Sadie Brown Schreiber (1920-1995)

Whatever Was the Hardest Work, She Did It

The Extraordinary Life of Lieutenant Sadie Brown, As Remembered by her Son Don

She was the barefoot daughter of an itinerant cowboy and his 14-year-old part Cherokee wife, tar-paper shack poor, him mostly gone, they were transient on the West Texas plains. Grandma Brown and two daughters, Pauline and Sadie, were left to fend for themselves, taking in washing, boarders when they could–– it’s a miracle they even survived. Things got better when Paw Paw, their father, got a job with the Civilian Conservation Corps boys. That’s when they came to New Mexico and things started to settle down a little. Between 1st and 12th grade, Sadie went to thirteen different schools; the constant search for a job kept them relocating. 

Sadie received her RN degree from the University of Texas, probably around 1941. She enlisted in the Navy the following year. She could not swim; to pass the required swimming test she bribed the examiner: “Chief, I got a 5th of whiskey says I can swim that pool.” She passed.

As World War II raged, she staffed the hospital ships, often under attack, that sailed out of Pearl to the Pacific islands, such as Guadalcanal, to evacuate the terribly wounded Marines. While between island trips, she and her sister Pauline, a Red Cross worker, ran into each other on the street in Pearl Harbor, after having been out of touch for many months. By that time the hospital there housed 10,000 beds.

Sadie was stationed at Pearl Harbor until VJ Day, 1945. She met her husband, Frank Schreiber, there. They returned to New Mexico after the war, married, and had two children, Don and Anna.

Sadie served as a public health nurse in Albuquerque until Frank finished his studies at the University of New Mexico in 1947, then moved to Farmington, New Mexico. There, she worked as the only nurse at the San Juan Episcopal Mission, providing care to thousands of Navajo families, mostly in women’s health care, under the direction of Jane Turnbull, a local midwife who is said to have delivered over 3,000 babies. Sadie took her little boy, Don, to work every day.

Don recalls:

My first memories are of playing there at the mission with all the Navajo kids. Later, she helped Dad open the only classy bar in our oilfield town. The Rig. That got them kicked out of the Methodist church and led a portly gentleman dressed in black to stroll down their drive one spring day when they were working outside, pull a six-pack of beer from under his robes and introduce himself as Father Smith from St John’s. This led to now four generations of Episcopalians. They operated the bar very successfully until 1956 when Mom pivoted to help Dad open Schreiber Insurance Agency - but she returned to nursing and teaching.

After helping her husband build his insurance agency, Sadie worked for two physicians, Dr. Hartz, and Dr. Peacock. It was a frontier town. When she told Dr. Peacock she could assist in an emergency surgery, he said, “Okay, Sadie, just don’t spit in the wound.” 

But Sadie went on to earn a teaching degree by attending summer schools in Boulder, Colorado and Portales, New Mexico. And she created a vocational nursing program for high school students at Farmington High School and Shiprock High School. She custom wrote a textbook/ manual for the program, recognizing early on that for many of her Navajo students, English physiology/health/ medical vocabulary was 'lost in translation’. A heart, for example, was a Valentine. She recognized that this needed to be addressed, and she built bridges to understanding across the language and cultural divide. She taught for over ten years. 

Under a grant from the newly established Office of Navajo Economic Opportunity during the Carter Administration, Sadie loaded her pickup truck (the El Camino) with educational supplies, testing equipment, and camping gear, and traveled on long trips deep into the Navajo Nation to teach the basics of nutrition and sanitation to Navajo families in need. Her objective was to curtail or slow the rapidly increasing diabetes and food or water borne diseases in those rural communities that had few public utilities: no electricity, no gas, no water.  

And, by the way, Sadie would probably want it mentioned here: 

STILL TODAY 1/3 OF NAVAJO FAMILIES DO NOT HAVE ACCESS TO RUNNING WATER. GODDAMNIT.

Later, she became a Public Health Monitor at the Public Health Hospital in Shiprock, New Mexico on the Navajo Nation where, in collaboration with Dr. Joyce Price, a surgeon at the hospital, they helped investigate and uncover that white doctors, who had been sent there after med school to satisfy educational grants were practicing Cesarean sections on the young Navajo mothers who did not need them. 

A scholarship for Native Americans pursuing a degree in nursing at San Juan College (Farmington, New Mexico) was established in Sadie’s name.

As a sideline, throughout the years of teaching and nursing, Sadie embarked upon the business of flipping houses every chance she got. The model was, buy a run-down house, spend every hour after work, weekends––never take a vacation––to get it livable, then find another dump with possibilities, and do it again. 

“We lived in eleven houses in seventeen years,” recalls Don, “and she was the boss of that whole show. We all worked for Mom, Dad included.”

Always a devoted FDR Democrat, Sadie and Frank were instrumental in establishing the Democratic Party in the largely Republican community populated by Mormons, West Texas/Oklahoma oilfield developers, and transients. Politics became another job, and the family worked at it. Her brother-in-law was State Democratic Party Chair, State Treasurer and twice State Land Commissioner. Going to all the conventions, knocking the doors, pushing, pushing, pushing to get good Democrats elected, that was all part of the picture.

Sadie was a champion of gay rights in the ‘60s, and hired a young Navajo male housekeeper to work in the home. 

“Some people are different than we are,” she told her son. “Not less, just different. Welcome them, help them.”. 

Another memory from Don:

“Growing up I had a bunch of good friends, and one of whom was always the coolest kid, even in grade school. We played Little League together, mostly band and when we got to high school, he was the drummer for all the local bands, just the kid everyone wanted to be. His mom ran the Trailways bus station downtown and it had a little apartment in the back where they lived. She was very Sadie-like and they were good, good friends. Our group of guys all worked there, loading and unloading the busses, it was so busy, then eventually selling tickets. Late hours, early hours. A real job.”

“Then, in our senior year, my friend began having problems with his leg and they couldn't figure it out. On and off, until I went to college in Flagstaff. When I came home, he was living in my room, diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. His mother was just overwhelmed with work and the rest of her family, including care of her terminally ill father in the little apartment behind the bus station. Naturally, Mom stepped in. He was so sick. There was no hospice care in those days, so Mom did it until the end.”

Whatever the hardest work was, Sadie did it. 

“And I never, ever saw her leave a job unfinished,” says Don. 

Sisters in Service: Sadie (left) in her Navy uniform with Pauline, who was with the American Red Cross.

Larry O'Keefe

Living Life As A Thank You

Larry O’Keefe in Middlebury, Vermont September 29, 2023

I was incredibly fortunate to have had Larry O’Keefe as a mentor and a friend when I was a new teacher at Vista de Las Cruces School in Gaviota, California. It was the 1990s, and Larry was a visiting teacher from Vermont who was hired along with his colleague Eric Mortensen to help launch an innovative educational program called Paradise Project. The program was successful at their home school in Burlington, but transposing it to our little rural community was a brave experiment. It didn’t fit in smoothly or immediately, but its core components ultimately proved refreshing and enduring, and for some students, even life-changing. These elements included experiential learning, student responsibility, and traveling to various destinations where a network of trusted host families had been established. In the meantime, through his actions and wise counsel, Larry taught me to be the best teacher—and person—I could be. He is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known, and a gifted storyteller. We had to do this interview in writing, but I am hoping to add in a sound-clip at some point so you can hear his voice…it’s the voice of a radio star, a voice for campfire stories or a cross-country drive.

We always start with the subject's name, date, and place of birth, and the date and location of the interview.

I’m Lawrence "Larry" O'Keefe, born October 30, 1941 in Westerly, Rhode Island, answering these questions in writing at my home in Pawcatuck, Connecticut, beginning in November, 2023.

Where are you from, and how did you come to find the place where you make your home?

I was born and grew up here in the same town where I now live, Pawcatuck, CT. It's a small, quiet coastal village on the Rhode Island border which swells to more than double its size in the summer tourist season. This is the area where nearly all of my family have lived for generations. My father's family were Irish Famine immigrants in 1850 and my mother herself was an immigrant in the 1920s. She was born in Glasgow, Scotland to Irish parents. My father's mother gave birth to 17 children; my mother's mother gave birth to 11, so I come from a very large Irish-Catholic family. In fact, I have 60 first cousins! This was an ideal place to live and to grow up. Kind of like Norman Rockwell America! My buddies and I hung out in the neighborhood each night, rode our bikes far and wide, hitchhiked to the beach in the summer -- all without a moment of fear or concern for our safety. Everyone knew everyone in the village. We could, and would, drop into almost any house on the street if we were ever in need.

