November, 2014:


Los Angeles is full of wild critters: coyotes, mountain lions, black bears, skunks, raccoons, and mule deer, for instance. I’ve been here since 1965, but am always surprised about the natural aspects of Los Angeles. Many of our visitors don’t realize the scope of life here. We have a population of nearly 13 million, for instance. Interestingly, our statistics indicate that we only have 7,500 people per square mile, while New York City has 27,500 and Chicago has 11,800 folks per square mile. Of course our land area, just in the metropolitan LA area, is 4,850 square miles and that doesn’t include some of the outlying areas.

Being surrounded by mountains and lots of open space, Southern California is alive with wild animals (and I don’t mean young “cool cats,” etc., in Hollywood). Black bears come down from the mountains, especially in spring, for visits. They take a break in pools and hot tubs, break into refrigerators and freezers in garages, and easily discover when trash day is scheduled so they can steal food. If we two-legged animals spot them, chances are they’ll head for a tree when pursued. Animal control agents might use tranquilizer guns before they drive these fuzzy creatures back into the mountains. It doesn’t stop the bears; one of them that was relocated 50 miles away came back again the next year. The neighbors in the area he preferred even had a nickname for him — Meatball — since he preferred Costco frozen meatballs from a freezer he broke into. He finally had to be relocated to the San Diego County Sanctuary. Before that he had become quite the media star.

Malibu Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains  is full of wildlife.

Malibu Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains is full of wildlife. Photo by Heidi Giraud

Mountain lions are prevalent and most parks and hiking trails will have signs warning people to make themselves look bigger with arms extended, for instance, when encountering one. An unlucky biker was a target and died from a mountain lion attack a few years ago. These critters are very resourceful – one of them negotiated the flood channels (formally known as rivers) near Santa Monica and ended up in a small shopping center one morning; a male mountain lion found his way across five freeways to make his home in spacious Griffith Park. He was tagged P-22 and was in the news. He was videoed strolling along streets in the Hollywood Hills about 5 a.m. Was he looking for food or a mate? Nobody had a chance to interview him!

Behind a fence, a Coyote checks things out

Behind a fence, a Coyote checks things out

Coyotes are everywhere. Out in Malibu Lake in the Santa Monica Mountains, you can expect to see coyotes strolling around and perhaps peering through your glass patio door. Any residential areas near the mountains will enjoy coyote song during the night—their howling choruses remind me of a scary movie or a Stephen King book! Residents keep their cats and little dogs inside if they don’t want them to become a meal. Mule deer wander the hills as do raccoons and rattlesnakes. I had a brief encounter with a raccoon a few blocks from my apartment. He may have come from the nearby flood channel, which is blocked off from humans (who still insist on trying to ride the river when there’s a major rain storm, despite the danger).

The skies are full of hawks of various types and owls. When I do see hawks making lazy circles in the sky, I am reminded of the song from the musical “Oklahoma.” I had no idea wild owls could have such a wide wing span or look so imposing until I saw one on a mountain road devouring a recent kill. Sometimes, we can spot a flock of exotic parrots in the San Fernando Valley. There are 13 species of wild parrots in LA. Apparently they were once pets and were let go for one reason or another. During the 1961 fire in Bel Air (Nixon had a home there, which burned), firemen let pet parrots go because there was no time to save them. Others may have come from the Busch Gardens Park in Van Nuys, which was closed down in the late 1970s as the Anheuser-Busch brewery grew. The bird sanctuary was the last to go, but no one seems to know how so many parrots got away. Perhaps it was too much trouble to find them homes.

Seagulls, which prey on beachgoers for food, also fly in from the nearby ocean to see what tasty morsels can be had inland. While having a nice meal at Gladstone’s off Pacific Coast Highway on the beach, I’ve had a roll snatched out of my hand by a seagull that swooped by.


When my family lived in Tripoli, Libya, in the 1950s, I was barely a teenager, and in those long ago days, many of us had little inkling of what sex was all about. Movies we saw were innocent and only hinted at sex: a kiss, a little groping, a closed bedroom door. Television in those days wasn’t even a consideration—my family hadn’t even brought a TV set over with us, and we didn’t miss it. Listening to Armed Forces Network (AFN) radio at night was entertainment enough. A good actor could read a powerful tale and your mind supplied the details.

