Time Between

by Chris Hillman

  I was eight years old, and it was 1952 in Rancho Santa Fe, California. The population of the San Diego County town at the time was approximately 750. We lived on an acre of land on a street called Las Planideras, which loosely translates “the wailing women.” There was something magical about growing up in post-World War II small-town America—particularly at the furthest point west, in the “Golden State.” I’ve always been in love with this unique part of Southern California and feel fortunate to have grown up in such a rural environment that was also socioeconomically diverse at the time.

  My mother, Betty Ann Charlton, married my father, David Sidney Hillman, in Los Angeles in 1935. By the time I came along—on December 4, 1944—my folks already had two kids: my brother Dick, who was six years older than me, and my sister Susan, who was nine years older. My little sister Cathy would come along about three years after I was born.

  My dad had a successful advertising agency called Hillman-Shane in downtown L.A. that he started in 1935. As far as I know, my parents never had any plans to move from the house they built on Cordell Drive above the Sunset Strip. But then they stumbled upon their dream house in Rancho Santa Fe on one of their frequent weekend trips down south. It was a one-story California ranch house with a big fireplace, four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and huge support pillars in the front living area. We relocated to our new home in 1946, when I was all of two years old. Upon our arrival, I was quickly confined to my high chair and given half a bagel to keep me occupied while the rest of the family members unloaded the car.

  The roots of Rancho Santa Fe—roughly translated “Ranch of the Saint’s Faith”—stretch back to a Mexican land grant called Rancho San Dieguito that was given to the first mayor of San Diego, Juan Maria Osuna, by Don Pio Pico, the last Mexican governor of California, sometime in the 1840s. The grant was well over 8,000 acres and, upon Osuna taking possession, he began building two adobe houses for his family. Both structures still stand today and have been designated as historical landmarks.

  In 1906, the Santa Fe Railway bought most of the Osuna family’s holdings. The idea was to import and plant eucalyptus trees from Australia to eventually be harvested for use as railroad track ties. As it turned out, the wood was too green. It would have had to age for decades to be of any value to the Santa Fe company, so the original idea was abandoned. But the beautiful leafy trees remained and grew in abundance over the entire Rancho San Dieguito tract. Out of one failed experiment, another far more successful idea began to bloom.

  The railroad, looking to recoup its losses, formed the Santa Fe Land Improvement Company for the express purpose of developing an agricultural and residential community. With the hiring of noted architect Lillian J. Rice, agronomist A.R. Sprague, and landscape architect Glenn A. Moore, the team was in place to create the village of Rancho Santa Fe. Ms. Rice designed the homes to look like an early Mexican settlement. She also designed the town center—a mix of commercial and residential buildings—as well as the first elementary school and the La Morada guesthouse, which later became the Inn, a noted hotel that’s still there today. It took no time for the town to grow as more people discovered the hidden beauty in the rural backdrop of San Diego County.

  By the time our family came along decades later, the unincorporated town of Rancho Santa Fe still had strict guidelines set down by the town overseers. The covenants kept the architectural style within the established boundaries to preserve the area’s quaint beauty. Unfortunately, there were also rules firmly stating that people of color couldn’t reside anywhere within the town limits. And keep in mind this was progressive California, not Mississippi. Sure, a small-town body could establish a set of covenants to preserve a town’s image and character, but this was blatant racism, pure and simple—an embarrassing stain on an otherwise idyllic environment for a kid to grow up in.

  Though my father was Jewish, I suppose he managed to find a way to slip through the community’s bigoted restrictions. Perhaps it was the fact that he virtually ignored his heritage and identity. Yes, he was a Jew by birth, but there was no religious dimension to his life. My dad was a committed atheist.

  The only time our family personally felt the sting of the town’s discriminatory guidelines happened when I was three years old. It’s actually my earliest memory. I’m wrapped up in a blanket in the back of our Pontiac station wagon. It’s late at night, and I’m looking out the window of the car at our house. Our house is on fire! My father is on the roof, furiously chopping away at the shingles with an axe. It’s still a vivid snapshot in my mind. Fortunately, the fire truck finally arrived and got everything under control. The damage was minimal, and life eventually resumed after the house was repaired, but not before we felt that sting I mentioned.