I remained here in Pawcatuck until a few years after high school. When I graduated high school (Stonington High School) I went to the University of Rhode Island to study engineering. What a mistake that was! Engineering and I were most definitely not a good match, and after two years, I flunked out of engineering school. I then went to St. Michael College in Winooski, Vermont to study to be a teacher. Through scouting, I became very involved in the local community (Burlington) and ultimately, after graduation, I was offered a teaching job in a Burlington Junior High School. That's how I ended up living for forty years in Burlington. I taught my entire career in the same school -- almost 35 years.

Although it was the largest city in Vermont, Burlington had that same "small town" atmosphere that I loved. It was safe, quiet, friendly, and when you walked through the downtown area you always ran into a half dozen or so folks you knew well enough to stop and chat with. Sadly, today Burlington is far more urban, with all the ills that come with being urban. In fact, it's been on the national news for days now because of a gun attack by a local man on three Palestinian college students, one of whose maternal family are Burlington natives and current residents.

I think it would be interesting to recap how you came to be teaching in, of all places, Gaviota!

My two-year sojourn in Gaviota, California came about in a strange way. Eric and I had been directors of The Paradise Project at Edmunds Middle School for nearly twenty years when the school district was planning to end our program. Ironically, a chance meeting on one of our Paradise road trips with an NBC producer threw a real monkey wrench into the district's plan. Cara DeVito, the producer, had heard about our program through a relative and, to keep a long story short, ultimately ended up producing a 4-minute news segment on Brian Williams’ Saturday Night News. At the very moment that the Burlington District was trying to close down the Paradise Project, it was suddenly broadcast on a nationwide NBC news program as an outstanding and unique educational program. Our community was thrilled and honored with the sudden notoriety. The drive to shut us down was suddenly an embarrassment to the school leadership.

That national news story caught the eye and ear of Marina Margetts, Principal of Vista de las Cruces school in Gaviota. After a very dogged and arduous and unrelenting quest to bring Paradise Project to Gaviota, Marina finally prevailed. Eric and I agreed to go clear across the country, for a half year each, and try to bring the concept of the Project to Vista. Our school district agreed to "loan" us for the year. It was a way for them to crawl out from under their embarrassment.

Unbeknownst to Marina and the Vista family, this loan to Vista was to become a life saver for me. After a year of verbal abuse, accusations of being burned out and a bad influence on kids, and being hit with a steady onslaught of character assassinations, Eric and I had both begun to wear down and to lose faith in ourselves. Although I was absolutely terrified to be heading clear across the country to sort of "start all over again" in my mid-50s, the experience actually restored my faith and belief in myself and my ability to interact positively with kids. A handful of staff, (including Marina, Ted Martinez, and you, Cynthia), several parents, and a lot of kids helped me to survive the challenges I faced at Vista and to regain the joy of working with kids! The one-year loan expanded to a two-year loan, and you and I became "partners in crime" in trying to bring our style of education to a rather laid-back school.

What is your source of strength? How have you gotten through the hard stuff?

It's been fortunate for me that throughout most of my adult life I've been surrounded by kids, mainly adolescent kids. I've been involved as a scout leader almost all my life and I was a middle school teacher for 35 years. I've always told those kids that I can freely provide a great deal of support, a great deal of energy for them. But my energy is finite and it needs to be replenished by energy from others. To their credit, those adolescent kids grasped that concept and learned to sense when my energy level was at a low point. That was when they always would leap into action.

Although there have been a multitude of adults who've helped me through the hard stuff, my greatest source of strength has come from the energy of hundreds of kids. And I've never been more conscious of that than I am now. Now, at 82 years of age, I find myself, for the first time in more that 60 years, without that group of kids surrounding me. I truly miss their energy, their caring, their love. And I miss being able to provide the same for them. Since I have no children or grandchildren, I no longer have contact with kids. It's a very different world to have that source of energy gone.

Larry with his dear friend and teaching partner, Eric (Mort) Mortensen, enjoying morning coffee in a Middlebury diner. As Mort says, “I’ll sell you swampland in Florida, and Larry will make you glad you got it.”

What fundamental experience(s) have shaped your worldview?

My worldview is probably the controversial position that "I am my brother's keeper." I believe that throughout the world, we are all our brother's keeper. Of course, there are many who call me an idealistic fool for believing that. But it's so deeply imbedded in me, it's so much a part of who I am, that fool or not, it is my worldview. And how did I come be this kind of idealistic fool? I grew up in a family and community where we all watched out for and cared for each other. I grew up believing that whatever kindness or care I could provide for "my neighbor," it was my obligation to act on it. And as the years have gone on, I have practiced that always. I cannot stand by and watch unkindness, anywhere in the world, without feeling a sense of pain. It causes me a very deep pain to see people suffering and feeling profound loss. I know my "Pollyanna outlook" on the world will never prevail but, in the meantime, I will still "do my part" by continuing to be my brother's keeper, wherever I may be.

Tell us about a turning point in your life, or a big decision. How did you navigate?

There are a couple of big decisions that became turning points in my life. The first was when I flunked out of college. My parents had skimped and saved to send me to college. As a working-class family, their resources were very limited, and their sacrifice was great. I graduated near the top of my high school class. I was going to be one of the first on either side of my immigrant family to attend college. To put it mildly, there were an awful lot of eggs in my basket. When I flunked out, I felt as though I had wasted my parents' resources and let down a vast multitude of people. I was at the first of many major low points in my life, with no experience in how to handle it. I just wanted to end it all right then and there. Fortunately, although they were deeply hurt and humiliated, both of my parents were "get back on the horse" types. They put "the horse" out there in front of me and waited. I made the right decision and got back on that horse. That led to a wonderful lifetime career in teaching and living in Burlington, Vermont

The second turning point decision came, once again, when I was at a very low point in my life. I was beaten and devastated from almost a year of character assassination by our school leadership in order to weaken my influence in the school system. That was when the calls from Marina began about going out to California. I was so demoralized that l clearly wasn't open to anything as risky as that. I repeatedly said no to Marina. She was persistent. My choice: stay home and wallow in my deteriorating career which, oddly, was the more appealing, or start from scratch in California. Again, I ultimately made the right choice and it became a life-changing turning point.

Do you ever think about roads not taken and things you wish you’d done differently?

Fairly early in my teaching in career in Burlington I had already become very involved in providing outside activities and road trips for our 7th grade students. One day I got a phone call from a principal of a school in Southwest Harbor, Maine, one of my absolutely favorite places in the world. He wanted me to come for an interview for a job. I was very excited at the prospect of working and living in Southwest Harbor. In an attempt to make the trip to Maine do "double duty," I took a vanload of kids with me to camp in Acadia National Park after my interview. I was offered the job. By the time the weekend was over, the kids had talked me out of accepting it. I have many a time thought about what my life would have been like had I spent it in a tiny Maine coastal village instead of Burlington, Vermont.

What was your childhood spiritual or religious background?

I was born into a devout Roman Catholic family and grew up in a nearly solid Catholic environment. I lived in the Irish-Italian neighborhood of town, surrounded by Catholic families. As a child, that religious element was a major part of my life. I attended Catholic school, I was an altar boy, I joined the Boy Scout troop that met at our Catholic church. I was in public high school before I began to meet any number of guys who were not Catholic, and even then they were not in great number. The entire town was heavily Catholic. I then went on to attend a Catholic college in Vermont. I was hopelessly immersed in one religious background.

But when I was in college, as I became more educated and analytical and challenging in my thinking, I first began to question much of what I had believed and had accepted without question for most of my life. Although I've continued to marginally participate in the Catholic tradition, mostly because it's been important to my parents and family. Today I no longer accept most of the Catholic faith. When I'm asked about my religion I say, "I'm a Catholic through an accident of birth." And now I think of myself of as a cultural Catholic, not a religious Catholic. The tenets of that faith are so deeply a part of my background and culture that I will never be able to completely shake them.

As I've explored and studied a multitude of other religions over the years, the one that I find most compatible with my spiritual journey might be the Quakers. It's simplistic, not drowning in doctrine and ritual, mostly teaching a very personal connection with God. My spiritual faith is a belief in God and his creation, and a moral path that is simplistic and forgiving. I feel closest to God when I'm outdoors in the world he created as opposed to the world that man has created.

What is your earliest (or an early) memory?

My earliest memory is of sitting in a rolling baby table in the kitchen of our first home on Garden Street in Pawcatuck. The table was a big square, on wheels, with a cut-out in the middle for a canvas seat for a baby. What I remember is that I thought I had two mothers at the time. My Aunt Connie had come to live with us after I was born and she and my mother seemed to both take care of me in that baby table in the kitchen. I really thought they were both my mother. It took me a few years before I realized that Connie was my aunt, not one of my mothers. And to this day I still remember that old rolling baby table that I "occupied" in my early childhood.

