February 9 Thursday • Whitaker Park

go to the earliest post in these vignettes

karlatwhitakerI continued my exploration of our family’s new digs on Ralston Street. The parental rules of the exploration were that I was not to cross University Terrace, one house away from ours, and not below the Mighty Orr ditch, which at that time was open throughout its length, passing under Ralston Street after wending its way from the west, forming the southern boundary of Whitaker Park (in later years, corresponding to the construction of a freeway south of it, it would be covered).

So, up the hill I walked to the corner, kitty-corner across the intersection was the Eichbush home, and within the home a pretty girl with jet-black hair, named Mary, two years older than I. In the other direction, to the east on University Terrace, was a house with a couple kids I’d soon meet and know throughout our lives – their names were Margaret and Bill Eddleman – Margaret, a friend of Mary’s, was also two years older than I, and brother Bill three years’ Margaret’s senior. We’ll learn more about them in the pages to follow. And I probably better snap a picture of the Eichbush home for this journal. [I went up to the house with my Brownie Hawkeye today 2/11 but it’s so overgrown it wasn’t worth taking a picture…sorry]

The Eichbush home was a beauty, and would remain so for at least the next sixty years, one of Reno’s unsung treasures. On the northeast corner of that intersection was a boarding house, with a rudimentary kitchen and restaurant. It was in some respects similar to other boarding houses in the Ralston/Washington/Bell street corridor surrounding Whitaker Park. I would learn in later years that these houses – each with a half-dozen private rooms, more or less, and a common area for dining and guests, sprung up as Reno grew, sharing a commonality of being close to St. Mary’s hospital, down the street four blocks. The homes were generally known as “birthing hospitals,” where by prearrangement ladies could go to have a baby delivered – (grammatically, to be delivered of their baby, but that rule fell into disuse) – where there was a midwife present, nurses and a doctor on call, with many more only a few blocks away at St Mary’s. A remarkable number of people born between 1900 and WWII were born in such hospitals. And we learned more about St. Mary’s creation, which I’ll get around to writing of in a day or two, if not today.

The boarding house across University Terrace had been such a hospital, and as most of the other boarding hospitals did, it fell into disuse during WWII, when there were fewer babies being born in Reno, and, as the hospital started to grow, and opened a maternity ward of its own. There were therefore many empty birthing hospitals in the neighborhood.

I listened intently while my new friend, Dr. David from next door, spun a tale of the neighborhood. Almost beyond my ken to comprehend, he spoke of a law governing divorces that had gone into law in the years before the war. A requirement of the law was that a person seeking a divorce had to live in Nevada for a while before going to court. The increasing vacancy in birthing hospitals and the increasing need for lodging were a marriage made in heaven, no pun intended for the divorce element of this, but simply stated, there opened up a whole lot of private rooms around Whitaker Park and St. Mary’s hospital.

In the weeks to come, I’d start school at the bottom of the Ralston hill, but we’ll get to that later. For now, I’ll flesh in the birthing hospital-conversion-to-boarding houses aspect of this rambling:

Bear in mind, that what popped the whole issue up was that boarding house across University Terrace – the Mount Rose Arms guest house, I think it was called, “Mount” spelled out, which it generally isn’t save for Mount Rose School. There were a couple of kid-sized bikes around the little two-story wood building. I didn’t have a bike. I probably ought to get to know those kids. Not that I’d learned to ride a bike yet…

The thought that will emanate from all this babbling about divorcée-boarding houses is that there lived in the vicinity, quite a few children; those children the kids whose mothers were in Reno for a divorce. I hadn’t started school yet, but came to know that we’d meet those children in school and they would become our friends. Sometimes they’d stay in Reno, but more often than not when the court action was complete, these classmates would disappear as quickly as they joined us. Too bad – we’d made some good friends. This went on throughout our four grades plus kindergarten at Mary S. Doten School. And, yakking with friends in later years, seemed to be more prevalent around St. Mary’s hospital, as that was the magnet for the birthing hospitals that enabled the boarding houses.

This is quite a new neighborhood for me – there’s a big home up the street, whose owner I’ll meet in the next few days. It would later become a fraternity house; of course I don’t know anything about that this morning. And a couple of little grocery stores, lots of professors walking to the University living around here. And that little red-haired girl from next door is out in the yard again. At the next time we write down a few recollections, we’ll walk northward from Whitaker Park, by house where the plane had crashed 24 years before, by the two barracks that hadn’t been moved to that corner yet, and about the Pub ‘n Sub restaurant that was still the Ralston Market as this is written. Come back in a few days; I’ll meet you right here.. 

