Newspaper articles, newsworthy events, and general important stuff will be found in this section.
I just received the sad news that another one of our classmates has passed away. David Gin died on November 16, 2008, of a heart attack.
Robin Ferrer sent me a great essay on her years as a Girl Scout for our last essay quiz on the Tiger Test page. Here it is:
I can barely remember a time, from my earliest childhood until high school, that I didn't want to be a Scout. Some may remember my mom as a Scout Leader...maybe even the quintessential Scout Leader. She ran her troops with a great deal of energy and imagination, and was always presenting her scouts with challenging projects. And she always had multiple troops, sometimes without even having one of her own kids in them. The Council in Pasadena would call, and say that this troop or that troop was about to fold because the leader had quit, and couldn't she possibly just "help out" until they found a new one? One time, between advising my brother's Eagle Scout squad, my sister's Intermediate troop, and my Brownie troop, plus the extra "orphans", she was running four at once. We never heard the word "multitasking", but if we had, we all would have known what it meant.
I had my first encounter with socialism in Scouts, although by no means my last. Girl Scout Cookie Sales are known the world over as a symbol. It used to be a symbol of initiative, hard work and dedication. Now it's just an icon, but it really did have a purpose in the beginning. Cookies funded Scout Camp, weekend trips and projects, and even in those days, the girls were far more restricted in what they could do to earn money than the boys. Brownies sold Garden Tours, because a cute little Brownie can sell almost anything, including a rather dull afternoon. Seniors could organize Rummage Sales in the basement at St. James...it was a much more lucrative and involved process, and they deserved every dime they made from it. Cookies were the exclusive territory of Intermediate Scouts. While the product pretty much sold itself, it required a certain amount of dedication to lug those cases around...we didn't take orders the way they do now. My parents went to a great deal of effort to teach me how to sell. My job was to be neat and tidy in a clean uniform, greet the customer with a confident smile, and ALWAYS say ".50 a box....two for a dollar!" (always go for multiple sales). My best selling days were in the rain...who could resist a bedraggled little Girl Scout, braving the elements to bring the customer their sugar high for the day AND their newspaper? (I always went out about the time the afternoon Star News was being tossed up onto the roof or into the rose beds, it made a great selling tool). I would also point out that under no circumstances did either of my parents EVER sell a box for me...my dad took me down to the newspaper my grandfather had in L.A., but I was on my own once we got there.
So, I sold 255 boxes the year I joined the Oneonta troop...there weren't enough girls who wanted to be Scouts at Marengo in the fifth grade. The Council had announced that the top cookie seller would ride in the back of a convertible in the annual Scout Day Parade, and I was it. The leader of my troop, (NOT my mother, for a change) decided that it would be unfair to allow me this special privilege, since the rest of the troop would have to march, and I was not "special". While that may have been true, outside my immediate family anyway, she missed the point, which was that individual initiative needs to be nurtured and encouraged. The herd rarely accomplishes anything without a lot of prodding. When the Council heard about this decision, they sent off a somewhat testy note to the leadership, saying that the ride was a reward, not a suggestion. By the time it was all over, I didn't even want to do it anymore. I hung in for a couple more years, but didn't really get interested again until I could join the Mariners.
As a postscript, a few years later, when I was running the Scout Horsewoman's Badge program down at Arroyo Seco, I had two kids who were only there so they could ride every day, which was fair, as far as I was concerned...I would have done the same at their age. Unfortunately, the program called for other activities as well, in order to qualify for the badge, and they decided they didn't really want to do the written work, or construct the model tackroom and barn. (Actually, I thought that was the MOST fun...I had a blast making mine!) So they didn't get the badge at the end of the session. I had two very angry mothers after me, saying it wasn't FAIR...that their two kids were the only ones in their unit who didn't get their badges. I understand the Council buckled, and awarded the badges anyway. And with the exception of one grisly summer at Big Bear, that was the end of my scouting experience. The movement, as it was conceived by Juliet Ward Low, is dead...groupthink took its place.
I am temporatily hijacking this section to publish a few essays I received as part of April's Tiger Tests. The subject was to briefly describe what it was like, growing up as a teenager in Southern California.
Brigitte Cowper Gossage wrote:
Ah, the 60’s; the era of the best music ever!
I would come home from school, head to my bedroom, turn on my radio, and escape for a while.
As the adopted daughter of an elderly widow (adopted father died when I was in 9th grade), I was restricted from much of the high school events. Had I not had the social life of Job’s Daughters and involvement with several orchestras, I wouldn’t have had much of a life! I was older than my classmates because I started Kindergarten at almost 7, so according to my mother, if I dated guys in my class, I was “robbing the cradle”.
My mother told me I had to take German when I was a 9th grader, so I walked up to the high school for first period German; then walked back to jr. high for the rest of my classes. Shamefully, I didn’t do very well in my native language; rebelling because my mother required me to take it when I was happier taking Spanish!
