Thrifting my life away

Santa Clara University, which no longer plays football, never played Army (as in West Point) in football, but did play a West Coast Army-base team. This poster advertised the contest.

By John Murphy

Last week I perused the Internet and read about a guy who visited a SoCal thrift store and found a valuable gaming consul.

I don’t care about gaming, but I’ve done a lot of thrifting.

I’ve found some unique items. At a Goodwill in Watsonville, I found a Western sports coat from Nudie’s in Hollywood that belonged to Allan Funt of Candid Camera fame. How do I know? His name is inside it.  Further research shows that after leaving Tinsel Town, Funt moved to the Monterey area, which is near Watsonville.

Back in the 1980s I bought a Western sport coat at a Watsonville thrift store that formerly belonged to Allan Funt of Candid Camera fame.

Other unusual items I bought for a pittance were a leather Vietnam-era flight jacket and a San Francisco Giants’ usherette’s coat from the 1960s (I sold that to a guy from New York for $100).

I’ve also hit my share of flea markets. The coolest things I’ve found are paper products – a Santa Clara vs. Army football poster for a game at Seals Stadium; an advertisement for Lefty O’Doul Day, also at Seals Stadium; and a cool Big-Time wrestling poster from the 1960s featuring greats such as Ray Stevens, Pepper Gomez, “Man Mountain” Mike, Kinji Shibuya, Mr. Saito, and Dr. Bill Miller.

Just thinking about Ray Stevens repeatedly calling Walt Harris a “pencil neck” makes me smile.

I fondly recall hearing Ray Stevens call TV wrestling announcer Walt Harris a “pencil neck” and Dr. Bill Miller losing his mind when Harris suggested that he was “only a veterinarian.” Oooh, that had to sting.  

A recent acquisition I made from the American Cancer Society Discovery Store in Redlands is a Ken Griffey Jr. bobblehead. It commemorates Junior’s San Bernardino Spirit days. Rotolo Chevrolet and the Inland Empire 66ers gave them out. I’m not sure what to do with it, but I got a good deal.    

 Not sure what to do with this find, but the price was right.

Sunday spooktacular

A hearst driven by a skeleton on your front lawn? Yes, in Smiley Park.

By John Murphy

September is a transitional month.

Summer ends and fall begins.

Leaves fall and get crushed underfoot.

Like UCLA football.

Talk about a dead-man’s party … here’s a stiff in a coffin, showed off by a pair of skeletons.

It also means Halloween is coming.

Costumes to make, candy to buy.

Dentist appointments to schedule.

In the Smiley Park district of Redlands,

it’s also decoration time.

Enjoy … if you dare.  

This homeowner’s idea of a sustainable garden includes a black widow spider, skeletons, and Jack-o-lanterns.

Morning rush

A row of palm trees — low-hanging fruit for an amateur photographer.

By John Murphy

I got four hours of sleep Thursday night, so I feel like a million dollars. Or at least half a mil.

I got up, finished writing a story, and watched some news. By 6 a.m. I was on my way from Highland to Redlands for my morning walk.

Eureka to Terracina and back is my groove. The sun isn’t up, but runners with reflective clothes whiz by.

I have my Spotify tuned to Alt Country, as usual. Son Volt, Guy Clark, Steve Earle … the usual suspects.

I pass the Olive Avenue Market. It has a sign in the window saying, “First Stater Bros. store, 1937.” I knew this at one point but forgot.    

McKinley School, a treasure for the poor to find (as Townes Van Zandt would say).

McKinley School is on the left. It opened in 1904, a year before the Giants’ Christy Mathewson punked the A’s three times in the World Series. Mathewson went 31-9 that year, which probably earned him a pay cut.  

I pass cute bungalows, palm trees, and an orange grove. The owner of a large mansion peddles oranges at $5 a bag. “Thank you for being honest,” the sign says.

As Steve Earle sings “Pancho and Lefty,” beads of sweat form on my brow. I’m into a good groove now. The blocks pass – Lakeside, Norwood, and Hastings. Walking is the best.  

I cannot pass the Morey Mansion without taking 4-5 photos. In fact, I think it’s a law.

Finally, I reach Terracina, at the top of the hill. The sun is up and provides warmth. I take a jog to the right and head for the Morey Mansion. I’m drawn to its beauty and photogenic qualities.   

I take 4-5 snaps and then trudge ahead. Past the Redlands Medical Center and Redlands Community Hospital. A nurse, slipping her cell phone into her purse, exits her car. Her day has just begun.  

I’m barely halfway through, but the stroll has already served its purpose. I’ve already exercised, de-stressed, and heard some good tunes. It’s a good day.  

Squirrels do their thing on Olive Avenue.

3 a.m. blues

By John Murphy

Have you seen the classic horror film, “The Amityville Horror”?

