Time Between

by Chris Hillman

  When I came up to Los Angeles as a boy to visit Grandma Hillman, I would often visit Grandma Charlton too. Grandma Hillman did not drive, so I would usually stay with her for a few days and then Grandma Charlton would pick me up and drive me over to the west side of town. When it was time to drop me off or pick me up, they would hardly look at one another. This was never explained to me and only added to my confusion about my heritage. I thought all grandmas and grandpas were like the Charltons. But even though Grandma Hillman’s ethnic heritage seemed “different” to me, she still seemed like just as much of a grandma too. Nobody ever explained to me that her being Jewish was, indeed, different from my Gentile grandparents.

  Looking back, the religious tension between the grandmothers seems odd. The Charltons were Presbyterian and all the girls were baptized, but the family seldom attended church. Grandma Hillman may have attended services on Friday evenings at the synagogue, but if she did, I never really knew anything about it. Honestly, it seemed that neither side of the family was actively attending services, so I’m still trying to figure that all out. If it wasn’t important enough for them to actively participate in, then why was it important enough to cause divisions? I’ll probably never fully understand, but what I do know is they were all wonderful people in my life. If Grandpa Joe Hillman had still been alive at the time, he probably would have straightened out the whole problem in no time flat.

  Though I never got the opportunity to know my father’s father, I did enjoy my time with Grandpa Charlton. Their house on Doheny was built in early California mission style with a tile roof and a big wrought-iron door leading into a small outdoor alcove with a big oak door in the front. They had an actual icebox they used up until the mid-1950s, and I recall the Union Ice Company delivering ice to the house. Every night after dinner, my grandfather, still wearing his three-piece suit, would say to me, “Let’s go into the parlor and have a cigar.” I would follow him in to the other room where he would pull a cigar out of his breast pocket. Then he’d produce a big piece of licorice for me. When I was up to visit, he always stopped on his way home from work to get my licorice “cigar.” In the parlor, which was a small, cozy sitting room in the front of the house, we would discuss all manner of important things that only a grandfather and a young boy could understand. Not having a son, I think he looked upon me as his own boy.

  Not long after Grandma Hillman passed, both of my maternal grandparents developed diabetes. Grandma Charlton faced up to this new challenge in her life and followed her doctor’s advice, but Grandpa just wouldn’t acknowledge the disease and refused to listen to the medical professionals. He became very ill, and other issues soon developed with his health in his declining years. The last time I saw him, he was in bed, unable to move or say very much. I went into his room, and he took hold of my hand. He held it so tight, looking into my eyes with a silence so loud as to say, “It’s time, but I love you, and I’ll always be with you.” I was quickly learning about mortality. He died a few weeks later. My friend had gone away. I secretly hoped there really was a heaven because, if there was, I would try and go there someday and see my grandparents again.

  Grandma Charlton lived into the early 1960s. I remember visiting her in her room occasionally when I was a young man starting my career in music. She would have her little television on, usually tuned to a Dodgers game. She had been a smoker but wasn’t allowed to smoke anymore, given her health condition. She would always say, “Chrissie, come in and lock the door behind you. Do you have a cigarette on you?” We would light up together and talk. She said to me one day, “I like that long hair. Men used to wear their hair long until World War I. After that, they cut it all off short; I never liked that look.” She was probably the only person next to my mother who didn’t have a problem with my long hair at the time. Grandma Charlton died while I was off on tour in late 1965. The last pioneer in the family. With her passing, I lost my one true link to old Texas and the West.

  Though I had no real spiritual or ethnic identity to call my own, I did recognize that—as we moved into the late 1950s—times were changing. My body was changing, too. I was moving from boyhood to adolescence and was developing new interests. By the time I reached twelve or so, my interest in horses was waning. I stopped riding, and we sold Ranger to a good family.