I was a rather sheltered young lady, who found the activities of Job’s Daughters so welcoming and such fun! We had sleepovers, dances, conventions, and mystery trips. I was actually able to interact with some older boys (DeMolays), expanding my social life! I eventually met my husband (a DeMolay), who I dated during my jr. and sr. years of high school.
Thankfully, Mr. Hartsough suggested a dental assisting program at PCC. My mother bought me a car the end of my junior year, so I was able to participate in the program as a senior; which gave me direction upon graduation.
John Lovell wrote:
Everything's so terribly half-remembered!--and (to steal from book titles) those teen years in the '60s were both "days of heaven" and "chronicles of wasted time!" Here's a short history.
I mostly relished the '60s--I realized even then that I basked in all sorts of beauty right there around me--physical, intellectual, spiritual--the palms, magnolias, eucalyptus, bougainvillea--hummingbirds, a fish pond, my dog Kim in the backyard--the architecture of El Centro, SPJHS, the Plunge--swimming, skating--biking to the Arroyo and all round town with my little brother Jimmy. The joys of playing piano, reading wonderful books in and out of school, the thrill the first time I heard the Beatles over a transistor radio as I biked home from SPJHS. The steadfast, uncomplicated loyalty of school chums and caring teachers taught me so much about (steady, good-humored) human kindness--I realized later this was pretty much Augustine's "to be faithful in little things is a big thing...:
And yet and yet and yet--the sad effects of divorce continued to cascade into my teen years--troubled, unsteady, ungainly in some ways--though through it all I was mostly happy. The '60s--what an eclectic confluence: I was a kid with buckteeth, braces and glasses--loved his folks and couldn't wait to leave; enthralled with the Gospels, the beach and Beach Boys; reading Kierkegaard, Huck Finn; loving the Boy Scouts, hiking the mountains, mile swim in Catalina; poolside Saturnalia; playing B football, lobbing Salvo detergent into the SM pool with the guys; loving Chopin, Wolfman Jack--the strange, joyous unpatterned mix of things that growing up still entails, I suppose.
Barbara Jahier Baccus wrote:
My life as a teenager at SPHS in the '60's was a breeze. I remember
walking down the halls at school and everyone was friendly saying hello as
you walked by. Then some of us had Ned Jones'68 asking to help carry our
books, remember him? Teachers were even polite and helpful. Some of us would
wear short skirts and hike them up just to get sent home. Then we would roll
it back down, stroll the streets for awhile and go back to class. During
that time we had gone steady and wore St. Christopher's around our neck,
telling others we were spoken for.
The streets of So Pas were generally safe, we had no fear. Hitch-hiking
was a fun thing to do, today kids wouldn't even think of it. We walked to
school and other classmates would join us to enjoy the walk together.
Sometimes we would get lucky and a classmate driving home would pick us up,
then we piled in like squished sardines giggling to our destination. We had
dances at school after the football games and Grad-night was the Greatest!
My life was a memorable safe environment.
Randy Smith wrote:
Growing up in south pas was a challenge. Not only did I have a sister and an older brother who went before me, I was gonna be followed by two more brothers…when you come from a family of 5 kids, you are known….at least at Marengo, then the jr high and then high school. And one of the scary parts is that your mother had a couple of the same teachers at sphs that were still there when I went. And having a mother that was a 2 time pta president of sphs made it even more scary. Overall though, life in a small town like south pas is good. There are people who know your family and can watch out to make sure the kids are being legal and respectful….but there is always that dreaded phone call saying “I saw your randy (or whoever) doing this and that over at such and such place.” All spies!!! It’s too bad that the kids of today don’t have that “block mother” watch-dog service. I would say that kids from the last 10 or 15 years and into the future, will ever have the secure feeling that we had as kids going through south pas schools. It’s a shame in a way.
Stefanie Clark Eskander wrote: (I know, I know, it's my quiz- but I get to enter something!)
Being a teenager in Southern California was truly a great joy and privilege- of course, I didn't appreciate it as much as I should have. I guess I thought everyone grew up with the beach less than an hour away, great concert venues close at hand, and almost unlimited free time to enjoy them. I loved high school (junior high not so much), and tried to take advantage of all of the activities and organizations. I loved being a Commissioner and a Bengal. I loved hanging out with 'the guys', often as the only girl in a car full of surf-loving boys. I loved the whole culture of the 60s, except the destructive stuff- I never was interested in the whole drug & drinking scene, but I loved the bright colors, the fashions, art, music and especially the special California Culture. When I was a very young teenager, I think I was 13, I took a train trip all by myself to Ogden, Utah to visit my cousin. I never thought very much about being from California- that was all I knew. But when I arrived, all of my cousin's friends flocked around me- eager to ask me questions about the beach, movie stars, and was my Mother the Little Old Lady from Pasadena? I was quite the celebrity that summer, and I guess I never quite got over it. It was really a special time and place.