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Super Bowl Sunday – we’re underway

740ralstonFeb. 5 2017

It begins in the summer of 1946, on the hill bounding Whitaker Park on its east side, Ralston Street, they called it, named for the banker for the Comstock “Billy” Ralston. I was five years old, but have a dim memory of walking out the door of our home that morning after we arrived from Richmond, California on the east SF Bay, where my dad spent the war building Liberty ships for Henry J. Kaiser.

This was a return to Reno for my dad, and an inauguration for my mother. I was the oldest child; a brother younger than I by two years had passed away a year ago, and my sister Merilynn was still in a bassinet.

740 Ralston was a little home built in what we thought was 1909, with a carriage house behind it, vestiges of horses and tack still hanging from its walls. It was a tiny house, two bedrooms and a bath, and the living room converted to a beauty shop by its former owner, a Mrs. Shermerhorn who was a stylist for the ladies whose husbands were off to war. We bought that house for $4,600 and that room was rapidly returned to a living room.

There was a strange warmth to the air that first morning, my first time not feeling the Bay Area dampness. And – great clarity to the air, with all of Reno lying down the hill, verdant with trees, two silver domes where the street started to rise to the park across the street. I’d soon learn that those domes were a part of the school that I’d start in a month – Mary S. Doten. I seldom drive past its twin “sister” – Mount Rose School on Arlington – without thinking of “Mary S.” as it came to be known. And I learned of the “sister” connection later, as will the reader. The rest of the landscape above the trees was unbroken. A new hotel would become visible in a couple of years, to be known as the Mapes Hotel. But on this morning, the only structure I remember above the trees was another hotel, the “El Cortez,” I’d learn later, and far in the distance a white building – the Veterans Hospital.

I early-on befriended a neighbor, our neighbor to the north on the corner of University Terrace, Dr. David, a retired University of Nevada professor who told me much about my new clime, in the weeks to come. He smoked a pipe, which I thought was pretty neat. I walked to him, seated on a bench in his backyard, and introduced myself. We talked. And talked. The earliest conversation I remember was of the park across the street – a large grassy area with a playground at the top of its grade, at University Terrace, and tennis courts beyond. “There used to be a school there,” he told me. “The Whitaker School.” Its full name was the Bishop Ozi Whitaker School for Girls, but who cared, on such a nice morning for such an unwieldy name. “Whitaker” it would be.

We’ll not dwell long on Whitaker Park much longer here, other than to write a couple things about it while I’m thinking about them (the reader will probably be maddened by these side-trips of mine, ‘til they become accustomed to them!) One thought is that after the school closed, the land beneath it – the park – reverted to the S.P. Railroad, who had originally owned it (I’m not sure that they ever went out of title, or donated the land to the Episcopal Church for Whitaker’s school.) That railroad, in the early 1920s, gave serious thought to putting a major hospital for railroad employees on the site, and came pretty close to doing it. But, they didn’t. Then, the Veterans Administration, in the thought triggered by my mention of seeing the VA Hospital in my early view, considered putting the newly-funded Vet’s hospital on the former Whitaker School site. They later opted to open the hospital in its present location. End of side trip…

Other vistas opened up on that first morning in Reno, and while I was taking them all in, a cute little red-haired girl appeared, my next-door-neighbor to the south, whom I revere to this day 70 years later as my oldest friend in Reno, and first girlfriend! We’ll meet her in these pages one of these days; many readers will know her…

 

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A new journey begins…

kf_headshotThis website is taking a new turn; instead of running old columns, which I still have a ton of and you’ll see them occasionally, but as time permits we’re all going to walk around Reno and Sparks, and stop and make a few observations along the way – the recollections of 70+ years as best as I can recall them, and I’ll try to paint a picture with words.  It’s not going as easily as I thought it might – the Title line above in bold will begin with a date, then the area or the topic we’re going to visit. There will be photographs, some old, some new, some mine, others yours. If you send a note or a photo, make sure and tell me if it’s OK to use it on the webpage. You will see from time to time some photos that have little bearing on anything, just something I want to get out to the community. If you use your browser’s “copy photo” feature please perpetuate the attribution I’ve given to a photographer, if such there be. But do copy and share them; that’s what they’re for..

You will occasionally encounter a “link” which will take you to another website. I’ll try to open it in a new window so that you may return back to the Ol’ Reno Guy page more easily.

I hope to update it once a week. Sometimes it will be a walk, other posts might be anBus 109 event taking place in the valley, and your comments are welcome. Let’s skip the “comments” feature below as it’s cumbersome for thee and me. Just send a email to me at kfbreckenridge@live.com 

This will be a learning experience for me. But, we’re off and running. Little content exists in this initial post, but visit when you can, and stay in touch. 