An all British effort cartoon by British Servicemen

An all British effort cartoon by British Servicemen

A popular music show on Saturday morning radio accepted requests, in case you wanted to dedicate a song to a potential crush at Wheelus High School. I remember requesting, “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation,” or maybe it was “A Rose and a Baby Ruth.”  I don’t recall to whom the song was dedicated. The high school sponsored dances and there was a teenage club where a talented student, Jon Jorgensen, led a band called Stardust. Close slow dancing provided its own stimulation.

In the city of Tripoli, American teenage girls were advised not to wear suggestive “form-fitting” jeans since Libyan women were dressed in barracans,  similar to burkas except one eye could be shown. Libyan men, as the majority of men throughout the world, were interested in females. As I recall the directive about jeans didn’t mention why not, and the advice was probably never considered by independent American girls.

The Egyptian Ambassador lived across the street from me, and he was served by a few Libyan policemen who patrolled the walled perimeter of his compound. If my girlfriends and I walked the unpaved path outside the compound, and if a policeman were nearby, he’d try to walk beside us and brush against us with his body. We learned to avoid them.

One day, a girlfriend and I had an unpleasant encounter while walking to her house, a few blocks away from mine. We were in jeans, of course, and sauntering along in the middle of the street since there was very little traffic. We weren’t paying attention to a young male bicyclist trailing us. Most male Libyans had bicycles; they were relatively cheap and reliable. We were prime bait and he saw his opportunity as he swooped in front of us and made a grab for my crotch. He succeeded and then rode on a little ways. I started to tell my friend when he came back and managed to do the same to her. He was quite the adept cyclist, which made us even more incensed. He rode on as if nothing had happened and we followed him, thinking we’d get revenge by attacking him. We couldn’t catch him and had to swallow our anger. Being street-smart from then on, we learned to be more aware.

My neighbor and good friend Gail, who lived around the corner, and I loved to play tennis on her street, which was seldom used by cars. We weren’t very skilled at the game and the ball often landed in the walled compound on one side of the street that was said to belong to a former Queen of Libya. The Queen’s lush gardens swallowed our balls. Sometimes our ball went into the smaller gated compound next door to the queen, which belonged to a British general. A few attractive British enlisted men served him daily. They didn’t seem to have much to do and always enjoyed our athletic efforts.

They kept one of the tennis balls and the next time we played, they tossed it over the compound wall to us. They’d slit it and spent some time making an artistic rendering of us on a small piece of lined paper to insert into the slit. Gail was supposed to be Gail Storm, who had a TV show and I was supposed to be Marilyn Monroe. Between us was a “hound dog” named Elvis! We were flattered since both actresses were good looking in person. I saved the little cartoon, never knowing I would eventually put it on a blog! There was always a wall or fencing between us but it was fun to flirt and we did it when they were around. Probably a good reason to play tennis in the street!

A crude little poem, misspellings and all, was printed on the back of the cartoon to impress us:

Hi! Jirks

You squeeke and groan

And make queer noises

But o’er yon wall

We know ‘tis you

So if this ball you do trow back

Don’t be shy, come round the back

And have a chat.


One day, in a break from our game, we were flirting with these congenial servicemen, as usual. We were standing on the sidewalk and they were behind a metal gate composed of bars.  Suddenly, I noticed a Libyan man in paint-splattered overalls sitting on a bike nearby, leering at us. Then I noticed another detail. He had removed his penis from his pants and was waving it at us enthusiastically. To me at that time, no expert on penis size or shape, I thought his penis was menacingly huge and seemed to be dotted with paint. Or was that my vivid imagination?

Disgusted and a little frightened, I tapped Gail’s shoulder gently to get her attention. She looked around without being obvious and saw him right away. We both struggled to maintain composure as we stepped closer to the gate and hung on. We didn’t know what to say to the young British soldiers, who probably couldn’t see the pervert, so we said nothing and hoped the crazed cyclist would eventually pedal away, which he did.

We felt confident that we had kept our cool! Weren’t we the savvy ones discovering that sex can be exciting and disgusting at the same time!

Southern California’s Conejo Valley

Los Angeles is the only US city with a mountain range, the Santa Monica Mountains, running through it, which gives the city a wide variety of topography and scenery, perfect for filming. Since the mountains and valleys that comprised the Conejo Valley could be transformed into anything from Texas to Switzerland, the original “Planet of the Apes,” “Tora, Tora, Tora,” “Gunsmoke,” “Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman” and “MASH,” to name a few, were filmed there.