I have to award the first SHOVEL of the Tiger Tests- to Robin Ferrer. Although I asked for a paragraph, Robin's story made me laugh so much, I decided to let that little detail slide. I'm sure Mr. Goto would approve:
I had my first "real" job, you know, with deductions and everything, when I was about 19. I went to work as a groom at Santa Anita, in the training stable of Dick Mulhall, a slitty-eyed, sideburn infested former character actor in B gangster movies. He later became President of the California Jockey Club, proving that crime indeed does pay. But I digress.
I was told to report to the layup facility out at the Pomona Fairgrounds. Horses that are not quite ready for primetime, or are getting over a lameness are not kept at Santa Anita...back then, it was about $25 a day...I can only imagine what it is now. I was going to be doing four horses every day that were entered for races later in the season. The only name I can remember is Potawatamy...for some reason, it stuck in my mind.
It had snowed on the mountains east of Pomona, and the wind came right off Baldy...no global warming there! And it was still DARK when I got up to go to work...I think my time there did something to my internal clock. We had to be at work by 6 am. If we were more than ten minutes late, someone else would have our job by 6:15, as the horses ate at 6:30, no matter what. I was introduced to Richard, the assistant trainer who, like some of the horses, was not yet ready to play the Palace. The last time I saw him, he was learning Refrigeration at the Adult Center in Pasadena. Richard was trying to become a trainer, because he had already been an unsuccessful jockey, and it didn't pay well. He was about 4' 0", with an 8' attitude. He said, rather bossily, that the first thing he was going to do was to show me how to take a horse's temperature. I said I already knew how. He said he wanted me to do it HIS way. Well, ok....even as a teenager I already knew that I didn't know it all, so we trooped over to a stall that held a four year old colt.
Richard marched into the stall, thermometer in hand. I stayed outside the stall, watching over the door. He grabbed the colt's tail, threw it up over his back, and stuck that sucker right in. There were several things wrong with this, and I had about a nanosecond to consider them before the problems started. First, he had not put a halter and leadrope on the horse. Personally, after getting to know the beast, I would have used a cable capable of securing the Queen Mary, but I have always erred on the side of caution. Second, with all the permafrost on the ground, it might have been prudent to at least rub that icy tube back and forth between his hands, to take a little of the chill off. And third (possibly most important) he had not tied a string to the thermometer. A horse has about a mile of intestines, and a suction ability that rivals a Hoover.
The next thing I knew, that colt had whipped around and pinned Richard to the wall with his barrel....all I could see were little arms and little legs imitating a helicopter. Between the squealing of the horse, and the cursing of Richard (I learned several new words that day) I have to admit, I was torn between genuine concern that a man was going to be crushed to death in front of my eyes, and laughing to the point of incontinence. Finally, when the thermometer had apparently warmed up enough to not be an instrument of torture, the colt moved away from the wall, and Richard collapsed in a little heap in the straw. After he got his breath back, he started looking around frantically for the thermometer, thinking he had dropped it on the ground. I managed to let him know that looking in the dirty straw was not going to yield any results, and a look of something approaching horror crossed his face. He looked at the tail, which was still in an arched position, and then at me. Uh...I don't think so, bud! You lost it, you go get it! After a somewhat grisly interval, which involved rolling his sleeves up way past the elbow, he managed to retrieve it.
And then I had to open my big mouth and ask...are you sure this is the way you want me to do it???
I know I'm a little late on this one, but I just found this in the recent Tiger News:
Irene Trzyna, 95, Longtime SoPas Resident Passes Away
Irene Trzyna, a longtime resident of South Pasadena, died on Dec. 23, 2008, at age 95.
Trzyna taught mathematics at South Pasadena Junior High School from 1955 until she retired in 1979. She then continued to tutor math privately until she was in her 90s, preparing many generations of students for college and graduate school.
Irene (nee Griese) was born Sept. 8, 1913 in Chicago. She grew up as the youngest of seven children in a Polish immigrant family. Trzyna graduated from the University of Chicago in 1934 with a degree in sociology and statistics, and later earned a masters in education from California State University of Los Angeles.
An avid reader and musician, Trzyna enjoyed playing violin and recorder. She was an active member of PEO, the Woman¢s Club of South Pasadena and Oneonta Congregational Church, and was a volunteer at the South Pasadena Library. She also served for decades as an interviewer of the prospective students for the University of Chicago.
Irene was preceded in death by her beloved sister, Eleanor, who died in 2007, and five other brothers and sisters. She was married for nearly 60 years to Thaddeus S. (Ted) Trzyna, who died in 1994.
She lived in South Pasadena from 1952 to 2005, when she moved to a retirement home in Pasadena.
Irene is survived by her sons Dr. Thaddeus C. Trzyna of Sacramento, Dr. Thomas Trzyna of Seattle and three grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Donations in her memory may be made to the Friends of the South Pasadena Public Library.