  It was time for a new hobby. When my brother Dick was twelve, he had acquired a Cushman Pacemaker motor scooter. It was a big, long-bodied, fat-tired, straight-handled scooter with a top speed of fifty miles per hour. It had a transmission with the gear shifter sticking out of the left side of the body, which meant that you drove with one hand. You’d have to step on the clutch with your right foot as your left hand shifted gears. I loved that rig and always knew that someday I would have one of my own. When I reached the right age, I became aware of an even cooler scooter—a used Italian Vespa that an older gentleman in town owned and wanted to sell. At the time, Sears Roebuck was selling it under the Allstate label. This would be like having a Porsche next to my brother’s Nash Rambler. It was fast and far more sophisticated, having three speeds and a design so elegant it made people stop and stare.

  Like my dad’s English cars, Italian motor scooters were rare in the States in the ’50s. The downside was that it had a two-cycle engine, which meant you had to mix the oil with the gasoline. Otherwise, they were fast, dependable, and offered up real freedom—a huge step up from my bicycle or even a horse. I worked hard that summer to earn the money for the scooter. By that time, Dick had moved on to working as a car wash attendant at Bob Francisco’s Mobil gas station, so I inherited his old one-man car washing business. I advertised my services around town and, when a client called, I would ride my bike over to their house to wash their car, clean the interior, and then chamois the exterior for $1.75. Of course, everyone had huge American cars, but it was a job. Plus, $1.75 was a lot of money. I also did yard work and any other odd jobs I could find until I finally had enough to buy that Vespa.

  Some of my pals on the Ranch had scooters, too, which made for some serious mischief. One of my friends managed to get a Cushman Eagle, which was their “top of the line” scooter and actually looked like a motorcycle. A different guy had a Lambretta, which was another Italian-style scooter. And then there were a couple of Pacemakers like my brother’s. Since there was no official law enforcement within the boundaries of the Ranch, and since we all had great parents who trusted us, we cruised up and down the deserted roads and trails all over Rancho Santa Fe. The unwritten rule was to never venture beyond the Ranch borders for fear of immediate arrest and confiscation of our metal steeds. It was the greatest feeling but fraught with occasional danger when one of us would get a little cocky and end up laying our “bikes” down, sliding end-over-end, and winding up with a bent frame and skinned-up legs. I can’t recall anyone breaking any bones, at least.

  Things were changing for my father in the late 1950s, too. Several years prior, he sold his Hillman-Shane advertising firm in Los Angeles and gave up the weekly commute. My parents ran a successful mail-order side business out of our garage, selling what was commonly referred to as “brica-brac”: drinking glasses, novelty items, dishware, Western-themed stuff, and all sorts of exotic items. The mail-order operation eventually morphed into a real shop in the center of town, and the offerings expanded to household items, toys, and antiques. Dad never wanted to sell any “sketchy” merchandise, so he always kept an eye toward high-quality items. The shop was a success but, always ambitious, my father decided to further expand on his entrepreneurial impulses.

  As soon as the shop was established, my dad began formulating The Rancho Santa Fe Times, a weekly newspaper for the residents of Rancho Santa Fe and the neighboring towns of San Diego County. Having run a successful advertising agency for the better part of twenty-five years, he had a flair for writing and design. In fact, prior to starting up his ad agency in the mid-1930s, he had been a reporter for the Los Angeles Herald Express, later called the Herald Examiner. The Rancho San
ta Fe Times started out as a monthly newspaper and eventually grew into a weekly edition. It was printed on high-gloss paper in a magazine format, a bit different from the other neighboring towns’ local newspapers. He wrote about local events and covered regional news.