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A 1904 meeting in Reno…

artistmeeting

Here we see the publisher, editor and newsroom staff of the Nevada State Journal, all paying rapt attention to renowned photographer Lo Phat, save for the Sunday columnist viewing the society and fashion writer (back row, third from right)

Photo © OldRenoGuy

 

 

Take the bus; leave the driving to us…

 


school-busTravel with me now to a time, and this a time not in the dark ages but one still vivid in the minds of many readers, when every high school kid, including members of Stead Air Base families, between the city limits and Bordertown to the north state line, could ride in two 66-passenger school buses. Similarly, every high schooler from Franktown to the south city line would fit in a similar size bus. And here I note that Reno High was then the only public high school in Reno.

            The county district didn’t operate their own buses back then, “back then” being 1960 as a year to base this tale upon.  That task fell primarily upon a couple of local private bus companies – V&T Transportation, a successor to the railroad, and Nevada Transit, managed by Orville Schultz. Operating those 20-or-so buses for the most part were University of Nevada frat rats taking advantage of a job that was a perfect “fit” for college – drive from 6:30 to 8:30 a.m., park the things on campus and go to class, and return to work near the three o’clock hour. It worked well for all.

            Leading the effort was one of the greatest guys ever to ply the streets of our town – James E. Wood was his name, Jim to us, who bought the transportation rights soon after the demise of the V&T Railroad in 1950, together with some buses that couldn’t be given away for free in 1953 but would bring a pretty penny now for Hot August Nights cruisin’. Jim was a member of most of Reno’s service clubs and a State of Nevada Assemblyman from the early 1950s through the 1970s and in that capacity was instrumental in getting the University’s medical school underway. Vic Charles, another popular Reno guy was the company’s manager, Vic’s sister Dollie the office manager and her husband Al McVey the dispatcher. They all remain good friends of many of the old drivers of five decades past.

            Jim built a fleet of buses, starting with some pre-war and ex-military recycled units, to newer, yet used, vehicles, eventually to all-new and first-class rolling stock. And he expanded the non-school bus transportation side of his business into tour buses serving Virginia City and Lake Tahoe, some charters with over-the-road equipment, transportation of school athletic teams for every school in northern Nevada, and the Reno Ski Program, leaving weekly on ten Saturdays a year from Southside School downtown on Liberty Street and from Huffaker School ‘way out South Virginia. In later years Carson City added a program. We didn’t know what “snow days” were; short of a full-blown Sierra blizzard, off to Sky Tavern we’d go, chaining up as necessary (and Jim was there helping put on the chains). It was a great deal for drivers to ski all day until one among us busted his leg, stranding his bus and its passengers. And that was the end of ski days for us.

            Jim had a little “showman” edge to him; the photograph is of Jim and Tina, Tinawoodtina pictured sporting a bus driver’s hat as a promo for John Ascuaga’s Nugget in the early 1970s. I know not who dreamed this stunt up, the names James E. Wood and John Ascuaga come to mind and I detect the fine hand of a young Sigma Nu named Fred Davis, by then the Nugget’s PR director, as a co-conspirator to it. The back-story is that one must understand that elephants don’t as a rule back up, nor do much else, with any grace or predictability when in tight quarters, and secondly that elephants aren’t accustomed to being passengers in tour buses. That said, we learn that Tina, after the frivolity with the cameras and flashes and dancing girls was over and being an elephant known to be somewhat recalcitrant anyway, basically said to hell with all of this and plopped down, as best she could, leaving others to deal with getting her considerable mass off the bus. Several stories exist, maybe more, one option being driving the bus to Flint, Michigan where it was built, to be there disassembled by GMC who had built it a few years before. The operative story is that Bertha was brought alongside, who inveigled her smaller partner to vacate the bus that it might be used by others.

            And at this point for the benefit and enlightenment of younger readers or those not from around here in the early 1990s I should mention that Bertha and Tina were performing elephants, hence the long-standing name “Circus Room” at the Sparks Nugget.

            Virginia & Truckee Transportation Company had strong Nevadans and visionariesltr-bus-vintage at the helm and was manned by good men and true – and few ladies, you out there Misha Miller? – who all had a lot of fun, and were aboard when many of Nevada’s earlier memories were taking shape. The Olympic visitors in 1960. San Francisco’s airport would be socked in by fog and the airlines would bring their passengers to Reno, and we then bused them to SFO. The filming of “The Misfits?” Yup – we hauled Monroe, Gable, Clift, screenwriter Miller, director Huston. One of our frat brothers didn’t know the Chollar Mine from the Sutro Tunnel yet became one of the most requested drivers on the Virginia City tour.