Can you tell us about someone who was a big influence on your life?

Outside of my family, there is one man who stands incredibly tale in being the absolutely most positive and profound influence in my life. That man was Charles D. "Charlie" Keegan, my scoutmaster. Like a multitude of us who were his scouts, I credit Charlie with making me the man that I have been and still am today. Whenever I run into one of the guys who were from the "Charlie Keegan era" in Troop 9, we all end up saying the same thing. That man changed my life.

Charlie was a simple man. He was a Lifesaver in the early Coast Guard, being transferred from station to station along the New England coast. When his wife was pregnant with their 5th child, Charlie was stationed far away on Cape Cod. When his wife died after childbirth, he was left a widow with five young children. He had to resign the Coast Guard and come home to raise his family alone. He went to work in the mill, like so many guys in town. And he became involved in the Boy Scout program. By 1950, he was scoutmaster of the local troop. He continued in that leadership for more than 35 years. To those of us who were blessed to be his scouts, this plain, ordinary man was a truly extraordinary man! In fact, at one point a group of us guys wanted to write to Readers Digest to have him included in their "A Most Unforgettable Person" column.

The training, the wisdom, the knowledge, the courage, the strength that Charlie Keegan imparted to us every day kept us going. It was from him that I first learned to have such a strong faith in others, and I followed his position for all my years. When we didn't have faith in ourselves, he would say, "I know you don't believe in yourself right now so, for the time being, I have enough belief in you for both of us." It was amazing how much his belief in us would give us the strength to tackle some daunting task -- and succeed. And I used that message with my own scouts and students for 40 years.

A favorite story of my own scouts and the Paradise students that I was often requested to share was about the time Charlie wouldn't let us thank him. He had taken us on a trip to southern Vermont, a place none of us had ever been. As we were standing on a mountain looking at the view, it occurred to us that we really needed to thank Charlie for this incredible experience. So, we walked over to him and did just that. He looked at us and said, "Sorry, but I can't accept that." Dumbfounded and confused by his response, we repeated our thanks. Charlie repeated his response. Seeing our dismay, and a bit of hurt, he smiled and simply said, "You can't say a Thank You. You have to do a Thank You. When you've done the same for someone else, that's when you'll have done your Thank You for me." Many years after receiving that gem of wisdom, I took my own scout troop from Vermont to Washington, DC on a trip. I wrote Charlie a postcard that said, "In Washington, DC with my scout troop, Charlie. Thank You." Not long after I returned home, I received a postcard from Charlie. It said, quite simply, "Larry, you're welcome." That concept of "Do a Thank You" has carried on through scouts and Paradise kids for years. I still receive messages from grown-up kids who write to say they're "Doing their Thank You."

One last point here. When I realized how much of an impact Charlie Keegan had on my life, and the lives of hundreds of others, I made a silent promise to Charlie and myself that I would spend the rest of my life trying to do the same, trying to be the "Charlie Keegan" for other kids. And I have, in fact, spent my life trying to fulfill that promise.

You are so inspiring, Larry. But back to our questions: When have you felt most alone? Who has been the kindest to you in your life?

I'm not sure that I've ever felt truly alone at any point in my life. And if I think of the kindest people in my life, my teaching partner Eric Mortensen and my longtime friend Faye Lawes come to mind immediately. They've both hung with me, regardless of the pain and agony I may have caused them, and continued to provide me with kindness, support, guidance and direction. But over the whole course of my lifetime, the great kindness has always been my mother. No matter where I was in life and how much grief I was causing her, she would always be there with kindness and comfort and support. This continued until she died at the age of 93. And I believe she learned that kindness from her own mother, my grandmother, who could always pull me back from the brink of despair with her gentle smile, warm and tender touch, and reassurance that I will be alright.

What are the most important lessons you’ve learned in life?

One of the most important lessons I've learned came directly from my mother and her family. She taught me, and modeled for me, that it's always important to not take myself too seriously, and to be quick to laugh at myself. In fact, she taught me that laughter was one of the greatest gifts God gave us. I've carried that with me throughout my days.

Another lesson was that no matter what others around me want me to do, I must ultimately stand on my own conscience. I surely have not done the right thing in all situations, but I am well aware of the consequences of not doing the right thing -- and whether or not I wish to admit it, in any given situation I actually DO know the difference between right and wrong. I have the choice to do right or do wrong, even if I find myself standing alone.

From my father I learned that a job worth doing is a job worth doing well. He was a true perfectionist. He never, never did a slipshod job on anything. He paid great attention to detail and worked and reworked a task until he was satisfied, and he was most definitely the most stern of taskmasters. I remember as a kid, whenever I was doing the yardwork for him, he would inspect it and always find something lacking. My happiest day was the day he followed me all over the yard, examining every spot, and then just went silently into the house. His greatest compliment was that he couldn't find anything wrong. I have tried, maybe with a little less fervor, to do the same in my own work.

Another lesson I've learned is one that I think I taught myself. I've had to spend my life "chewing people out," as kids used to tell me. But I learned that I could hit a kid with almost anything that was difficult for them to hear as long as we finished the conversation with a positive and uplifting comment about the kid. The way they used to put was, "Mr. O, you can chew us out as bad as we need, but when you finish you always leave us with our dignity intact." I'm pretty proud that I've mastered that.

What surprises you?

Sadly, what surprises me today is the prevalence of bigotry, intolerance, divisiveness, violence, and unkindness that has permeated the citizens of our nation. In my 82 years, even during the Vietnam era, I have not seen such a growing and festering plague on our politics and our government. It truly surprises me, because I never expected it. There has always been that element in our country, but it's been minimized and kept in check by the strength of our constitution and our voters and our politicians' adherence to our standards. It has now been unleashed and, unfortunately, I fear there are more surprises awaiting me in the future.

On a more positive note, what also surprises me is that in the midst of the above, there continues to be kindness, empathy, caring, honesty, and unity. These things still surround us and remind us of who we really are. I hope we never lose that to the forces of evil.

What inspires your creativity, and how do you express it?

I'm not sure how to answer this question. I don't really know what inspires my creativity, probably because I don't view myself as being a particularly creative person. I am not artistic or musical or dramatic or athletic. I'm not one to take creative approaches to problem solving, at least I don't think so. I guess I've always viewed myself as being a fairly simple, ordinary, not particularly creative sort of guy.

Larry, I think you are an example of someone whose life is your art. But okay, again, back to the questions: Who inspires you? Do you have a hero in real life, or maybe a hero in fiction?

My real life hero, as you can probably already guess, is Charlie Keegan, for all the reasons given in a question above. But another real life hero who has always inspired me is Susan Craighead. When I met Susan, as a 12-year-old Paradise student, she was suffering from a rare debilitating disease that caused tissues to peel from her body, internally and externally, in painful, ugly boils. She has lived with that disease all her life, suffering increasing trauma and pain over the years. Yet she has gone on to college, become a Rhodes Scholar, a lawyer who served the most downtrodden in our world, was appointed a Justice in the Superior Court in Washington state, adopted a disabled child who she has cared for over the years, and has done all of this with a perpetually positive and upbeat attitude. She has been and still is a true inspiration to me. I can't recall ever having any fictional hero, except maybe when I was about 10 years old and Hopalong Cassidy was a hero of mine.

What are you most proud of?

As I mentioned in another question, when I was a teen-ager I made a promise to myself and Charlie Keegan that I would dedicate myself to doing for others what Charlie had done for me. He had been there for me, and for hundreds of other boys, to guide us, support us, encourage us and stand by us in good times and bad. He had touched my life and changed it forever. I am most proud that I have done my best to honor that promise all my life. I have tried to touch the lives of others, particularly adolescents, in much the same way that he touched my life. Charlie impacted hundreds of lives in his years as our scoutmaster. I have tried to do the same in my years as a scoutmaster and a middle school teacher. I am proud to say that I have done my best to honor my promise to Charlie Keegan and, thereby, to have touched a few lives along the way.

What are some changes you have seen?

As children, my sisters and I would gather in the evening on the floor in front of the big Victrola radio-record player that sat in a prominent spot in our living room. We listened with rapt attention to our favorite radio programs -- Inner Sanctum, Lone Ranger, Arthur Godfrey. We would often wonder what it would be like to be able to actually see the Lone Ranger or Arthur Godfrey. Little did we know that something called television would one day make that possible. And my buddies and I used to wear those Dick Tracy watches and pretend we could actually talk to someone through the watch. Genuine science fiction for those days. And we'd lie on the ground at night looking up at the "man in the moon," wondering if we'd ever know what it was really like up there. As I look back to those childhood days, most all of my science fiction and mystery wonderings have long since become reality. When I talked with my students about the "old days" they would find it hard to believe that I never even knew television existed until I was about 9 years old. And they always laughed when I'd tell them that now when I lie on the ground looking up at the "man on the moon" there might actually be someone up there looking back!

