Spitball Army

This vintage postcard pictures a “Storm, Oceanside, Calif.,” and is prettified with green and blue washes of watercolor. Storms at sea are quite a bit darker than this, but I imagine there wouldn’t be much of a market for a postcard that had dark and forbidding beaches on its front. The postmark on the back of the postcard is 1 September 1913; for a look at a storm at the Oceanside Pier nearly a century later, see the shot I took – below – in December of last year.

Dear Jesse and Grace
We are having a nice time, no one to bother us. Have it all our own way. It is quite pretty here, so very clean and nice.
Aunt Alice

(photo: spitballarmy.com)

The photo above was taken on 15 December 2008. It was very cold and windy. And dark.

Tomorrow the print version of The New York Times will run a story entitled “36 Hours in Birmingham, Ala.” written by Jim Noles, but today it is up on the newspaper’s website.  Noles hit many of the high points – the bragging points – of our city, including two world-class restaurants – Frank Stitt’s Highlands Bar & Grill (where my Mom once got the coveted window seat and was plied with martinis) and the Hot & Hot Fish Club (where I was once presented with a gold record award) – Vulcan Park, Workplay, the Civil Rights Museum.  All of the photographs are by my neighbor, fellow Crestwoodian Gary Tramontina.
Read and see it here.

(photo: Gary Tramontina for The New York Times)

Seen on Georgia Road, East Birmingham:

(photo: spitballarmy.com)

Here’s a closer view of the actual “sign:”

(photo: spitballarmy.com)

Who is this directed toward? Lookie-loos? The police? Complaining neighbors? The government? An old girlfriend? An abusive former husband? Some guy hanging out the window of his truck with a camera? Whoever the message was directed at, it seems to have elicited the opposite effect that was intended – in my case, at least. I dare anyone to drive by a sign like that and not crane your neck trying to peer between the planks on the fence.

You’ll dig this: a video mash-up of M.O.P.’s “Ante Up” with footage of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.  Thanks, Kelly G., for exposing me to this.

UPDATE:
That video link provided by Brentski (see comment #1 below), was too good not to post here, so here it is:

What I plan on listening to and looking at this week, and other things that are making my world a better place:

• The Orchestra Rocks  (music)
  Rare it is when the local symphony orchestra plays a work by Philip Glass.  Rarer still is it when the local symphony orchestra plays an entire program of contemporary classical works, not just a short piece inserted at the front of the evening as a palette cleanser.  This Thursday (16 April), the Alabama Symphony Orchestra is stuffing their “The Orchestra Rocks” lineup with two works by Frank Zappa (“Dog Breath Variations” and “Uncle Meat”), the “Neuköln” movement from Philip Glass’ David Bowie-inspired Heroes Symphony, a piece by composer Philip Ratliff entitled “Travolta,” and three compositions by Michael Daugherty.  The Daugherty triad includes the world premiere of an ASO commision called “Gee’s Bend for orchestra and electric guitar.”  When I think of Gee’s Bend and those quilting ladies, the first instrument that pops into my mind is a hammered dulcimer, maybe a fiddle and banjo, or something that simulates the sound and feeling of a gently rolling river, but certainly not an electric guitar.  My conclusion about this performance: it should be fun (and new).  Info here, in case you care to join me.

• Celery (foodstuff)
  A friend recently told me how much he dislikes celery, primarily because of the taste.  I scoffed, thinking that celery was about as tasty as water.  I had to re-think my position last week.  Heading out on the road for work and packing a daily box lunch, I included a baggie full of three- to four-inch celery sticks as a snack.  Driving around Bibb County backroads, munching on celery, it occurred to me that the vegetable has a most distinctive taste, not dissimilar to the celery seed flavors that help to make my mother’s potato salad legendarily delicious.  Add to that a crunchy busy-ness, and you have one hell of an entertaining and guilt-free snack!

• Interactive journalism (media)
  You hear a lot of moaning about the state of newspaper journalism these days, and the moans are not without merit.  The challenge is this: how does one adopt new strategies that work against making journalism obsolete…and, more immediately, what are the strategies?  It seems to me that the survivors will be those who think outside of the proverbial box and, possibly, those who embrace the constantly evolving communicative technologies.  I “became a fan” on Facebook of one of my college classmates, Nicholas Kristof, who writes for The New York Times, and it seems that he has incorporated social media marketing as part of his daily routine.  Check out his Facebook fan page for an up-to-the-minute example of a journalist reaching out to his “constituency.”  He regularly throws ideas-in-progress out on this page, asking for input and opinions from those who follow him there.  Here is an interesting example that Nick posted on Easter Sunday (12 April):

  Here’s an Easter question. My family just returned from an Easter service in which the minister bravely chose as his text Mark, the earliest gospel, in which there isn’t even a sighting of the resurrected Jesus. So how literally do you think most Christians today interpret the Resurrection? And if one doesn’t accept it literally, then is one still a Christian?

After 24 hours, that post had 240 comments, the large majority of them thoughtful and constructive.  Being in touch with one’s readers is definitely more labor-intensive and time-consuming, but my gut feeling is that it is these journalists who will be the survivors.  We’ll have to wait and see how that all shakes out, but, in the meantime, we can enjoy new ways of interacting with those who bring us our news.