The 101 Freeway, which was once known primarily as the Ventura Freeway (or in the  song as Ventura Highway) essentially bisects this scenic area and leads a traveler from Calabasas (squash in Spanish), through Agoura Hills and Westlake Village to Thousand Oaks. Conejo means rabbit in Spanish and there were plenty of those cottontails around, probably great food for all the coyotes.


Open space before Thousand Oaks Bl.

Open space before Thousand Oaks Boulevard built.

And there were various canyon roads that led to celebrated Malibu: Kanan Road, windy and narrow Decker Canyon, and Malibu Canyon, which I consider the loveliest. Malibu Canyon Road takes the explorer past Malibu Creek State Park. When it first opened to the public, there were remains of the apes’ homes from “Planet of the Apes.”

In the 1970s, the 101 Freeway was the main artery through the little communities of Agoura and Westake. Thousand Oaks, a bit further west, was already an incorporated city with a movie theatre, some grocery stores and a small shopping center. The Conejo Valley was just over a steep hill from the vast San Fernando Valley, but it seemed like a different world. When we first moved in, the freeway was only two lanes each direction.

Westlake Village was a beautifully planned community with a man-made lake and island, and a small but nice shopping center, which included a large grocery. Agoura was inhabited by many old-timers with ranches and old houses; it was a funky place with too many billboards along the freeway and no big chain grocery store. Art Whizin, the creator of an original chain of LA restaurants called Chili Bowl in the late 1940s, had moved to outlying Agoura and soon built another restaurant along the freeway. He called it Whizin’s, of course! I remember I’d heard that the eatery was haunted and joked that it was probably someone who’d died of food poisoning.

Although it was exciting to discover we’d soon have more amenities and easier shopping without driving into the San Fernando Valley, it was disheartening to know that developers were planning just about every fast-food outlet available. McDonald’s, however, was an exception. My kids couldn’t wait–it was walking distance from home, requiring some patience and parental supervision.

Kanan Road new housing developments late 1970s

Kanan Road new housing developments late 1970s

Hillrise, our housing development was nestled among several hills and overlooked the Morrison Ranch, which still had cattle and sheep until it was bought by a developer and turned into a posh high-end residential development, but still called Morrison Ranch. West of Hillrise, the land was essentially empty except for a couple of small rundown ranches. There was no road connecting the freeway exits—Kanan Road and Lindero Canyon Road. In spring the whole area was covered with tall wild yellow mustard plants that grew prolifically, and little pockets of blue-purple lupins.

When Thousand Oaks Boulevard was built (location photo at the top), it was a huge event. I covered the opening for the Acorn newspaper with a story and a front-page photo of local politicians and developers. I also joined the honchos for a fire engine ride to celebrate the new road.

Kanan Road, the main artery from the 101 Freeway, led north to the Oak Park housing development, which later grew by thousands of new homes. Driving south on Kanan led through the Santa Monica Mountains to end up in Malibu—before Barbra Streisand moved there.

Things were changing rapidly by the end of the 1970s. Empty acres with a billboard announcing the imminent construction of a Vons grocery store stood lonely for years before its grassy surface supported three shopping centers and two grocery stores.

During those early years, I never would have imagined that I would do public relations and advertising for the Morrison Ranch development and for two of the new shopping centers.

There were quite a few stars who enjoyed the Conejo Valley and adjoining mountain areas: Robert Young, Joel McCrae, Mickey Rooney, Gallagher, Tom Selleck, Kelsey Grammar, Kurt Russell, Sophia Loren, along with various rock stars and sports stars.


My daughter Heidi and I pal around on Saturdays. We get groceries and toilet articles, have a nice lunch, and sometimes visit a museum or go to a movie. I look forward to our excursions because they are so much fun, besides being useful. Heidi’s not just my daughter, but my best friend. We talk about everything from spiritual/metaphysical ideas, favorite TV shows, and politics to family news and our creative pursuits: She paints and I write. We have come to the same conclusion: we both love living in California in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles. I moved to California from a childhood of travel; Heidi was born here and has since done quite a bit of traveling.