  In the main part of town was that beautiful hotel called the Inn, which had been designed by Lillian J. Rice all those years ago. The night of the fire, my father drove us over to the hotel so we could stay there until it was safe to return home. When he went to check in, he was turned away at the front desk. “I’m sorry, sir,” the clerk told him, “but this is a restricted hotel.” “Restricted” meant no Blacks, no Mexicans, no Asians, and no Jews. We were actually friendly with the manager of the hotel and his family, which made the rejection even more difficult to understand.

  That very night, after being told there was no room in the Inn, Mom and Dad managed to find some wonderful friends, the Dunns, who agreed to take us kids in. I’m not positive where my parents ended up staying that night, but I do know that, at three o’clock in the morning, my father woke up, bolted out of bed, and told my mom, “I’ll be right back. I have to take care of something.”

  Dad drove over to the hotel manager’s house, knocked on the door, and when the gentleman answered, landed a right hook to his jaw. It was a true Rocky Marciano moment, sending the hotel manager sprawling across the floor. That was my dad’s sense of justice. His family had been disparaged, and he wasn’t going to allow it to stand. Amazingly, after many apologies, the manager of the Inn and his family remained friends with the Hillmans through the years.

  Even after moving down to San Diego County, my father maintained his advertising business one hundred miles away in downtown Los Angeles. While my mom and siblings and I lived in Rancho Santa Fe all the time, my father spent his weeknights at an apartment he kept in the city. Every Monday morning, he would catch the northbound Union Pacific at the Del Mar train station. It was a classic turn-of-century depot that had one ticket window and a small waiting room. Outside, there was a big handcart for luggage and an old vending machine that dispensed a piece of gum for a penny.

  It was always an adventure waiting for my dad’s train to arrive on Friday evenings, when he’d finally return home for the weekend. I would carefully place a penny on the tracks when my mother wasn’t looking. Then, hiding behind the corner of the station, I’d keep a close watch for the southbound Union Pacific to start slowing down to make its stop. Once it ground to a halt, I’d search for my lucky flattened penny while carefully dodging my mother’s watchful eye.

  My father’s weekly return wasn’t always a joyous occasion, however—especially if I had done something wrong while he was away. In those instances, my mother would patiently wait until he was settled in and had his first martini before telling him about the mischief I had gotten into. Even when he had to discipline us kids for the various ways we’d managed to turn the place upside down in his absence, however, my dad was always glad to return home. The gentleman rancher, back in command of his personal Utopia.

  While he was certainly great at his job, the ranch was where my dad felt most fulfilled. He built all kinds of interesting things: a walk-in tool shed, a large wishing well made out of river rock, a full flagstone patio, and a barbeque with a waist-high brick wall that wrapped around the whole patio area. He even built beautiful white wooden corrals all around our property, giving it the look of a proper ranch. But just because he loved undertaking projects didn’t mean there weren’t a few fu
nny mishaps along the way. One day, for example, my father decided to replace the tile in the shower. He did a magnificent job. Standing back and surveying his handiwork, he decided to go ahead and tile the ceiling, too. It looked great until he took his third shower. Most of the tiles came loose and fell on his head. But he was able to laugh at the misadventures and move on to his next project.

  I have many warm memories of wonderful summer evenings out on our patio, Mom cooking on the barbeque, Dad knocking back a martini, and all us kids running around the back lawn. We had an incredible view of the valley below and there was a certain wildness to the place that was enchanting to a kid. The street we lived on, Las Planideras, was bordered on both sides by huge eucalyptus trees, all left over from the railroad experiment. I always thought a koala bear would magically appear high up in the branches someday, but I guess they didn’t make the trip over with the Australian saplings in 1900.

