The rest of Homer Lea's  story can be read here.

Marshall Stimson attended the school in the early 1890s, and is shown here with the football team he captained.  It isn't clear which player he is unless  we can presume that the captain would be holding the football.  As the text states, in those days  the high school customarily played against the local colleges and the Normal School, because there were no other high schools in the region.   The year 1895 in the text is probably a misprint, because the '93 which these players have written onto various articles of clothing--including a derby--must be their class year.  

Notice the lack of protective padding, and the football which quite a bit fatter than today's football.   This wasn't the "oblate spheroid" to which Howard Cosell was always referring.  This was the Obese Spheroid.   Not surprisingly, the spiral throw was still over a dozen years away, by which time the football had become narrower and much like today's.   In fact, the throwing style was quite different, sometimes being done with the throwing hand cupped around the end of the ball, which was then heaved in a sort of roundhouse motion.

In later life he attended Harvard and became a prominent attorney and local politician.

Greayer Clover graduated in 1916, and soon interrupted his Yale education to fight in the first World War, first for France and then for the United States.  Training as an aviator, he lost his life during a practice run.

  
The last couple of paragraphs can be read here.   What would eventually be known as Santa Monica Airport was renamed Clover Field in 1923.   As so often happens when large infrastructure projects are named for individuals, the honor did not prove to be permanent.   Santa Monica today has only one extant trace of this man whose name was once given to one of the largest general aviation airports in the region: Cloverfield Avenue.  Not one person in a hundred knows the story behind that name--until now.