How has your life been different than what you’d imagined?

I guess if I go back to what I expected of my life when I was graduating high school, it's been very different from what I expected at the time. First of all, I was a shy, quiet kid, awkward and uncomfortable speaking before a group. The last thing I saw in my future was school teacher! Thanks to Charlie Keegan pushing me to serve as the Senior Patrol Leader (key boy leader in a scout troop). I was the leader of a 100 scout troop for two years. I learned to hold my own in charge of 100 kids. I also expected to spend the rest of my life living and working in my hometown. I never dreamed of spending 40 years in northern Vermont. If I look back to my high school years, almost nothing in my life turned out the way I was expecting, excluding my lifelong commitment to scouting. That turned out just as I had always expected. Probably the greatest shock to me was becoming a teacher and scoutmaster. I could not imagine in a hundred years ever being able to manage and guide and influence a scout troop or a classroom full of kids. I was absolutely sure that if I ever tackled such a ridiculous goal I would be a miserable failure. Fortunately there were others who saw in me something I couldn't see in myself and I went on to be a moderate success as teacher and a leader.

What is your current state of mind?

My current state of mind is probably the same as it's been most of my life. I have always been an incurable optimist, so no matter how bad and hopeless things can get I'm usually rather annoyingly positive in my outlook. I will admit that the current state of affairs in our country has given my optimism a bit of a challenge. But, nevertheless, I still have faith and hope in the American people and believe that somehow our constitution will hold and the positive-thinking citizens will ultimately prevail. Other than the national dismay, I still tend to be that annoyingly optimistic guy. I'll go back to one of those 3 adages the kids used to tell me I used all the time -- "This too shall pass." And, of course, to that wonderful gift of laughter that I inherited from my mother's family.

How would you like to be remembered?

I would like to be remembered as a man who was given a gift from God of being able to somehow reach out to others, particularly kids, and to touch their lives. And I would like to be remembered as one who was able to be touched by those same lives and to grow through the influence, guidance, caring and support of kids. I believe that when all is said and done, I have been successful in following the path of my mentor, Charlie Keegan, and have been able to touch a few lives along the way. That is probably my legacy.

I would also like to be forgiven for my many failures of kindness. I would like to have been remembered as a kind person, a sensitive and thoughtful person. Unfortunately, I believe I've fallen far short of that goal. I hope that I will be forgiven by all of you for whom my many acts of unkindness and insensitivity have caused such agony and pain. I wish I had been a kinder person.

What defines "success" in life?

A group of students once gave me a coffee cup with a message on it that was a paraphrase of a Robert Stevenson definition of a successful man. The cup said, That man is a success who has gained the respect of others and the love of children. When I opened the present and read the message, they all beamed and said I should read it aloud. I did. They then said, "Mr. O, we bought that for you because it says who you are. We all respect you, and we love you." At that moment it pretty much said it all. For most of my life the wisdom imparted to me came often and regularly from adolescents, from students or Boy Scouts. The day that I received that message on the cup not only came as a gift of wisdom, but it also came with the respect and love of children, children who were an important part of my life. So, I guess as I look back over the years, I pretty much agree with Stevenson and that little group of kids -- and I've spent the rest of my life trying to maintain the respect of others and the love of children. If I've succeeded then I can view myself as a success in life. I guess only time will tell.

Is there any message, wisdom, philosophy or advice you want to share?

Over the years the scouts and students have been quick to point out that among the many adages that I tossed out at them there are three that appear to be regulars. 1) This too shall pass. 2) We'll cross that bridge if we come to it. 3) We will survive. I used them so often that the kids picked them up and used them too. What was important is that the kids didn't just parrot them regularly but they actually internalized the message behind them. They came to believe that no matter how difficult a situation was, it too would pass. They came to realize that we cause ourselves untold agonies by trying to cross bridges we may never actually face. And, our great rallying cry when all hope seemed to be gone - We will survive! I guess if there was some message or advice I'd like to pass on, those 3 messages that worked so well for me and hundreds of kids over the years are probably as good as anything else I might have to share.

What gives you hope?

What always has and always will give me hope is the innate goodness in the youth of our world. For every negative thing we hear about our youth there's a multitude of stories to counter that. And I'm not talking from just listening to the news or reading a positive newspaper article, I'm talking from real life. I have spent my entire life believing that kids are far more capable, far more sensitive, far more caring and loving, than society ever seems to believe. In my 40 some odd years of working with scouts and students, I have seen kids produce an infinitely greater degree of responsibility, reliability, and caring than almost anyone around would have believed could happen. As long as there are kids, there will always be hope.

Steve Yarema

He Loved the Sky

by Geoff Yarema

Aviation Cadet Steven Yarema, 1941

Steve had been praying for this night for months—moonless pitch black would make him difficult to spot; bitter cold and snow would render the heavily armed guards less attentive; howling wind would cover betraying sounds. No clouds ensured bright constellations. Perfect for a navigator.

He just loved the sky.

At 22 years of age, he had survived exactly 195 caged nights in German prisoner of war camps. He was determined daylight would not find him again inside this hellhole.

Steve had run away from an abusive immigrant father, lied about his age and joined the Army Air Corps. He was determined to fly. And the quickly mobilizing war machine obliged him, sending his strong aptitude for math to Great Ashfield Airdrome, Suffolk, assigning him to the 385th Bomb Group and ranking him Second Lieutenant.

Soon his superiors were wedging his slight frame into the cockpit of a B17 Flying Fortress. His role was bombardier—to guide sorties into well-defended enemy territory, signaling the drop of payload after payload.

He excelled at understanding the heavens.

After a solid run of successful missions, the odds caught up. On August 4, 1944, German anti-aircraft fire tore into a brand new Douglas Aircraft-manufactured bomber nicknamed “Hair’s Breath”, sending it into a death spiral. He and the 8 other young crew members acted mechanically, simply locking eyes and doing exactly as they had been taught. In sequence, they threw themselves out the open cargo door and counted the requisite seconds before pulling rip cords.

The Infantry cleaned and slept with their guns; the Air Corps packed and slept with their parachutes.

As he fell through air and space, time stopped. His view of the night sky was no longer from the overstory. Breathing in the overwhelming stench of diesel and death, he bore witness to his plane crashing into a million tiny pieces, one of many deafening explosions around him. He could not see the rest of his falling crew.

Preparing to hit the ground, he knew his coordinates--inside Nazi-occupied territory, near what is today the Danish-German border. And the Third Reich had sent a welcoming party.
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His new captors lost no time in moving him southeast of Berlin, to German-occupied Poland, ironically the country of his ancestry. His new home was Stalag Luft 3, a truly foreboding compound. But its reputation for high security had been shaken just days before his arrival by the most ambitious breakout in WW2 history, immortalized later in the movie “The Great Escape”. Through painfully, painstakingly and clandestinely constructed tunnels, 76 men had crawled to freedom. All but 3 were soon re-captured.

Immediately upon entering this notorious camp, Steve was handed a shovel to help fill in the holes left by over 600 tons of excavated dirt. Over the first 2 weeks of digging, he was forced to witness the Hitler-ordered slaughter of 55 of the re-captured.

The scar, suffered long before PTSD became part of the vernacular, would wound him for life, with extreme mood swings and blinding fits of rage, among other reveals. As Faulkner admonished, the past is never dead. It’s not even past.

But the remarkable mass POW escape had negated the Camp’s reputation for invincibility. So the remaining prisoners lost no time concocting new schemes, even during Poland’s worst winter in 30 years. Steve soon had an elegantly simple idea and was determined to implement it—solo.

But the Soviets were advancing hard, right toward the camp and, as yet unknown to the POWs, would soon liberate it. Steve was not to be there, though.

A mere week before the Red Army’s arrival, the Nazis separated out the resident American officers from the rest of the Stalag POWs and force-marched them 400 miles south. His reward for surviving yet another trauma was a new internment--Stalag 7A, the Germans’ largest POW camp, then busting at the seams with over 70,000 prisoners. Several of the legendary Tuskegee airmen were among Steve’s new cabin mates.

At this point, he was done. Live free or die. The escape plan he had cooked up in Stalag 3 should still work at Stalag 7A, he concluded. His new abode came equipped with a hidden trap door those before him had built into the floor. The trick was getting from there to--and through--the camp’s barbed wire fence perimeter.