  The mighty eucalyptus trees’ thick branches were perfect for building forts and tree houses. Pieces of bark would become our imaginary weapons of choice: swords, rifles, clubs, and anything else we could come up with to fight off the “bad guys.” When I got a little older, my dad took me down to the army surplus store and let me get an old World War II M1 rifle with a plugged barrel, plus a canteen and web belt. Most of my friends had the same equipment, which allowed for hours of fantasy and adventure. Once I got to be about ten, I inherited my brother Dick’s old 0.22 single-shot rifle. My father taught me about guns and gun safety, and more adventures ensued. There was so much space and so many mysterious places to explore in our little corner of the universe; this was a boys’ paradise, and we were all allowed to play outdoors with (mostly) free reign.

  Rancho Santa Fe itself was built in the old Mission Style; the buildings were adobe with mostly red tile roofs. The Village, as we often called the town center, was our version of idyllic Main Street Americana. Like most other small towns, we had one gas station, Bob Francisco’s Mobil station. We had one grocery store called Ashley’s market. Then we had a post office and the curious distinction of hosting more real estate offices in one square mile than any other city in Southern California. Finally, there was a restaurant called Bill and Emma’s Fountain Lunch, which was the central meeting place for all the town’s residents.

  Bill Apperance cooked at the café, while his wife Emma waited on customers. Bill was quite a character. He had jet-black hair slicked back and parted in the middle and a long handlebar mustache. Bill looked (and acted) like an 1890s bartender. He loved to bet the ponies and all manner of things one could wager money on. One of the regulars at Bill and Emma’s was Paul Wilson. He had long red hair (quite a rare sight at the time), wore boots and a jean jacket, and gave off a Marlboro Man vibe that qualified him as possibly the coolest guy in town. Paul was always sitting at the counter, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. I’m pretty sure he did some ranch work for some of the locals, but he always remained a mystery. Everyone in our family referred to him as the Red Cowboy.

  There might have been a total of eight homes on Las Planideras Street back in the early ’50s, stretching out a mile or more. The remote location attracted well-known Hollywood performers who were drawn to the rural setting as a refuge from the limelight. About a quarter mile down from our house lived Madame Amelita Galli-Curci, a famous singer who toured the world before joining the Metropolitan Opera in 1921. But I never actually saw Madame Galli-Curci in my time living on Las Planideras. If you knocked on her door, it would creak open ever so slightly. All you would see were the two dark eyes of her housekeeper or assistant peering through the tiny crack in the door. That only added to the mystery. Sometimes I would stop my bike in front of her house and just stare, wondering what was going on inside.

  At the top of Las Planideras, on one of the side streets, lived well-known character actor Robert Keith. Like others, he saw our town as an oasis from the chaos of the Hollywood scene. Mr. Keith was well remembered for the role of the small-town sheriff in the Marlon Brando film Wild One. Robert’s son, Brian Keith, was equally famous, having a long and successful career in television and movies. Mr. Keith the elder was rarely seen but for occasional forays into town where you could spot him nursing a Bromo seltzer at Bill and Emma’s café.

  Mr. Keith and Madame Galli-Curci certainly weren’t the first to escape Hollywood and seek solace on the Ranch. In a much earlier time, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford discovered the pristine beauty of the San Dieguito tract, buying 3,000 acres of prime land in 1926, just as the ranch properties were being marketed and sold. In the ’30s, Bing Crosby bought up the original Osuna Adobe and most of the surrounding land. He restored and added to the existing ranch house, creating a true Spanish paradise as a summer home. Other notable actors such as Victor Mature and Robert Young made their second homes in Rancho Santa Fe, as well. We would always see Victor Mature cruising around town in his red Cadillac convertible; a nice man who was very generous with his charitable contributions and made a point of being involved in the everyday life of the Ranch. He became a close friend of my father’s.

  George J. Lewis was also seen a lot around the center and became a friend to our family. Though he appeared in hundreds of films as a character actor, he became best known for the role of Don Diego, Zorro’s father on the Walt Disney weekly television series The Adventures of Zorro. When not working in Hollywood, he had one of the many real estate businesses in town. These were some of the more interesting neighbors we had nearby, and their notoriety made for wonderful legends and strange tales.