Every morning George Lutz played by James Brolin bolts awake at 3:15 a.m. There is a meaning to this. Several years earlier, Ronald “Butch” DeFeo killed his entire family with a rifle at 3:15 a.m. at their home of 112 Ocean Avenue in Amityville, New York.

Sometimes I feel like poor George Lutz who bought the DeFeo home. For many years I have woken up at 3 a.m. It’s a drag. Sometimes I go back to sleep, but sometimes not.

I went to the doctor, a guy named Jesus. He’s a Dodger fan and gives me a hard time about the Giants. I don’t like him.  

But seriously, Jesus says caffeine stays in the system for like eight hours so I can’t have coffee after mid-day. Boo. He also says no naps. Fortunately, he has not outlawed ice cream. If he does, I have no reason to live.   

Besides, the 3 a.m. thing works with my job. As a freelance writer, I can get up and write to my heart’s content. The CalTrans Girl is not yet awake. She won’t come in and say, “What did you do to the icemaker?” Or, “What is this spill by the refrigerator?”

Nope, I can just pour a cup of java, put on some classical music (it makes me feel smarter) and write. In fact, I credit insomnia with some of my best work. And at no time was I warned, “FOR GOD’S SAKE, GET OUT!”

Another one bites the dust

The Crescent City Harbor, as seen from the Battery Point Lighthouse.

By John Murphy

Yesterday I was surprised to learn the Del Norte Triplicate newspaper in Crescent City has closed.

The Triplicate was one of California’s oldest small-town papers, founded in 1879. It served the northern-most county in the state.

My significant other in the late 1980s was from Ashland, Oregon. Ashland is a beautiful town, not far from the California border. It is home to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and Southern Oregon University. It also boasts Lithia Park, designed by the same guy who laid out San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park.  

Anyway, my significant other had relatives in Crescent City and one day we visited them. It was a long, winding trek out to the coast. We had lunch with them, and they loaded us up with smoked salmon. Good stuff. I’m sure I must have read the Del Norte Triplicate while I was there. I’m sure it was a fine publication.  

I knew someone who worked at The Triplicate in the early 1990s. She was the ex-girlfriend of a friend. She was on a bummer after the break-up and took a job at the Triplicate. She’d get off work and drink wine and knock herself out with Sominex every night, then go to work the next day. That’s no way to live, kids.  

The name Crescent City popped up again a few years later when I landed at the Victor Valley Daily Press. There was a kid boxer in Victorville, who was knocking everyone out. I wrote a story about him. Seems his older brother murdered someone and was locked up at Pelican Bay State Prison in Crescent City. I heard all about the notorious super max and its infamous “SHU” (solitary housing units).

At Pelican Bay, 1,500 occupants of the SHU spend 22.5 hours a day alone in windowless cells that are 7 by 11 feet. The other 90 minutes they get to exercise in concrete pens. It’s no picnic.

The greatest wish of the grandmother of the young Victorville boxer was to be able to buy a van so the family could drive to Crescent City to visit their inmate grandson. Sad.    

Well, the Del Norte Triplicate is gone now, shuttered the way so many other small papers have been. Not enough subscribers or advertisers … the typical lament.

There is the usual handwringing about the community losing an important watchdog – someone to keep an eye on the unscrupulous politicians and other charlatans who will surely run wild with no reporter to watch them.  

That’s all good if the newspaper is really a watchdog. But in my experience too many are so stripped to the bone, that all they’re watching is the bottom line. It’s almost enough to make me reach for a glass of wine and a Sominex.  

See you around campus

The University of Redlands campus — as pretty as a postcard.

By John Murphy

Tuesday before my prep events, I headed to the University of Redlands for a stroll.

I did not have our dog Mia, the Maltese Poodle. CalTrans Girl does not allow me to walk her in 97-degree weather. Hard to understand.

But that was OK because when Mia is along she only goes where she wants. If she doesn’t want to walk somewhere, she’ll lean all her weight to one side and dare me to yank her the other way. Since dragging a poodle by the neck across concete is a bad look, I usually avoid it.

The University chapel is a sight to behold.

The U of Redlands chapel was wide open and I walked in. “Hey, how’s it going?” I said to a custodian who was plugging in a vacuum cleaner. As Michael Keaton said in “The Paper” ” … “a clipboard and a confident air will get you anywhere.”

I took some photos of the lovely (did I just say “lovely?”) stained glass and other parts of the interior and dallied a while. You don’t see something like this every day. Then I forged ahead.

Currier Gymnasium — a local treasure.

Well, everyone’s been to the University of Redlands so I don’t think I need to explain … the wondrous and antiquated Currier Gym, the majestic administration building with its impressive columns;  the Bulldog in the sarape statue, showing its ethnic diversity; the La Fourcade Community Garden with its gurgling waterfall and ponds with brightly colored fish; and a butterfly-shaped bench with a placard saying, “Service Above Self. Marilyn Solter ’59. Bulldog Forever.”