I lived my first decade in a tiny three-bedroom, single bath house, next door to a playground and the municipal swimming pool in a part of Oceanside affectionately known by its inhabitants as “South O.” Our neighborhood was close enough to the beach that we could walk there from home, or ride our bikes. I did both, countless times, crossing the hot train rails that were the last landmark before reaching the sand and water, wearing rubber flip-flops that would nearly melt from the heat of the asphalt pavement on the streets.

When I was ten years old, my family moved three to four miles inland to the top of a hill (called Fire Mountain), which was just barely out of the range of the beach culture. While our new house was being built, I would often hop on my bike and ride from our old house on Laguna Street to the new one on Laurel Road. My favorite route, and the most direct one, took me straight up California Street, due east.

Just before the halfway point, a big tree dominated the landscape. Calling it a big tree doesn’t quite do it justice, though. This tree was gigantic. It was rooted in the corner of a corner lot, dwarfing the Spanish-style bungalow next to it. Its branches extended high and far out over the street in all directions, safely out of danger from the automobile traffic below, and sheltering the pedestrians and others, like me, on bicycles. I would slow my pedaling to marvel at this tree whenever I rode up the hill to Laurel, and would slow my coasting when I returned on the downhill route to Laguna. The tree’s age and size seemed to engender respect automatically. I called it “Old Man Tree.”

When I returned to California for my 30th-year high school reunion last August, I spent a few days kicking around South O., and visited Old Man Tree on a couple of occasions. This is how he looked, a handsome Ficus macrophylla, or Moreton Bay Fig, specimen at the age of 74 (more about the source of that information in a moment):

The view of Old Man Tree as one heads east on California Street.
(photo: spitballarmy.com)

The branches of Old Man Tree stretch out over California Street.
(photo: spitballarmy.com)

A couple of weeks ago, I received a phone call from my mother, who now lives in South Carolina.

“Do you get the Oceanside Historical Society newsletter?” she asked me.

“Yes, I do, but I haven’t gotten one recently.”

“There’s a thing in it about your tree.” It took me awhile to figure out which tree she was talking about. At first, I thought she meant my Dad’s tree (another story to tell [Here is my first attempt.]).

“Do you mean Dad’s tree?” She could have been referring to Dad’s tree, Old Man Tree, the Dancing Tree at Buddy Todd Park…I really love trees.

“No, the big tree on California Street.” It was Old Man Tree. I asked her not to tell me the details from the newsletter, but she gave me the rough impressionistic outline. I was eager to read the article.

Looking up through the branches, some big around as a horse.
(photo: spitballarmy.com)

A few days later, my copy of the newsletter arrived in the mail. Here is what it said, on page three:

News about “The Giant Tree” …..
Betty Ann (Uhler) Hillman recently wrote to the Oceanside Historical Society about her memories:

A few years back the Blade-Tribune did a nice write-up about the tree my grandfather and brother planted, but none of the true facts, so while my memory works, here they are:

The Facts About “The Giant Tree!”

That Moreton Bay Fig tree was planted by my grandfather, Archibald Orestis Cope, and my brother, Richard Lee Uhler, at 1602 California Street, South Oceanside, in 1934 or 1935.  I know this, as I was there when they placed that dry root twin at the corner of the front yard.

The Copes left San Gabriel to come to Oceanside to grow acres of gladiolas.  At first, they rented in town and leased acres across from the corner at California Street.  When the house came up for sale in 1934, they happily bought it and the one acre it was on, through the FHA, for $4,000.  It was in that or the next year that the wonderful giant tree was planted.

My cousin Bob Young and I are the only surviving relatives who witnessed all of this.  Our grandparents Anne and Arch Cope brought great beauty to that open country, covering many acres with the flowers they loved so much, the gladiolas, over many years.  Our children remember well playing in the great-grandparents’ giant tree, as do their great-great grandchildren.

Thank you for listening,
Betty Ann (Uhler) Hillman

Old Man Tree dwarfs his companion house.
(photo: spitballarmy.com)

It is truly amazing to me that this Moreton Bay Fig tree is only 75 years old. It commands the surrounding area with a majesty that makes it seem as if it has withstood centuries. There is a similar tree that stands in Balboa Park in San Diego, and I would have put money on a bet that it had been planted there during the age of the Conquistadors, at the latest (but that may be all of the adjacent Moorish architecture talking).

The roots of Old Man Tree appear to be made of concrete and snake all over the yard.
(photo: spitballarmy.com)

Last Monday morning, National Public Radio featured a segment about the world’s oldest living human who, like Old Man Tree, happens to also be a California resident.  The 115-year-old Gertrude Baines was born on April 6th, 1894 – the year that the patent for motion picture film was issued, that Coca-Cola was first sold in bottles, and that the International Olympic Committee was formed – and was 30 years old when “my” tree was planted on California Street.  Ms. Baines even has her own Wikipedia page!

My own meager effort at immortalizing the memory and spirit of Old Man Tree probably begins and ends with the placement of a photograph strip of his branches at the bottom of each page of this weblog, and maybe with the writing of this post.  But, long after this website is gone and I am gone, I suspect Old Man Tree will remain, right there at that site on California Street, slowing traffic and sheltering passersby, exerting some undefinable power over others just as he has on me.