  The Rancho Santa Fe Times had some competition in the weekly Coast Dispatch, which was published in Solana Beach, as well as another small paper out of Del Mar. The Times beat them all in journalistic style and format. My father was an impassioned editor who often wrote scathing pieces about anything and everything he felt was unfair or took advantage of the voiceless. He loved to make light of the local gentry and managed to upset a few residents in the process. He unleashed his wrath on the “covenants” that ostensibly governed the town rules about architectural style and upkeep but which also included sly restrictions against people of color. As a result of their prevailing bigoted mindset, the Rancho Santa Fe Board of Directors and the RSF Association were also frequent targets of my dad’s biting editorials. My father being Jewish only fueled their growing resentment of an outsider coming in where he wasn’t wanted and trying to change things. At the same time, he had loyal friends and followers who rallied around him, so the cheerleaders balanced out the naysayers.

  In his various editorials, my father would assume the roles of different characters. Sometimes there was a picture of him in a Stetson hat and fake whiskers with the byline “Wild Dave Hillman.” At other times he would be “Canvasback Dave Hillman,” which was a variation on the gentleman Jim Corbett of modern times, and sometimes he would use a stock photo of a well-known comical figure. His playfulness added a little levity to his editorials, injecting just enough silliness to soften the blow of his attacks enough that it tempered the vitriol in his opponents’ responses. For a kid just starting his teen years, this didn’t exactly seem like particularly cool behavior, but I loved and respected the old man despite his strange sense of humor. Plus, he was one great writer. The Times won several awards for a weekly newspaper of that size, which brightened the overall mood around the Ranch.

  The Rancho Santa Fe Times proved to be a family affair. My sister Cathy had a weekly column about goings-on at Rancho Elementary; my mother wrote a fashion column; and my job was basically menial labor—helping assemble and mail the newspaper. As the publication grew, my dad introduced a twice-a-year special edition that was bigger and usually focused on a particular theme (e.g., fashion, the start of the racing season in Del Mar, etc.). In the early ’60s he expanded the newspaper by opening his own printing plant in neighboring Solana Beach, suitably named the Rancho Press. The Rancho Press did outside work for other clients but was mainly focused on the weekly Times. Now my dad had an in-house operation and soon brought in an old pal from Los Angeles named George Laws, who became a very close and dear friend to our family.

  When I started junior high school in 1957 it was a big adjustment from my elementary school experiences in Rancho Santa Fe. I began attending Earl Warren Jr. High School, which was a little frightening at first. After spending my days in a single room with a single teacher, I felt lost when I was expected to switch from class to class while getting used to all the unfamiliar faces from other northern San Diego County towns such as Del Mar, Solana Beach, Cardiff, and Encinitas. I was accustomed to a fairly homogenous upper middle-class environment. Sure, we had fights in grammar school, but nothing more serious than an occasional wrestling match. But now the kids were bigger, and they were coming from a variety socioeconomic backgrounds and experiences.

  The fights between guys—and sometimes even girls—in junior high were way beyond the grammar school wrestling matches. Guys would choose each other off and meet up behind the gym after school. On their own, kids can present an angelic countenance, but sometimes, when they gather in groups of three or more, the “pack mentality” takes over and the individual who’s not part of the pack becomes easy prey. It seemed as if the school bully would purposely challenge the weaker kid. Crowds of students would stand around cheering like animals as the two combatants fought to a standstill. Once in a great while, the smaller kid would triumph, which made for a good ending. I was always the smaller kid, but I usually lost, which was embarrassing and emotionally devastating for a sensitive young man. The Hispanic boys were kind of the cool guys on campus. I’m grateful that some of the bigger ones among them took a liking to me and made sure to look out for me so I didn’t have to experience getting my ass kicked too often.

  Maybe one of the reasons for the fighting was that we were all a mess of raging hormones as our bodies transitioned from those of children to those of adults. It was in seventh grade that I discovered girls and experienced my first kiss. For the first time, being around girls felt like an electric charge, and I started keeping company with some nice young ladies. These, of course, were “proper” times, so relationships didn’t venture further than a hot and heavy make-out session at a party or at the movies. Of course, I was too young to drive, so whenever I dated I’d have to get one of my parents to drive me to the theater. I’d make them drop me off blocks away so nobody would see us and find out that I had—gasp—a real father and mother! That would have been very uncool.