I could go on, but I have important Netflix programs to watch and perhaps a nap to take. The University of Redlands campus, just like the rest of the city, is beautiful. If you have an hour or so some afternoon, check it out … with a confident air, of course.   

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The La Fourcade Community Garden with a waterfall and ponds dotted with brightly colored fish is an unexpected surprise.

Orange Blossom tale

Pink flowers grow between remnants of the old Kite-Shaped Track from the early 1900s. The rails were forged in Germany.

By John Murphy

Monday afternoon I left Highland, crossed the wash, and wound up on Grove Street in Redlands. My goal was to walk a portion of the Orange Blossom Trail.  

The 7.5-mile trail was built in 2014 and runs across the city. But it was 95 degrees, so I only walked a portion. Along with me were roots rockers Son Volt, Lucinda Williams, Townes Van Zandt, and Roy Orbison. The Orb didn’t feel much like walking, but I insisted.

The sun beat down on this cloudless day. Nobody was around, save for a guy on a 10-speed collecting empties.

Highlights of my trek were remnants of the Kite-Shaped Track railroad built in 1907, and the Mill Creek Zanja dug by indigenous people in 1819. That’s about when I started writing sports.     

The track from the railroad, forged in Germany, was visible. Plants peeked through and butterflies floated about. I took a long pull off a bottle of water. It tasted good.  

Colorful murals break up the monotony of the trail.

Off to the left is a wall separating the trail from a trailer park. Colorful murals dominate, portraying the University of Redlands, the Museum of Redlands, and the Redlands Asistencia. I took some photos.  

More intriguing are the remnants of the railroad which helped popularize Redlands in the early 20th century. There are wood pilings from the old set-up rising out of the Zanja. Peer closely and you see the date on an old concrete truss that says 1916. Wow.

The old truss says “1916” — three years before the White Sox dumped the World Series. :

The miles passed and the music poured through my headphones. Warren Zevon sang “Carmelita.” The sweat flowed.

Before long I reached the end of the trail and returned. A grizzled guy in an Angels’ cap walked by but didn’t make eye contact.

Walking is pleasant and relieves stress. It loosens my brain and makes me more creative. Maybe.

A cooling breeze arose toward the end or my trek. And Son Volt provided the commentary:  

“May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind take your troubles away
Both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel
May the wind take your troubles away.”  

Cactus blossom rising above the wall separating the Orange Blossom Trail from the trailer park.

My first day at The Sun

A sweet vintage ride winds its way through the downtown, just like so many did on Sept. 15, 2000 — my first day at the San Bernardino Sun.

By John Murphy

Monday, Sept. 15 is the 25th anniversary of my first day at the San Bernardino Sun.

I know this, because my son Kyle was born the day before. Looking back, I should have asked my new boss Paul Oberjuerge for three months of paternity leave. I’m sure he would have agreed.

That first day at the Sun was a Friday. A football Friday. As things turned out, I probably should have started on a Monday.

To wit:  

Arrive at the Cajon High football stadium to cover the Cowboys vs. Apple Valley … Amazed there are no game programs nor printed rosters anywhere, I say to the Cajon principal, “How is that a program of your stature doesn’t have a roster for either team anywhere in the stadium?” … 15 minutes later, the principal emerges from the school and hands me two crisp rosters. So far, so good.

Cajon dominates and wins by a lot. I interview the coaches and Cajon star Exnor Cox and then head for downtown San Bernardino to file my story.

Cajon is a fair distance from the old Sun, but I arrive downtown in short order only to learn – NO! — the Route 66 Rendezvous is in full swing.  There is old-time rock ‘n’ roll blaring and 1000s of shiny vintage cars circling the downtown and cutting off my access to the paper. I’m screwed.

I wind up parking somewhere beyond Seccombe Lake, a mile or so east of DTSB. Next thing I know, I’m sprinting toward the downtown like I’m Jesse Owens – that is, if Jesse Owens is an overweight, poorly conditioned white guy.    

Finally, I arrive at the venerable newspaper but remember that I don’t yet have a key. Crap. So I track down a worker at the Sun’s Route 66 booth and she walks me over to the building and lets me in. Whew.

Finally, I start writing and bang out the story, though I’m sure it’s not Pulitzer-worthy. Soon, our boss is handing out Twinkies for another Friday night football challenge met. Smiles all around.

That would have been it – except now I have to get my car. So I head back toward Seccombe Lake and look around for a while and … CAN’T FIND MY CAR!

How does one lose a 1989 Oldsmobile Delta 88 that is roughly the size of a small airplane? Not sure, but I did it.  