Heidi Giraud

Heidi Giraud at Hamburger Hamlet

Heidi does the driving on our weekly excursions, which is definitely a perk, except for her impatience with other drivers. She curses incompetent drivers (luckily, she doesn’t shout out the window), but it helps release all her frustrations from the week before. Most of the time we mutually notice what’s going on with all the folks out and about on a Saturday, especially on Ventura Boulevard, one of the main streets that traverses the valley, from Studio City to Calabasas. Yesterday, LA City decided trees along Ventura Bl. needed to be trimmed. There’s probably no day that’s perfectly suited for this interruption, so we Los Angelenos learn to navigate and be patient.

The Hamburger Hamlet Logo

After buying a purse (excuse me, a “Messenger Bag” for her subway commute from the Valley to Downtown L.A. where she works), we headed for our favorite dining spot – Hamburger Hamlet, where we’ve eaten for decades. The eatery began in LA in 1950, grew nationwide, and then dwindled to one, near the corner of Van Nuys and Ventura Boulevards, about a mile from our apartments. This summer it closed, but we never gave up on its revival. When it returned in fall, we became steady customers again. It’s a place of good energy; our favorite waiters came back and the food even improved. When Heidi walked in and after we’d been seated in a roomy booth, a sharp waiter friend zipped over. He has developed a habit of bringing her champagne right away, and he knows I like iced tea. At one point we usually converse with Matt, a very amusing and entertaining waiter who always has a tale to tell. He had once told us how he had served an older and quite overweight Marlon Brando. This time he remembered college fun—he and actor Paul Rudd had been in the same fraternity and hung around together some years ago.

Then it’s time for Target up on Sepulveda Bl. and perhaps chatting with the young makeup woman. Always impeccably made-up, she is a black-haired professional cosmetics person who spends her leisure time competing on a roller derby team. The team recently went to Alaska to compete.


Trader Joe's

Trader Joe’s

Last on our Saturday list is Trader Joe’s, California’s most unusual grocery store that has now spread nationwide. We usually visit an older store on Hazeltine Avenue in Van Nuys. It’s always crowded but it remains an adventure. Now that it’s holiday season, each week carries new surprises from all over the world. One of my favorites is the German Lebkuchen (large ginger cookies with chocolate icing), but it won’t arrive until after Thanksgiving. Instead, they had Joe Joe’s chocolate covered peppermint cookies. If I want the best wine bargain, I buy the box of Australian white wine – about $12 and it lasts me a month. I’m not a gourmet!

One of the highlights of our sojourn at Trader Joe’s is the “crew” – a wonderful mix of employees with good senses of humor, who pay attention to great service and congeniality. There’s the pretty young woman studying acting when she isn’t working. Dark-haired and of Iranian culture, she wears her long hair in braids fairly often and I tease her about looking like Pocohantas. The three of us have so much fun chatting we block cart traffic in the narrow aisles. Two other favorites are a middle-aged Army veteran, tall and broad and with a terrific disposition (he speaks a little German from being stationed there), and a charming older woman who hails from the Philippines and always asks what movies we’ve seen lately. All these encounters require hugs.

I’m home before 7 p.m. and so another Saturday ends in the City of the Angels.


Growing up as an Army brat was an incredible education. We (which includes brats with Air Force, Navy and Marine fathers) weren’t familiar with hometowns, where you lived in a certain neighborhood and went to the same schools for years. We kept our friends by sending letters back and forth, through US Mail. We learned to adjust and make friends fast since we never knew how soon we’d be transferred. We learned to make the best out of our lives.

I began my Army brat wanderings at age 4 at the Munchen, Germany, train station in 1947 when I met my mother’s new husband and my new father, Capt. A.D. Williams. The photo is below. I learned quickly what war looked like–Munich was full of bombed-out buildings from the recent war.


Military life is very different than civilian life. Army, Air Force, Navy or Marine fathers all wore uniforms, which had to be starched, ironed, and kept in excellent shape. My mother was expected to keep my dad’s things in perfect order, and she advised me, ruefully, never to let a man take me for granted. In other words, don’t volunteer to iron or you’ll be stuck behind an ironing board forever. Thank God, Permanent Press was available when I got married, and my husband had elected to stay only in the Reserve Army (two weeks of uniforms in the summer).