  The best part of that era was rock and roll, which changed our whole culture. Our hormones weren’t only firing off in every direction, but we even had our own soundtrack for it. Nothing was safe anymore, and perhaps we were the first generation of Americans to have a unifying musical revolution. My parents loved music, so I’d grown up in a house filled with records by Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Peggy Lee, Frank Sinatra, Benny Goodman, and that kind of thing. I loved it all, but rock and roll felt like it belonged to us kids. You could dance to it, but it also felt a little dangerous. When Elvis hit in my last year of grammar school in 1956, it was monumental. My teacher, Mrs. Ross, actually let some of us bring Elvis records into class and dance; truly amazing that this encouraging teacher—probably in her mid-fifties at the time—was so open to this new music that must have seemed very strange to her.

  My older brother had an RCA 45 record player, which only played singles. After graduating from high school the same day that Grandma Hillman passed away in 1956, he was accepted into the Air Force Academy, which was only in its second year of existence. The previous year, my father had started taking flying lessons at the old Del Mar airport in exchange for an ad he ran in his newspaper. He soon tired of the process and let Dick finish off the remaining lessons. My brother definitely caught the flying bug and within weeks knew he wanted to join the Air Force and fly jets. When he left for the Academy in Colorado Springs I inherited his little record player and began buying every new single I could find. This was the era of Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Fats Domino, The Everly Brothers, and a host of others who completely turned the world upside down. I was in heaven!

  Different kids at the junior high would throw parties where we’d dance to those classic records from the absolute best period in rock and roll history. My parents even let me host a party one night. I pulled the rugs back in the living room and cranked up the hi fi in preparation for the evening. As the cars started arriving to drop off other kids, my heart was racing. The party was about to start! Would it be cool? Would everyone have fun? As the festivities kicked off, my parents hid out in their bedroom while we danced the night away and made out on the couch. Around 11 p.m., the station wagons began arriving with weary parents behind their wheels. They quickly retrieved their kids and disappeared into the night. We were all so young, but I felt a bit older after that event. My one and only party was a big success.

  When I was in ninth grade, I tried out for the basketball team and actually made the final cut. Just barely. The coach was our science teacher, a good guy who gave everyone on the team the opportunity to get in the game. Otherwise, I would have just been a lowly bench warmer. Winning was important, but it wasn’t the only thing. Coach was a rare example of a kind but firm leader who believed in building up the kids instead of tearing them down
when mistakes were made. My brother was a great athlete. Not only did he excel at basketball, but he was also the quarterback of the San Dieguito Mustangs. I always looked up to my brother and tried to follow in his footsteps, but team sports didn’t come as naturally to me. Nevertheless, I enjoyed being on the team that year. I even spent a month or so on the junior varsity football team in high school, but I got hammered so badly I actually developed a small crack in one of my vertebrae. That one proved to be a physical challenge for the next forty-five years. High school sports weren’t my greatest area of strength, so my athletic career soon came to an inglorious end.

  In high school, however, I developed a new passion that fit me better than team sports when I became enamored with surfing. Our house was only about five miles from Del Mar, and I loved the ocean. Our favorite family haunt was 25th Street, which boasted a perfect beach break and was part of the long stretch of coastline claimed by Rancho Santa Fe residents. My older sister Susan and her friends had built a palm-frond beach hut there, which served as their unofficial “club house” during her time in high school. Since Susan was nine years older than me, she went off to college when I was still in third grade. She was a fearless adventurer, independent, and always on the lookout for new and exciting places to explore. She was a bohemian free spirit who, during college, moved to Mexico for a year. I remember when she returned to the airport, she stepped off the plane with her flowing jet-black hair and brightly colored dress. She had learned to speak fluent Spanish and was full of stories of her adventures. Upon her return, she reconnected with Hugh Curtis, a boyfriend she’d met at the University of Colorado. They were married in 1957 at our family home in Rancho.