So now I’m walking again, and this time in the opposite direction. I wind up way the hell out on Waterman at a Circle K. It’s near midnight and I need a ride home and San Berdoo creatures of the evening are lurking. So I do the logical thing and call a cab. To get home. On my first day. You can’t make this stuff up.

Well, my father-in-law is amused to hear this tale and agrees to drive me back the next day to hunt for my rig. Thankfully, we find it.  

Then my Cajon vs. Apple Valley story is published and all is good … until Cajon football coach Rich Imbriani calls and says I shorted poor Exnor Cox by 100 yards. Double crap. But Imbriani is exceedingly nice about it and doesn’t call me a dumbshit and I’ve liked him ever since.  

Well, that’s it. My first day. It was a nightmare, but I’m glad I muddled through it because my Sun days were important to me. In fact, a quarter-century removed I wouldn’t change a thing – though I’d likely tweak that trainwreck of a first day.

Blast from the past

By John Murphy

Last night I tore apart a filing cabinet seeking a document that refused to be found.

But I did locate a letter dated July 25, 1995, from one Bill Akers of Aptos, California.

I know Akers. He was an OG who sat near me at my first full-time newspaper job in Watsonville in the 1980s.

“Dear John,” Akers began. “It was heartwarming to learn that some of the culture you were exposed to in the Pajaronian newsroom has stayed with you. Although you are long removed from the Pajaro Valley in time and distance, you are still able to write a column using such words as bemusement, incarcerated, incongruous, reprobate, and ne’er-do-well.”

Spoiler alert, I was busted driving 85 mph (allegedly) through the Antelope Valley one summer day, prompting the gendarme to inform me that “We don’t allow people to drive that fast down here.”

Down here? Hmmm, maybe I was rocking a Giants’ ballcap because it’s apparent there was an anti-Bay Area bias at work.

The late Akers really got a kick out of my misfortune because he continued, “Further proof that you have the makings of a gentleman was that you appeared in court ‘nattily attired,’ although you failed to mention a necktie. You did wear a necktie to court, didn’t you?”

Um, no.  

“I would suggest you look to O.J. Simpson as an example of what a tailored suit, clean shirt and tasteful necktie can do for one’s image,” Akers continued. “However, when I suggest him as a role model, I am speaking only sartorially; I do not necessarily endorse his method of solving domestic disputes.”

And so it went. Quipster OG Akers up in Santa Cruz County, shredding me like I was a Pleasure Point wave. He wasn’t done, either.

Akers: “It was a little disturbing to note that you still have some of the scofflaw in you. This was evident in your pique at having been ticketed for going 85 mph in a 55 mph zone. Seventy-five, perhaps, but 85 was excessive. The constable did the only thing he could do.”

OK, I get it. I was a tad heavy on the gas pedal. I admit it. But I’ve paid my debt to society.

But seriously, it was nice to hear from the aged wordsmith Bill Akers 30 years ago. And, yes, it was a bonus to be surrounded by such top journalists early in my career. I just wish they weren’t all so damned observant.

The perfect photo

By John Murphy

This photo is AI-generated of course, since I do not have access to Sun photos from 2001.

Today is 9-11.

Back on Sept. 11, 2001 I was in my second year as the prep editor at the San Bernardino Sun. I was really just a sportswriter, but my predecessor Louis Amestoy thought “prep editor” sounded better, so I went with it.

That horrible day in 2001 was a Tuesday and the attacks happened early in the morning. By the time the second plane hit, I knew it was no coincidence.

Tuesdays during the prep football season were routine. Everything pointed toward the Friday morning edition when a full-page “Game of the Week” spread appeared. It included a graphic with the starting offensive and defensive lineups for each team — let’s say Eisenhower vs. Fontana for example.

I started work on the graphic early in the week, obtaining the starting lineups from the coaches. We also ran a short feature on a player from one of the schools. Then on Wednesdays and Thursdays I wrote a general preview on the game and detailed capsules of six other top games around the area. That required 15-minute calls to 12 different coaches. It was exhausting work but necessary in that pre-MaxPreps era.

Then 9-11 happened and threw a wrench into the whole damned works — as it did for all of America. Like I suppose many prep guys across the nation, I spent much of the day calling the dozens of high schools in our coverage area and asking if the school planned to play on Friday, or if they would cancel out of respect to the fallen.

Most schools forged ahead with their plans, firm in their resolve that terrorists were not going to permanently strike fear in the lives of Americans, nor upset our routines and traditions.

The full-time Sun sportswriters and army of stringers that covered Friday night’s games always eagerly anticipated Saturday’s sports section. Most secretly took pride in making the tight deadline and seeing their byline in print.

That Saturday the pride really swelled when we saw the section’s main photo. The beautiful color shot was of the Rialto High team ready to charge onto the field, led by a player holding an American flag. It was the perfect photo.