Steve’s simple answer—a white sheet he would pull over his slight frame in prone, face-down position, corners fitted to each of his 4 extended appendages. With that in place, he planned to crawl very slowly from the hut over the constantly Klieg light-scanned terrain, hoping to be indiscernible to the watching guards from the snow around him.

His commanding officer had cleared his tactics--but only after looking deeply into Steve’s eyes and saying out loud what Steve already knew--that any detected movement would draw strafing machine gun fire.

On this carefully chosen, miserably bleak night he had been impatiently waiting for, the white sheet camouflaging his slow motion across the heavy new snow actually worked. Reaching the thickly protected fence, Steve produced wire cutters fashioned from metal utensils and slowly cut through the bottom. His small size proved an asset.

Soon he was outside. His escape had been undetected. For a moment the euphoria was overwhelming. But he quickly returned to business. He knew he was still well inside enemy lines. Many Germans--and German shepherds--lay ahead. But the Red Cross had discreetly provided intel if the need were to arise. The resistance had a safe house less than 7 clicks away. At least that’s what he had heard. Things could have changed.

Despite malnutrition, injuries from multiple beatings and frostbite, Steve moved quickly away from the compound.

After only a couple of hours through thick forest and flitting along deserted village roads, Steve approached a nondescript door and took a deep breath. He knocked 3, then 1, then 2 times. Just a few seconds later, an old man appeared, then quickly swept him through.

Thankfully, the Red Cross information was still current. For the very first time that night, he allowed himself to breathe. His plan had worked. He was no longer a POW.

The man and his wife wrapped him in blankets and served warm broth. Steve told of his journey and thanked them deeply for being there to guide him on his next challenging steps. But the couple quickly laid waste to Steve’s euphoria.

The good news was that the Germans were losing. Soon NATO forces would be occupying the area and the war would be over.

The bad news was that the routes Steve might take from there were safe for no one. The Allies were carpet-bombing the countryside all around them. With only one exception—the POW camp from which he had just escaped. The truth—the safest place he could be for now was back in Stalag 7A.

Steve couldn’t believe his ears. Did he comprehend what they were urging? Reverse his escape and return before being missed to maximize his safety? Should he trust these strangers’ war intelligence? The cognitive dissonance was mind blowing.
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Two months later, on April 29, 1945, 268 days after parachuting into enemy hands, Allied forces liberated the prisoners of Stalag 7A. Steve was among those celebrating his freedom, this time permanently. The night sky had faithfully guided his return to captivity, unnoticed, just like it had his escape.
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Soon after his liberation, Steve was on a military transport plane headed stateside. 2 years later he would marry my mother Doris. I became the first born. My brother Tom and sister Stefanie would follow.

Steve’s life spanned what is rightly called the Greatest Generation and in many ways he personified it. When Hitler was raging in the European theater, Steve was crewing bombing missions over German territory until bailing out of a crashing B17. When Khrushchev was shipping nuclear weapons to Cuba, Steve was airborne daily over the Florida Straits in a B52, armed with intercontinental ballistic missiles and awaiting the order to launch. And when the Apollo 11 crew kept their President’s promise and took one giant leap for mankind, Steve was joyously trading back slaps with his fellow Saturn V rocket engineers inside the Kennedy Space Center.

Each time, looking to the sky and offering thanks.

As the years marched by, Steve was blessed with a growing family. He was over the moon to see my daughter Valerie come into this world. Several years later, he headed with Doris to Kauai, where his grandson—Tom’s son Avalon—was to be born. The joyous moment came and was followed by the older couple’s early bedtime.

Later that night, during the balmy and serene hours before sunrise, Steve stirred and wandered outside. The heavens were extraordinarily clear, no moon, the constellations bright, reminiscent of another such night, now sixty years before. He lay down on the soft cool grass.

After first light, my brother Tom arose, weary but deeply emotional from the birth of his son. Before making breakfast for the family, he strolled outside to check on his orchids. There, he found our father Steve lying peacefully in the grass, without a pulse, but with a broad smile on his face and a gentle gaze fixed upon the sky he had always loved.

After Liberation, May 1945

In loving memory of Steven Yarema (July 6, 1922-August 26, 2003)

LeRoy Scolari

It’s About Community and Service

I had the privilege of meeting and interviewing LeRoy Scolari on June 29, 2021 in the Myra Manfrina Reference Room of the Lompoc Valley Historical Society in Lompoc, California. In true Lompoc spirit, we were joined by a few local friends: Barry Manfrina, Bobby Manfrina, Karen Osland, and Karen Paaske, all of whom grew up in the area and have an impressive knowledge of the community and its history. Lompoc is a place that cares about the future and is not opposed to change, but it tends to its past and knows the stories matter. There was a shared recognition of the importance of interviewing LeRoy, a native son who has been a dynamic contributor throughout his life.  Still sharp at nearly ninety, LeRoy has a can-do attitude, a wry sense of humor, and many insights to share. He has long been a voice for good stewardship of the land, and he has an admirable record of service to others. Let’s dive right in:

My name is LeRoy Scolari. I was born on the 21st day of April, 1932. I was born at Nellie Sperber’s Sanitarium on the 100 block of South F. Half the town at that time was born there. Until the Lompoc Hospital opened in 1943, that was the place. My sister was born there. Adam Signorelli was born there. (I have one sister and one brother.)

My wife’s name was Joan Amos. She was originally from Kansas. (Joan and LeRoy were married for 53 years. Like LeRoy, she was actively involved in many civic organizations. She passed away in 2016.)

LeRoy’s wife, Joan Amos Scolari

Cynthia: I always ask people how they came to be in the place they’re at. How did you come to be in Lompoc?

I came with it. My grandfather, Philip Scolari, came to the U.S. from Brione, Switzerland in 1872, landing in the Santa Cruz area. Soon after the land colony was formed, he came down here and looked around. He came back ten years later, in 1884, and we’ve been here ever since, in the Honda district. He was a dairyman. He went to Switzerland in I believe 1898 and was married to Maria Fancolli. 

The dairy is long gone. It was on property that was taken for Camp Cooke. At that time, I’m not aware of anyone that challenged the price they received for the land. They took it, and that was it. 

My father and mother originally lived in the Honda when they were first married. My dad started raising alfalfa for the ranch in the valley, and at the time I was born we were living at the corner of Legge and Ocean Avenue. 

The dairy operation ended of course with the taking of land for Camp Cooke, but our neighboring property, still owned by the family, was sub-leased, kind of like share-cropping, to the Rizzoli family, who ran a dairy there until about 1950.

Cynthia: What has been your work?

I’ve been involved in the business ever since. I kind of accidentally got into commercial hay baling for a few years, simply because I had the equipment at the time. You go from one neighbor to the next and the next. 

Now, the original homestead was at the base of Tranquillon Peak. That’s where my father was born. Myra has some information in regards to the Manfrina family that worked for my grandfather, Philip Scolari, in the dairy in the early days near Tranquillon. 

The old Scolari homestead

Cynthia: I love how people in this area honor their history.

That’s one thing I worry about. There’s a lot of things that some of us know, and once we’re gone, it’s lost. I’ve always felt that history is important.

Cynthia: That’s why we’re doing this.

My grandfather and grandmother buried twins. Their firstborn. They died in infancy, very early. About 1899. They’re buried up there on the base. I tried to contact the base historian, but I never heard back. 

I know where the house was. I can remember the house. She wanted them buried where she could look out the kitchen window and see the site, which was just across the creek from the house, under an oak tree. That’s all my dad ever said, that they were under an oak tree. When we went up there, with Adam Signorelli, who worked for me for years, we hunted up there and never found that spot. But we found two stone benches about six feet apart. We figured that had to be the site. There’s no other explanation for the benches that we saw.

Barry: When we went up there, we combed the whole area, looking for the site. They used technology to try to locate them afterwards, but they never found anything definitive. 

My dad, Alfonso Scolari, was born up there in 1900. My uncle was born two years later. 

The house is still standing up there at the end of Honda Canyon.

My dad built the house on the lower ranch from lumber taken from the original schoolhouse, the Honda School, which was on my grandfather’s property. Adam Signorelli went to that school.

Cynthia: What is your source of strength? How do you get through the hard stuff?

That’s a heavy question. I associated with people that were well dedicated, and I probably built upon that.  I guess you can say I was industrious from an early age. During World War II I plowed a number of victory garden sites in town. I was only about eleven years old when I started doing that. My dad was a cattle dealer. He’d haul cattle to the union stockyards in Los Angeles for many years. Actually, to engage in that business, you had to have a license, which was rather rigorous, but my dad never chose to do that. Everything was a handshake. Your name and a handshake was enough. He would pick up the load of cattle at different places, transport them to L.A., go through the market, in his name, and then he would issue a check when he got back. That went on before the war, and continued all through the war. Also, during the war, you were not allowed to operate a truck empty one way, so my dad got into the lumber and building materials, so he always had a payload coming back, so he got into the lumber and the feed business. I still have some of the receipts from sales to different people around the valley. 