Way before the cheap giant stores we have now, the Army provided the PX (post exchange) a version of department store with mostly quality things at lower prices, and the Commissary (nicknamed the Co-misery by some) for reasonably priced food. Prices needed to be low since joining the service, whichever one was chosen, was not designed to make your parents rich. I still have some record albums (remember those?) from the PX in the early ‘60s that only cost $2.35! And a china cabinet full of nice silver and crystal from the PX that I got for wedding presents. I could entertain like my parents, but who uses silver trays and bowls, fancy silverware and crystal except for very special occasions? Or perhaps if you’re part of the British Royal Family!

Entertainment was always a priority in the service; officers and their wives had calling cards and went through all the proper protocol. Officers and enlisted men did not socialize with each other: they each had their own clubs. The clubs weren’t always very special, like the photo below shows. The Class VI store, on the other hand, was available to those, no matter what rank, who were old enough to imbibe alcohol in its various forms. Cocktail parties, dinner parties, special dinners/parties given by a certain command or military group were typical to celebrate holidays, promotions, farewells, etc. Each weeknight, if they didn’t have other social plans, my mother would put on a nice dress and heels and greet my dad with Martinis or Manhattans and sliced raw vegetables (pioneers for eating, if not drinking, healthy) for cocktail hour, from 5-7 p.m., wherever they were stationed. I can’t remember if he got comfortable first and took off the uniform.

Army posts offered tennis courts, bowling alleys, shooting ranges, gyms: you name it. There were always movie theaters and movies were very cheap. Because of my thrifty dad, however, I remember my mother making us kids popcorn and putting it into small paper bags to take to the 35-cent or cheaper films. In the summer, there were usually several huge pools to choose from, an easy bike ride away. And when you became a teenager, there was a teenage club with lots of activities.

Rules and regulations were to be obeyed without protest; everything had certain hours, posted in military time. My dad wrote me letters military style while I was away at college: paragraphs were numbered and if he was scheduling a pickup or a visit, it would be written as 0800 hours or perhaps 1600 hours, for instance.

My wedding day -- outside military housing in Frankfurt, Germany

My wedding day with parents & sister — outside US Army military housing in Frankfurt, Germany

If your dad got orders, it was time to leave, no matter how well you liked your home/school/ post. Moving wasn’t ever that easy, but there were Army personnel to pack up your household goods: until the Army got smart eventually and started providing furniture, dishes, bedding and the like at the new military destination, especially in Europe. Personal household items seldom arrived at the new quarters on time or in good shape, but that was to be expected or accepted, even if it ended up on the bottom of the ocean, which did happen, although not to us. If you were in Army quarters, you were expected to leave them spic and span. They were subject to inspection, and that meant bedsprings, tops of doors, ovens, etc. Remember the old TV ad for the “White glove test?” Wanting to save money, my dad insisted Mom do the cleaning instead of hiring a cleaning crew.

Army fathers (as I imagine all service fathers) were used to a regimented schedule. When we went on a vacation in the States, we got up at 4 a.m. (0400 hours) and hit the road. I got a laugh from the scene in the movie “The Great Santini” when the family got in their car to leave in the wee hours. In the 50s we traveled to Tripoli in what some joked was a putt-putt airplane, propeller-driven and loud. It involved several refueling stops and seats were not all facing the front, which made it easy for my sister to throw up on my brother. Military airplanes in the 50s and 60s made stops in places like the Azores, Morocco, England, Scotland, Newfoundland and Labrador (depending upon which direction you were traveling). Once off an airplane, you didn’t get your land legs back for at least a day. Until then your ears buzzed and everything seemed to move, even if you were sitting down.

Traveling by ship was more common in the 40s and 50s. I got my “sea legs” when I was four years old: from New York to Hamburg, Germany, and then by train to Munich. The best experience was the military Mediterranean Cruise in 1958–17 days of sightseeing and parties.

When an Army father retired, he usually picked someplace near a post or base since he could still use the PX, Commissary, medical facilities and space-available air travel. Many times the retirement choice would be the area of his last post or base. When he’d had enough, my dad and mom chose Texas for the warm climate and the close proximity of Ft. Sam Houston, where, ironically, my mother and I had been briefly during WWII when she’d been married to my birth father. My mother left this world and “retired” for good from Brooke Army Hospital at Ft. Sam Houston.

Military life as a dependent involved a great deal more than I could fit into this story, but my story gives a general idea.

Being an Army brat was a great adventure, despite the challenges. Living in exotic places was exciting but best of all were the friends you made and kept, if you chose to. My parents kept up with Army couples all over the world until they died, and I always looked forward to reading all the Christmas cards from everywhere. It’s a tradition I chose to cherish and carry on.