  One of those great Rancho Santa Fe characters was later immortalized in a song I wrote when I was in my twenties. There was a prominent older gentleman, John Robertson, who made the rounds of the Village when I was a kid. Mr. Robertson had enjoyed a successful movie career as an actor and director. Most of his work was in the silent picture era, but he ended up directing one of Shirley Temple’s movies in the ’30s before he finally retired to the Ranch. Mr. Robertson wore a silver belly Stetson hat, riding jodhpurs, and boots. With his long, white handlebar mustache, he resembled a sheriff out of the Old West. Robertson was never without his wife Jo by his side. He was a wonderful man who knew everyone by name and was so very kind to all of us kids. I always loved running into him. In 1967, as a member of The Byrds, I wrote “Old John Robertson” with Roger McGuinn in tribute to my childhood memories of him. Legend has it that John Robertson could never properly drive a car because he couldn’t drive in reverse. Instead, he would just saddle up his horse and ride into town to get his mail. My kind of man! A man I looked up to and never forgot for the rest of my life.

  Though it might seem a bit odd to think about people riding horses around town in that era, it wasn’t particularly unusual. In fact, old John Robertson started the Rancho Santa Fe Riding Club, which was exactly the kind of place I wanted to be. My dad was an accomplished horseman and made sure my brother Dick and I learned to ride at a very early age. Dad would frequently take us to a stable outside of town that was run by a man named Leo Sides. I don’t know why I remember his name after all these years, but he must have left a great impression on me. I even remember the first horse I ever rode: Peanut Brittle. I was only about three or four when I first got on him. I was already living the childhood dream with my cowboy hat, boots, and everything.

  Dick never quite caught the bug like I did, and as he grew older, he started to lose interest. He finally called it quits. But I was on a mission to someday get a horse of my own. When I was around six years old, my dad and I would rent horses from a man named Tex Weimer who had a small outfit just outside of town. Tex was an older fella who didn’t have much to say, but when he did speak, it stuck with you. He was an important teacher who continued the lessons I’d begun with Mr. Sides. Often, my dad and I would get a couple of horses from Tex and take off for a few hours, riding around Rancho.

  As I got older, there was another man I took riding lessons from named Jess McMillin. Jess was a big part of the Ranc
ho Santa Fe Riding Club with John Robertson, and he was as tough as they come. Under no circumstances would he ever allow you to surrender to the horse. His wise words saved me from many scary encounters. Horses are big animals, and when they get rattled, you have to control them. You can’t show any fear—even if you’re scared for your life.

  By the time I was six or seven, I was focused on becoming a real cowboy and getting a horse of my own. All of us kids were assigned various chores around the house and were paid one dollar per week for doing our different jobs. No, we weren’t indentured servants; that was actually a decent wage back in very early 1950s. Still fairly young at the time, my responsibilities included sweeping, raking, watering, and any extra little projects my folks would come up with. Once I caught horse fever around the age of six, I started saving my money with a vengeance. Within a year, I had sixty dollars to my name.

  My father was reading the newspaper one evening when I slipped in with my small fortune. “Dad,” I asked, “do you think I could find a good horse for sixty dollars?” He smiled and turned to the classifieds to see if anyone had one for sale. Soon, we were checking the want ads every day and started driving around to some of the smaller ranches in the county to see if we could find anything. After a week or two of searching, we hadn’t come up with any options. But I knew we would eventually find the right horse.

  Then, late one afternoon, my mother, father, and sister Cathy and I were pulling into the driveway of our house. As my dad stopped the car and turned off the engine, he leaned over the seat and said, “Chris, go out in the corral and pick up some boxes I left this morning.” I slowly got out of the car and reluctantly headed for the corral, not really wanting to pick up any boxes. When I got to the end of the driveway, I opened the gate and there, standing ever so proud and handsome, was a horse. My horse! My palomino horse! I was speechless; I couldn’t believe this was happening! Where did he come from? Was he really mine? Mom and Dad walked over. “What do you think, son?” my dad asked. “Do you like him?” Like him? I loved him!