Then I associated with Harry Sloan, a well-known cattleman here in the valley. I also associated a great deal with Roy Bland, a jack-of-all trades who was dedicated to helping people. He might be irrigating his crop, and someone would have a problem, he’d shut everything down, and say, “Let’s go take care of it.” I guess I developed some of that from there. 

Cynthia: Do you feel like we’ve lost some of that sense of community, and helping one another? 

We still have some, but not to the extent we used to. In each district, like the Honda district, we had a group of people who, when you worked the cattle there, or did anything, they were always there. Same way with the Jalama. That’s gradually falling apart. We no longer have many people in the Honda. We used to have a control burn association. I never participated too much in that. But all the ranchers would get together with the County Fire Department and run control burns, which we no longer have. It was a real organized, Range Improvement Association, not only for the valley but the whole North County.

Cynthia: Do you think we can restore some of this? 

We have to. There was just a spirit of camaraderie. People helping their neighbors, and those neighbors helping the other neighbors. That was lost. For example, in the Honda, the last harvest after Camp Cooke took over, they used to have a fall end-of-harvest barbecue on the Hall Ranch. The fact is, I have a picture of my dad and my sister and one of the neighbors taken up there. It happened to be the day my brother was born, at a birthing center at 3rd and Walnut. (Susan Henning Van Clief opened a maternity home in 1914 at the corner of North 3rd St. and Walnut Ave.) 

As you probably know, Lompoc was known as the mustard capital of the world for years. I had my first auto accident at the corner of D and Maple, which were two ruts in each direction, and the mustard was six or seven feet high on all corners, and I carefully stuck my nose out, and one guy came by and took my front bumper off.  I was driving a 1935 Ford Pick-up. 

Cynthia: What are you most proud of?

Above:the Berkeley campus that LeRoy knew

That’s a tough one. Well, I appreciated my education very much. I had the honor of having Dr. Glenn Seaborg as my physics professor at UC Berkeley and Dr. Joel Hildebrand as my chemistry professor. I developed a pretty close relationship with both of them. Somewhere in my files, I have a letter from Dr. Hildebrand. There’s three people at UC that inspired me:, Dr. Gordon Sproul, who was president of the university, Dr. Hildebrand, a chemist, and Dr. Seaborg, who was affiliated with the founders of the atomic bomb. My association with them gave me a lot of inspiration. 

Things are not the same up there anymore. It fell to pieces in the 1960s. The whole community changed.

Cynthia: When did you go to UC?

1950-54

Karen P.: You graduated from Lompoc High? Did you have someone inspire you to choose to go to Berkeley?

In 1947, I was chosen 4-H All-Stars for the county. I went to a conference at Cal, and I had quite a tour of the campus. I guess I’m as proud of the fact that I was selected as one of the Diamond Star candidates, of which there were four. I was only fifteen at the time, so I was passed over for one of the older ones, but the opportunity I had to visit and tour the campus and so forth, and I set my goal. I guess it was kind of cast in stone that this is what I was going to do. I guess I was pretty proud at the time that I was one of the few that passed the Subject A examination on the first try, which is part of the entrance exam. Thanks to Mrs. Farris, the English teacher at Lompoc High, who I guess had done a good job with me. 

Then, when I was at UC, I’d already joined the Oddfellows lodge here, and I became an associate member of the lodge up there, and eventually served as Noble Grand. I had the opportunity to associate with very fine leaders of the community up there at the time. That got my interest going. I went in the service in 1955, and in 1958 I was selected as Grand Color Bearer of the Oddfellows. It kind of piqued my interest and I was urged to run for Grand Warden of the Grand Lodge, which I did, and was elected in 1963. In 1964 I became Grand Master. So I served as State Grand Master in 1964 and ‘65. Then after that, I was selected as the National Representative to the Sovereign Grand Lodge, and I served there for about five years. That gave me the opportunity to meet people from all over the world, and also to attend conferences all over the United States and Canada. 

I was one of the founders of the California Eye Bank, a major research foundation. I guess one of the inspiring things was my association with some of the primary doctors in the field. One of them was Dr. Ray Irvine at the Doheny Foundation in Los Angeles. We had an application from a woman who had been legally blind almost from birth, and she was in her late 70s at the time. She applied to see if we could do anything. We had a professorship at Johns Hopkins University. I received a report from her doctors and so forth and circulated it among the doctors here, and the word was that there really wasn’t anything that could be done. Then, one day, out of the blue, we get a call from Dr. Irvine. 

He said, “About that patient you referred. We have a doctor here from Johns Hopkins, Dr. Silverstein, who’s gonna be here for about a month. He’s a specialist in this field. If you would like, he’d be willing to examine her.” 

So I contacted her, and she went for it. Dr. Silverstein examined her. Next thing you know, he had an appointment set up to do surgery. Someplace in my files, I have a letter from her stating that she rode down the street and saw buildings and things she’d never seen before. That was such a thrill for her. And it did it for me, too, because of the contacts I had that helped make it happen. So that was one of the highlights of my time as president of the Eye Bank. 

Note from Cynthia: I had a hunch that LeRoy was being modest and that there were likely many other accomplishments he had not enumerated in the course of our interview. In a subsequent phone call, he mentioned a few others:

In 1963, I chaperoned the United Nations Pilgrimage for Youth to the U.N. headquarters in New York City. We made the trip by chartered bus, setting out with a delegation from California, and stopping in Nevada, Utah, Idaho, and Wyoming to pick up additional delegates, before we were fully loaded. We were hosted by Oddfellow lodges along the way. These were all juniors in high school, attending U.N. conferences for a week and then touring the Northeast, an unforgettable experience for them. The youngest was only 15 years old. She was an outstanding student, and I remember her filling up her steno pads with notes, wide-eyed with wonder and curiosity. (She eventually became a metallurgical engineer.)

In 1964 and ‘65, I was the State Grand Master of the Oddfellows Lodge. From 1980 to 1992, I chaired the County Agricultural Element Committee. I served on the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s Committee, the Rural Crime Advisory Committee, and for twenty years (and still on it) the Cachuma Resources Conservation District. I also served four years on the California Association of Resource Conservation District Board, was president of the Santa Barbara County Farm Bureau, and in 1987 was Santa Barbara County’s Cattleman of the Year. I am the senior past Grand Master of the Oddfellows, and recently, I received the honorable Veteran’s Jewel for seventy years of service to the Oddfellows Lodge.

Another note from Cynthia: I’m still not at all sure that the above constitutes an exhaustive list of the many ways LeRoy has stepped up to serve his community, and the many accomplishments of which he can be proud, but it gives you a pretty good idea of how he has lived his life.

Cynthia: Is there any message or advice you would like to offer to younger people?

Work hard. Build friendship and camaraderie with those around you. I think it’s important to meet with people at all levels.

One inspiration would be President Reagan. I had some association with him and his family when he was governor. You might say that the door was always open. I tried yesterday to contact the governor’s office. I went through about six different aides, or whatever you want to call them. The last one, leave a message. I still haven’t gotten a call back. Governor Wilson was another one, although we had a door-opener with him. He liked my wife’s fudge. 

Just the difference! Brooks Firestone was another one, when he was Assemblyman. You could go up to his office, and he was there. You could call him any time after six in the morning, and he would answer the phone. It’s not the case anymore. We’ve lost that type of dedication.

Maureen Reagan (i.e., Ronald Reagan’s oldest daughter) was a very good friend of my wife. They first met at the California Women for Agriculture Conference. Maureen was a chip off the old block. She was in there working with the rest of them, just like anybody else. She died at the age of sixty from melanoma. It went fast–you don’t want to underestimate the power of melanoma. Anyway, we went to the funeral service in Sacramento and sat right behind the family. After the service, we went out on the steps of the cathedral, and Reagan’s first wife, Jane Wyman and his current wife Nancy, came out, and we were chatting on the steps, and the TV cameras picked us up. When we got home, my brother said, “What were you doing in Sacramento?” We hadn’t told anyone we were going. That’s one of the things I’d like the Historical Society to have when I find it, it’s stored in files...the invitation and the photo and the album that was given at the time.

Cynthia: What do you feel hopeful about?

What gives me optimism is how many real concerned people there are out there. 

But I have a great deal of concern about our educational system. You might call it political, but we’re erasing history. History is history whether it’s good or bad. It’s important. For the bad, we need to work to do better. But we should not rewrite history.