Pink Glasses#2dup

Mental illness affects many of us in one way or another. I have a cousin who has suffered from bipolar disorder since he as a teenager, and a good friend whose son has been tortured with various mental afflictions for many years. Like so many challenges in life, the sufferer is usually not alone but  affects those around him/her. Since Veteran’s Day is coming up, I can’t help but remember those I know who endure Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The excerpt below comes from a book I wrote, which is on sale on Amazon. It’s a true story and revolves around Porsches.

Pink Glasses

Betty excused herself from the table of her divorced girlfriends in the chic Los Angeles bar/restaurant and slowly pushed her way toward the bathrooms, about ten excuse-me’s away. When she hadn’t returned twenty minutes later, the others began to look around.

“I see her,” Joyce said. “She’s deep in conversation with some fellow in pink sunglasses. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it, except for Halloween!”

Celia and Liz strained to see where Joyce was staring.

“He’s very attractive, and looks interesting,” Liz offered.

“She’s bringing him over, girls,” Celia said excitedly, looking forward to some male interaction.

They watched as Betty and the tall lean man in the pink-frames with darkened pink lenses pushed their way through the tightly meshed crowd toward the table of women. Wavy dark hair was cut close around the man’s small head; it resembled a military cut and was much shorter than the current style. As he got closer they could see his dark brown, somewhat unruly eyebrows sat over kind brown eyes. At ease with himself, he was smiling as if he’d known all of them as friends for a long time. They noted he was handsome and dressed casually in a navy blue-plaid shirt and tan pants. He wore loafers without socks.

A chair at the next table was empty, and Celia pulled it over. “We’ve got a chair for you,” she said as she looked up at him hopefully, waiting for an introduction.

“This is Will,” Betty said and then introduced each of the friends.

The empty chair was between Celia and Joyce, and Will sat there leaning into the table as if eagerly waiting to hear whatever the women had to share with him. The friends looked at each other with surprise, they were taken aback by his open friendly manner. Nearly all of the men they had encountered here hid their feelings and kept their thoughts to themselves.

Most men would be a bit put off and act mysterious confronted by four intelligent women, Joyce thought to herself as she scrutinized their guest. She wasn’t currently involved with a man; maybe she’d explore this one.

“You girls come here often?” Will asked.

“Once in a while,” Joyce offered and added, “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“How do you know if you don’t come often?” Will answered, smiling. The others laughed, a bit self-consciously, caught in their attempt to be cool.

“Will told me he was a Navy pilot, girls. Remember Top Gun?” Betty asked.

“A Navy guy who favors pink sunglasses!” Celia remarked, a bit too pointedly. She looked slightly embarrassed after her remark and made a note to herself to stop treating all men as if they were Malcolm, her live-in for so many years.

Liz, the tender-hearted, interjected, “Men need a little softness in their lives. What’s wrong with pink? It used to be the rage in the ‘50s, with charcoal gray.”

“And, of course, we all remember the 50s!” Betty couldn’t resist and laughed at her willingness to reveal her true age.

Joyce, who had recovered from her earlier faux pas, asked, “So what do you do?”

“You women,” Will answered, laughing lightly, “you don’t waste any time. Or is it just this place? Everyone wants to know how much money you make. Or what sign you are.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Joyce said petulantly as she ran her hand through her shoulder-length blond hair.

“Girls, girls,” Betty interrupted. “Give him some breathing room. Will, are you sure you can handle all of us?”

“I’m between jobs,” Will said quickly. He leaned back in his chair looking softly from behind the pink lenses; a small smile played upon his attractive, yet childlike and vulnerable face.

To find out what happens, check out:


The world grows smaller every day with the Internet, satellites and other means of communication. After World War II, the US and other countries realized, like it or not, the world was connected, as English author John Donne said way back in a 1624 sermon: “No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main…”

Wars, ironically, have brought people together, and as the US became more powerful, we sent our military with many of their families all over the world. It was surprising when we discovered people in these various foreign countries knew something about America from our movies and even from our sports teams.

Pete Remmert, who lived in Tripoli from 1958-1962, told me a fascinating story about his encounter and a friendship with a Libyan boy while his family lived in a nice area near the beach, a bit west of the center of town. It’s nice to relate a positive  story about the Middle East these days.

