Herb Gold, c/o Letters to the Editor
Image Magazine
110 Fifth St.
San Francisco, CA 94103
It was interesting to read your reminiscences of the other Sausalito; I found myself looking for the other story, the characters and places I remember as a child: The No Name habitué, Lew Welch, and bartender/novelist Don Meredith. The Gate Theatre (my mother was an actress, costume/set designer); where I first met Sterling Hayden—one of my favorite babysitters. I liked Tommy Smothers better because he was so goofy.
At The Gate Playhouse Theatre, I sat through countless performances of Pipe Dream, Of Thee I Sing. My mother was the wicked witch in the Hansel and Gretel matinee. After the performance, we birthday kids were nervously lined up on stage, the audience singing Happy Birthday to You as the cake was carried out by my mother—while still in costume. When she hugged me, there was pandemonium; all the other kids ran off the stage crying and screaming.
No story about Sausalito is complete without some mention of Juanita Musson, the legendary restaurateur who, to my horror, kept a fawn in the back of her white Ford Falcon station wagon. Meals at Juanita’s (the Bridgeway parking lot on weekends) were always a surprise. Juanita’s wrath was legendary; customers quickly learned to shut up and eat, even if what they got wasn’t what they ordered.
Instead of pancakes, Juanita brought me runny eggs and rice. I was crushed, my mother (the waitress) signaling, Let it go. . . When I burst into tears, Juanita exploded, Fer Chrissakes! her cursing louder than her parrot or her muu-muu. The more experienced patrons instinctively ducked as she charged back to the kitchen. Juanita pysically endorsed the clean plate club; for my crocodile tears, I got a lovely stack of pancakes the size of dinner plates, and as tall as Everest, my work clearly cut out for me. . .
Juanita’s apartment above Bridgeway was a realm of filtered pink light, with beaded curtains, gizmos in every available space—and the menagerie—a monkey who might pinch, pee on us (or worse, fling shit), if we didn’t feed him the grapes Juanita handed us. At least one big rooster strutted his stuff in the living room.
At the Village Faire, and the Trade Fair, a converted ferry boat, we were regular little filching Olivers with our five-gallon wide-mouthed black naugahyde purses. We’d sit on the retaining wall outside the Village Faire, pool our money for fish and chips, and compare the day’s catch: wooden mice and cheap silver Navajo rings that we later mailed off to Micaela’s parents’ puzzled friends and relations.
My friend’s father, Patrick Wall, was a retired art dealer from Carmel, and his wife Betty, a potter, so we ran wild through many an artist’s party including one on Varda’s ferry boat. The Charles Van Damme was so rakishly angled that Varda had to nail his cobalt and vermilion montages to the walls. Caught stealing food in the kitchen, and compounded by a case of mistaken identity—as some guest’s brats—we were sent upstairs to the captain’s deck, prisoners with nothing to do but watch the Spreckles House slowly sink further into the mud.
When we were 86ed from another party, we balanced on the thin warped boards that threatened to toss us into the raw sewage as we peered in the portholes of Piro and Alice’s houseboat at Gate Five. Piro Wolfe, who founded the successful Anchor Steam Beer Company, once made legendary history when he and Alice, dressed to the nines, took a dingy to the opera—neglecting to check the tides—only to arriving hours after the opera was over.
The first major influx of tourists came hard on the heels of the flower children. Comedian Robin Williams (with whom I went to school) was right to repeat the Marin adage early and often: If you remember the ’60s, you weren’t really there. I will forgive you for bungling a few facts. We’ve all had to reconstruct our past from the literary fragments that followed. We had no idea we were living through a significant era until after it was over and done with, dead and anthologized, taken from us by the coffin of time and by the tide of eager hordes that followed.
Maureen Hurley
2 comments:
TG Lyles wrote a comment on Facebook, I'm reposting here, as he too has some wild Sausalito stories I don't want to lose. —MH
TG Lyles wrote:
I am so happy you posted this. We have a total collective memory. Almost everyone you wrote about was part of my past. The places you went, the things you did. I remember well my own times. There were also regular people at Gate 6 1/2 like George that never finished working on his boat.
Or "ALE" The wild red haired guy that used to frequent everywhere. I always remember he had an leather English pint mug always clipped to his belt. No one ever served him in a glass. It was a tradition with the bartenders. Later her confided in me the handle, also leather, was hollow for a couple more ounces of ale.
There was Ruffin who lived with his Mom Mim, in one of those little houseboats near what is now Bar Bocce."
I recall there was a Swedish Cotton Trim for fancy boarders next door. (I think he means the place where you could get woven decorative trim. I loved that shop).
Ruffin was the sous chef at the Trident. She always read my fortune with Tarot cards, or read any stone I Had, and of course my hand. Sweet lady. It was the local color that was what made Sausalito.
We know all the stories about the celebrities, but the characters gave Sausalito character, So many forgotten face. So many good times listening to the Redlegs kick it at the gates.
I lived on the Spreckles houseboat (ground floor bay view). There was a girl that lived in the front or entry apt from Oregon that posted a note on her door, she said the flying saucers were picking her up on Tam that night. We never saw her again.
I will never for get the noise coming from the beached Ferry boat behind the Charles Van Damn. The noise that came out of that. Sheesh. Constantly filmed porn there.
Raccoon Straights was home for me. I spent many a day chatting with the owner of the Omphali Houseboat and her new (movie star) tenants.
Johnny Weissmuller Jr. was 2 boats down the dock. I wound up dating his daughter for a time. I'm sure we can all add to your story.
Thank you. We have a rich history her that is vanishing with the short attention span thought, and cell phone zombies.
Do you remember the Germans? Dieter Dengler (the guy who was shot down and escaped pow camp in Laos) , Fred Peters (Fred's Place) & Dieter? who lived in Hurricane Gulch? I stopped by Dieter Denglers house up by the Mountain Home Inn before ALS took hold of his incredible soul. He was as always considerate, joyful and cordial. When he decided to shoot himself, he somehow wheeled his wheelchair down the road and did it in front of the firehouse, so as to not inconvenience people too much.
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