When I was going to Cal, when I first got there, an 18-year-old kid from the sticks, here’s something that happened that shows the difference in the culture. I walked into the Bank of America to establish an account, the Berkeley main branch. I was met at the door by an older, portly gentleman in a three-piece suit who asked what he could do for me. I told him I was there to open an account. We chatted for a moment, he took me over to a teller, told the teller what I wanted, and said to take care of me. This man was the president, or the manager of the Berkeley main branch. He wasn’t sitting behind a desk, he was greeting the customers at the door. The thing that impressed me is that I never went back to that bank that I wasn’t called by my name. And here I was, an eighteen-year-old kid from the sticks, in the main branch of the Bank of America in the Berkeley community.

One time, I lived in North Berkeley, up in the hills, and sometimes finding a parking place on campus was a little difficult. You might have a class at the lower end of the campus and the other one might be at the upper end. I decided to walk to school. It was kind of a mistake, because I got there late. Everybody would be out in their yard, tending their roses or whatever, and you had to stop and chat. That kind of thing is lost.

I mean it was that kind of a community. After the 1960s, I felt so bad for my associates up there, what they were going through. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but at the present time, the majority, if not all of your professors in these colleges and universities are products of the sixties. That’s all I’ll say.

That sense of neighborliness has been lost. Even in this town, I don’t think you could do that to any great extent. Maybe you could do it a little bit, with one or two neighbors, but other than that, it’s gone. That wasn’t the case in my community at that time. I always thought of Berkeley that way. It was a big town, but it was the biggest little town.

LeRoy in his seventies. (Photo by Len Wood)

Cynthia: Emerging from global pandemic, forced into isolation, don’t you think for many people that has sort of revived an awareness of how much we need one another and how important community is? 

I believe it has certainly helped. Now if they’ll just expand those horizons. I think that’s the big thing that needs to happen.

And worldwide. This disaster in Florida, for example, they had an Israeli team there helping out. We need more of that. That’s the kind of thing we need.

Unfortunately, in this country we’ve developed a...I don’t want to call it race-based because I believe that’s a misnomer...I’ll say a hatred of people with different opinions. And that should not be. Different opinions are welcome. But they should be treated as different opinions, and not influence the overall sense of camaraderie. I always remember a picture of Senator Moynihan and President Reagan...they had two distinct philosophies, totally different. They could sit and argue by the hour, and when they got finished, go out to lunch, put their arms together, and they were friends, friends with differences of opinion. We should not hate people with different opinions. 

I think that’s one of the biggest obstacles we have today.

Cynthia: That possibly goes back to education...which is what you were talking about earlier. I think part of the reason people have become intolerant of one another is because some of the opinions are more like delusions. They’re not fact-based. I think we need to have a shared understanding of the facts, and then form our opinions based on that. 

Yes.

Cynthia: I’m inclined to feel hopeful, though, because despair is a self-fulfilling prophecy. We have to believe we can make it better. 

I’m also concerned about attempts to create friction between races. It’s totally ridiculous. 

Karen P.: Lompoc has always been a very diverse town. Certainly you grew up with all kinds of people. You knew them. You didn’t even think anything about it. 

I know families here in the valley when the Japanese were evacuated, that held the possessions and in some cases took care of their land while they were gone. 

I’ve had friends of all backgrounds, all races. I’ve had close relationships with them. All very positive. They do not subscribe to what’s going on in the name of racism, or whatever. Yes, there are places where actual racism exists. But you take the Mexican community here. Within their own group, they call each other wetbacks, and so forth, but in a joking manner, amongst themselves, always in fun. Now, if anybody says anything like that, it would be considered racism. I’m afraid that is being used to create strife. 

Karen P.: Here in Lompoc, who are some of the real characters you’ve known?

Roy Bland, of course, was a character in his own right. I guess you could say he was a mechanical genius. He never showed it. Dr. Talbott...Eunice Talbott was another…

Karen P.: Can you tell us how you acquired the gas pumps from Al Johnson’s gas?

When he shut the station down, early 1950s, I can’t really remember, but it had to be very early. He had not only gas pumps, but a lot almost filled with 500-gallon tanks of all kinds. He had Mohawk, he had Seaside, he had all different kinds of gas. So he engaged me to remove things. I removed the pumps, and I dug out all of the storage tanks. We didn’t have the hazardous materials team there to see if some of them leaked. Anyway, we uncovered all of them, and hauled in some dirt to fill ‘em, and that’s how I acquired them. I had ‘em for a long time in what we called the barn behind my dad’s old house, and then when we tore that down, we moved them up to the ranch, and I’ve still got two up there. If you’ve got a place for ‘em, I’ll see that they get moved. There are three in the blacksmith shop. Myra gave me a picture of the station with Ferdinand out front, and those three pumps, I remember, are the ones that were in there at the time, before this late model that I have up there now. It’s a dial pump, and as I recall, if power went out, it had a hand crank. But anyway, you made a mention.

Cynthia: I want to make sure you give us the story of the wind farm.

Note: In its 2019 incarnation, this project would involve installation of 29 wind turbines of 3,000 acres in the hills south of Lompoc, with the goal of doubling Santa Barbara’s renewable energy production and provision of electricity needs for about one-third of the county’s households. The project, bordered by Vandenberg Air Force Base (VAFB), private ranch land (Scolari), and the Dangermond Preserve, would additionally include an onsite substation, a meteorological tower, and a 7.3-mile transmission line connecting the site to the PG&E grid in Lompoc via a new switching station. There has been discussion of widening some sections of San Miguelito Road in order to transport the turbine blades, which are between 160 and 225 feet. Because of the unique location of the project in terms of geography, biodiversity, ecology, and geology, there have been many detours and complexities along the way. The current version of the project is being implemented by Strauss Wind LLC, an affiliate of a German company, BayWa LLC.

The Honda (Photo by Karen Osland)

Sometime in 2000, I was contacted by this individual who went out and took a look at the situation and thought we should promote a wind farm. Okay. He took us on a trip to Tehachapi to view the one over there, see its operation, and so forth. Pretty soon we entered into a lease with this company that it formed a partner with. There’s been so many companies involved, I don’t remember the names of all of them. This one was a promotional company. They went out and found a Danish company interested in doing the project. They took over the lease and carried it for a couple of years.  I hired an attorney that had done work for us when the Air Force took the property over on the coast at the back of the ranch. I engaged him and I got the first billing from him in 2002. Anyway, it went along, and pretty soon, they withdrew, and the Danish company gave up, and we had a Spanish company come in: Acciona. They were very industrious. They worked and worked and actually got their county permits. Of course, they still had to go through the state. After they saw the conditions, and the permits and so forth, they decided to walk. They had invested something like 9 or 10 million dollars in the project, and they walked. 

Then the outfit that ended up with it was Cabrillo Wind Energy. They went up, and they brought in this German company, BayWa which is the company we have now. They come in real strong. They were gonna do everything. They got through the county permit process pretty well, and they’re the ones who are there now, but the stickler is the Department of Fish and Wildlife. They want conservation easements over the whole ranch. Conservation easements depend on how they’re drawn. Fact is, I’ve thought of putting the whole ranch under an easement held by the local land trust or the cattleman’s rangeland trust, which would simply say it would stay in agriculture in perpetuity, or whatever time is specified. Fish and Wildlife wants the conservation easement in perpetuity, and there are, I don’t know how many––I quit counting––but their conservation easement is on the average about fifty-seven pages, and there’s also a grazing management plan, and even the consultants have told them this is because we have the outstanding crop of Gaviota tarplant, which is considered endangered. 

Endangered…we always called it invasive. This plant can be choked out by grass, but if you graze the grass down, it protects the plant, and the way the ranch has been managed for the past 134 years, it’s flourished beautifully.  But State Fish and Wildlife wants to “manage” it. They want something like $315,000 a year as the revenue from an endowment fund for them to “manage” it. It’s been going back and forth ever since. I’ve got a meeting this afternoon at 1 o’clock.

I get a call one day from Larry up there, and he says, “There’s six people up here looking for ants.” 

I ask, “What kind of plants are they looking for?”  

He says, “No, ants. A-N-T-S. They’re going down by the adobe field.” 

Then I talked to the project manager and she told me they were looking for Argentine ants. Because Argentine ants feed on the roots of the tar plant, and if they found any, the company would have to eradicate them, but remember, you can’t use pesticides. 

2007 (Photo by Paul Wellman)

Cynthia: Is this whole wind farm thing sort of being held hostage at this point?

They've been allowed under a special permit to go ahead and build the roads up there and so forth. They’ve done that. But they’re not able to build the pads. They’re ready to drill the holes.

Karen O: The cement trucks are going up today.

Yeah, but not for that. They’re going for other reasons. 