“I was eight years old in 1958. Before we acquired (Wheelus) base housing, we lived in Giorgimpopoli and occasionally when I walked alone in the streets of the neighborhood, I would run into a group of Libyan boys (a few years older than Pete was) who sometimes liked to play a little rough. One of these boys didn’t like the way his companions were giving me a hard time, and he pulled me aside and offered me, in very good English, a deal I couldn’t refuse. He told me that he collected American baseball cards, the rectangular ones that came in packs of bubblegum.”

Libyan construction workers in 1950s

Libyan construction workers in 1950s

For those old enough to remember, I looked up some of the stars of that era on baseball cards. Though I’m not a typical baseball fan, I still remember a few of them. Stars like Don Drysdale (I saw him play as a Los Angeles Dodger), Mickey Mantle (a Yankee great), Whitey Ford, John Roseboro, and Carl Yastrzemski, are a few examples.

Although he didn’t remember the boy’s name, Pete commented, “He was a couple of years older than me, of slender build and bald as an eagle. He wore typical Libyan clothing: white robes with a multicolored shawl-type wrap during the colder months. He usually wore a ‘beanie’ type maroon-colored cap but on occasion he would wear a fez. I was always impressed with his command of the English language and his knowledge of contemporary American baseball players was vastly superior to any of the American kids I knew. He also introduced me to those yummy dates that we pulled off the date palms and ate like candy.”

Pete continued, “I told him that I was only interested in the gum and that he was welcome to have the cards. From that moment on, he swore that he would be my personal bodyguard. Well, one afternoon he made good on his promise. A group of older kids decided to rough me up a bit, and my young friend immediately took off his cap, bent over at a ninety-degree angle and, like a battering ram, plowed into one of the kids. The boys scattered and never gave me any trouble again.”


I left Tripoli, Libya, the summer of 1958, the end of my sophomore year in high school. My dad received orders assigning him to duty at the Pentagon in Northern Virginia; he would work in the office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a prestigious position for him.

The last months at Wheelus High School were packed with activities and I went through the old Barracan newspapers to note a few highlights. Since we didn’t have a cafeteria at the high school, it was decided by the “powers that be” to make us eat at the Airmen’s Club in February. Apparently, one of the main reasons was to keep girls away from meeting airmen during lunchtime. Going out with GIs was a social “no-no” and Joe McDonald wrote an editorial about it in the paper. Too many girls, not enough boys, it seems.

By March the Airmen’s Club was closed for student lunches and we were all ordered to bring sack lunches – enforced nutrition by a school dietician! Apparently we were mostly disorderly at the Airmen’s Club and now had to eat in the school courtyard. To make sure our naughty behavior didn’t spill over to the elementary school, there would be a wall erected!

When students were asked what was the first thing they’d do when they got back to the States, Eddie Goldsworthy declared he’d find a patch of grass and look at it for an hour. Marla Bush was going to eat a hot corned beef sandwich, and Karen Gamel was going to eat a good banana.

A bunch of us were spotted at the Elvis Presley “Jailhouse Rock” movie on base. Steve Gaynor was seen with three girls—Karen, Kathy and Arnell. This according to Quidnunc, the gossip column.

Errol Cochrane’s Platter Chatter listed Perry Como’s “Catch a Falling Star” as the number one record, Danny and the Juniors had the number 10 hit – “At the Hop.” We heard these songs often at the Teen Club on base.

In the spring the sophomores sponsored a dance—Hernando’s Hideaway (inspired by the content and music from the Broadway play and subsequent movie “Pajama Game”) with entertainment. A few of us girls decided we’d do a chorus line dance to “Steam Heat,” a dance routine featured in the movie. My parents had the record and I remember practicing our routine in my Tripoli living room. Our very amateur group included: Betty Hubbard, Sherri Anderson, Karen Gamel, Wilnetta Edwards, and me. We started our dance in front of a fairly large audience at the evening activity. Moments into the dance the record skipped and we had to pull ourselves together and start again. I think the photo below of Wilnetta, me and Betty displays our self-confidence. We were probably too young to worry about it.

The boys did a can-can in drag after our dance and stole the show, but I don’t have the photo.

Dancing to Steam Heat - Wilnetta Edwards, Viki Williams, Betty Hubbard

Dancing to Steam Heat – Wilnetta Edwards, Viki Williams, Betty Hubbard

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