Another part of the story–– I know, I’m wandering on this––the company has to remove, by hand, 30,000 tar plants. Take them down to the lay-down area, where they’re building a nursery. 

Karen O.: I surveyed out there. I don’t think they have 30,000 tarplants. I’m questioning that one.

Oh, they counted all the tar plants. (Laughter)

I’ve got it in my documents someplace.

Anyway, they have to remove 30,000 and put it in this nursery, and take care of them until the project is complete and put ‘em back. My experience is if you want to grow tarplant, just scratch the ground, and they’ll show up.

Note: At this point, I wondered aloud what benefits might be expected from the proposed wind farm project. For an overview of the project and a glimpse into the kind of discussion it has generated in the community, here’s an audiotape of the conversation that ensued. (In the interest of accuracy, please note that LeRoy mistakenly refers to his grandson-in-law as the regional manager; he is in fact a customer relations manager.)

The story continues. We’ll follow along. But let it be known there is a community that cares, about the land, the future, and one another. My time with LeRoy made me think of another local rancher I have known, the late and beloved Bob Isaacson, who was also a poet, and these words of his came to mind:

I know as you know.

Be deep rooted,

even in shallow soil-

Roots will find.

You have given me to know

as you know

what will now suffice. Be nourished.

Dig deep.

Then deeper.

LeRoy Scolari has deep roots here. The land has shaped his soul; family and community have formed his character; and he does his best to be worthy.

Alice Isaac Irving Brown (1927 - 2014)

Editor’s Note: In a departure from our usual format, we are sharing the story here of the remarkable life of Alice Isaac, as written up by her nephew, David Holden. (David is a dear friend of mine, the father of a former student, and fellow member of the Gaviota Writers’ Group; he had a long and successful career in the movie biz as a film editor, and used to raise zebras–why not?– with his wife Miki at the outskirts of Los Alamos, California.)

Alice was born in Cologne, Germany, in 1927, and was about six years old when the shadow of the Third Reich swept across Europe. While still in her teens, she worked briefly for the Resistance as a courier, but was captured, as the narrative tells, and her life, though not cut short, was certainly derailed, curtailed and rerouted. It is impossible to imagine what this brilliant young woman might have achieved in a less cruel and hateful world, but even so, her journey was a brave and wondrous one. She died in September, 2014 in Phoenix, Arizona, five years after the death of her husband, Ray Brown.

We are honored to share her story, in David’s words below, on The Living Stories Collective. May it help keep her memory alive.

And the stories continue.

Cut Short by David Holden

In these days of the pandemic, we are made aware daily of the numbers of individuals whose lives have ended prematurely. The remaining family and friends, who can’t even gather to mourn their loss, are left to conjure up what might have been – what fruits of life continuing would have accrued to the dead. (A recent study estimated fifteen years of life lost for every Covid death).

A couple of generations ago, there was a time when such abbreviations of life were commonplace, though not instigated by a pandemic or, directly, by disease. I know some personally by having been told or read about them in histories or first-hand accounts. “A Narrative of the Holocaust,” “A Diary of Bergen-Belsen,” “What Price Survival?” are but three of thousands. My aunt Alice survived Bergen-Belsen, but her sister Margot, her brother-in-law Harry, and her mother Meta did not. My father’s brother and the rest of his family did not.

Their lives were “cut short.”

I only exist because of the perceptiveness of my father, Max, who had the foresight to get out of Germany and to Holland with my mother while he still could. And then, to be smart enough to make arrangements with people in Oregon who vouched for his character and promised he wouldn’t become a burden on the United States taxpayer, all instrumental to his obtaining visas. Meanwhile, my Aunt Alice’s visa was denied (as were her mother’s and sister’s)  in 1937 – the U.S. was profoundly antiSemitic and wouldn’t open up its borders to Jews until after WWII. So, my aunt Alice was forced to watch as her mother was removed, along with all the Jewish patients, from the Joodse Invalide hospital in Amsterdam so the Nazis could use it for their own. It was the last Alice ever saw of her. My brother’s research shows that Meta died in Auschwitz a short time later. 

Alice was barely seventeen at the time. After her mother was hospitalized, she lived in the family apartment by herself. Though she worked for the Resistance as a courier (not wearing her blatant “J” identifying her as a Jew), she knew it was only a matter of time until she was picked up. 

She survived the holding camp at Westerbork and then the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp because of her good looks. She befriended men who kept her alive – finding her work peeling potatoes, for example – so that at war’s end her life hadn’t been “cut short.” But it had certainly changed. She had experienced in a few short years so much misery and horror that, she told me many years later, it was more than she could even bear to tell her older sister – my mother.

(A personal note: she took me aside some twenty years after the war ended, as I was about to spend a year in Germany on a Fulbright scholarship, to share some gruesome details of her experience. She wanted me to be aware of what had happened to her so that I would appreciate how evil the Germans were, and I would suitably hate them. As it was, I spent a year burdened by this generalized hatred, the counterpart of which was the guilt felt by many of my German contemporaries who themselves hadn’t done anything vile).

Though Alice buried the memories of her past, including her Jewishness, as excruciating, her story has a positive resolution. After the war, while a Lewis and Clark College student in Portland, Oregon, she met a U.S. Navy veteran. She knew right away this was the man she wanted to marry. He, handsome and popular, wasn’t so sure about her, but he didn’t stand a chance against Alice’s single-mindedness. They had a fifty-year marriage – childless because of the chemicals added to the women’s rations in the concentration camp. (She and Ray suffered two miscarriages). They funneled their energies into teaching high school in Oregon and California before retiring to Arizona. The blazing desert was never too hot for Alice, who had endured sub-freezing roll-calls at Bergen-Belsen, where one was shot if one faltered and fell.

I never met any of my grandparents or my third aunt or my father’s brother. I’m a second-generation American who gazes at the few remaining photographs of “the old country” as if it were Kazakhstan or Imperial China. Of course, this has much to do with the exotic nature of the culture of Germany at about the end of Kaiser Wilhelm’s time as anything– haughty, stiff poses, starched collars, a totally foreign environment. 

So, I am grateful not only to be alive but to have been born in this country. I haven’t been cut short – not in the least.

David and his brother Ron with Aunt Alice in Oregon.

*          *          *

I was born in 1944. Flash forward thirty-odd years. I’ve only been married for two years, but already separated from my first wife. I’m alone in the house in the Pacific Palisades, an ocean-fronting suburb of Los Angeles, when the phone rings. My sister-in-law, Glenda, is calling in a panic from the south of France where she and my brother, Ronald, and their two kids, Michael, nine, and David, seven, have gone to live for a while. Ronald has fallen off a chair onto the breakfast table. The local doctor orders an ambulance to take him to the American Hospital in Paris. One plausible diagnosis is meningitis. Another is a brain tumor.

I call my friend Verna Fields, fresh off an Oscar for editing the movie Jaws. She heads straight over with $500 cash (no ATMs yet) and drives me to the airport. I grab a plane to Paris via London. At Heathrow, I’m in the international transit area, with no British money. I buy a candy bar and use the change at a payphone. I attempt to call the American Hospital in Paris, but I don’t have the number. Every sixty seconds or so, the phone demands more coins. Finally, I’m patched through to my brother’s room, and Ronald answers, “Hello?” I’m out of coins, and the phone disconnects us. But at least I know he’s alive.

In one of life’s stranger ironies, I had made a documentary film segment in the previous year about Dr. Robert Rand, a U.C.L.A. neurosurgeon who embedded pacemakers in the brain. I call him up, and he agrees to accept Ronald as a patient. A week or so later, he removes a golf-ball-sized non-malignant meningioma from my brother’s brain.

So, another life not cut short. And, significantly, that life sires another life, that of Dominic Holden, named after Domme, the village in southern France where he was born after the family returned to France. Dominic drops out of high school and works as a waiter. But that doesn’t stop his advance. He now has over 26,000 followers on Twitter. According to his Wikipedia webpage, Dominic…is an American journalist. He was National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association’s 2016 Journalist of the Year Award awardee and one of The Advocate’s 50 most influential LGBTs in America in 2017. He was director of Seattle Hempfest and an editor at Seattle’s The Stranger alternative newspaper for six years, until 2014. As of 2015, he was a writer for Buzzfeed News. Holden appeared in the 2013 documentary Evergreen: The Road to Legalization. In 2019, The New York Times reported that he was one of the leaders of the effort to unionize employees at Buzzfeed. His father, Ronald Holden, is a Seattle food writer who worked at KING-TV and was executive editor at the other Seattle alt-weekly, Seattle Weekly.

Dominic–he’s the one next to Michelle–at the White House

It’s nice to know certain stories have happy endings.