            But mostly, we hauled the school kids. Safely. We’d moderate study groups on the long runs to Franktown and Bordertown. We’d patch them up with our first aid kits. We’d get them singing Broadway instead of “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer…” On my bus on Friday mornings when all were settled aboard northbound on Highway 395, we’d sing “Home Means Nevada,” with great gusto. I’d like to think that somewhere this morning there’s a 60-year-old kid reading this column who can still nail that State Song!

            And with that, we bid you a good week; no April Fooling, now, and God bless America!

kfbreckenridge@live.com

© RGJ a long time ago…April 2011????

Photo credit Jim Wood: JA Nugget

 

 

A turkey lays an egg…and a link to the 1950 Thanksgiving flood…

cometThe non-sensical piece that follows has run innumerable times, usually proximate to Thanksgiving, in the Gazoo when I wrote those columns, on my website when I had it years ago, and a couple times in the SF Chronicle when I sent it in (I didn’t really write it; I merely stole it from someone who told it in a joke and turned it into a news story.) It may be true, or not. The photo is a vintage British airliner, a Comet made by the forerunners of the Airbus consortium. A friend asked me over the weekend, are we going to read that stupid turkey story again? Yes you are; here it is. Maybe the next post will be of some substance. Or not. Happy Thanksgiving to All!

~ ~ ~

Early in the maturation of jet airliners, British aircraft engineers, addressing the dilemma of strengthening pilots’ windscreens against bird-strikes at low altitude, think a Canadian honker vs. a FedEx Airbus getting together over Peckham Lane after takeoff. They knew the United States had much experience with this matter and contacted some Southern California aeronautical engineers, who supplied plans for a rudimentary catapult that hurled a standard, store-bought turkey at a test windshield at a calculated velocity for analysis.

            The British guys fashioned a catapult, and soon after sent the Yanks photos of a test cockpit with the windshield shattered, the pilot’s headrest in smithereens, a gaping hole in the bulkhead behind the pilot’s head and the flight engineer’s console behind that bulkhead totally demolished. Other photos depicted another huge hole aft of the console in the next bulkhead separating it from the crew lavatory, which was also trashed.

            A few weeks later, the Brits received a telegram from the Americans: “Next time, thaw the turkey.”

Here’s the story of a flood in Reno, Thanksgiving 1950

Operation Haylift

hayliftiiAs promised, I’m fulfilling a part of what I promised, by posting the web address of the U of Nevada Special Collections website, which leads to some stories and photographs of the 1948-49 haylift operation to save the state’s, and many other states’, cattle and sheep. I’ll try to get the letters that I received from readers posted tonight or tomorrow, am having a bit of a challenge posting them.

Heres’s the website:

http://knowledgecenter.unr.edu/sheepherders/haylift.html

 

Six letters stamped on a blue steel plate

 

harrahboarddirectors1959

A local man of our acquaintance once came into possession of six vintage automobiles in various stages of disrepair, through a process that’s ‘way too circuitous to spend valuable column space on this morning. He kept them in the Liberty Garage, a splendid bygone brick building in the shadow of the Toscano Hotel on Lake Street just north of East Second. A friend of ours named Larry Heward, yes the local dentist, was employed part-time when we were in college as the caretaker, duster and tire-pumper for this nascent collection of largely forgettable rolling stock.

          The little collection grew, from six cars to a dozen, then more. Some full-time people came aboard to sand and paint and tune up the growing fleet. They ran out of room at the Liberty Garage. “Bring me more cars!” the collector cried out, and men were sent hither and yon from the great Atlantic Ocean to the broad Pacific’s shore, with an aggregation of strange trucks, lowboys and cash in their jeans to bring some better cars from the tonier villages and some clunkers long-stored in the barns of the plains states. Contemporaneously, the Mighty SP Railroad and Pacific Fruit Express closed a large concrete building in Sparks where once ice was frozen for trains carrying California produce to the waiting nation (this, by the way, was 1958).

          1908thomasThe growing collection of cars (and now trucks and boats and airplanes and streetcars) found a new home in this former PFE icehouse. And more men were coming aboard – the best and the brightest of body metal, upholstery, paint, internal combustion engine guys – assembled to do some serious work on our friend’s automobile collection, now taking its place among the best and largest collection of cars in America. Adjacent were three warehouse buildings owned by John Dermody, and into these single-story buildings went the cars, impeccably restored to better than their factory finish, all lined up in dozens of rows to be enjoyed by all.    

          Our collector friend welcomed people to his collection to view it. In the early 1960s a buck, a business card, or a bar receipt from one of the planks in his casino business, which after all enabled all this to be built, was all he sought for admission. It was a civic asset for all – darn few column readers of a certain age didn’t take their progeny there for a birthday party. The collection in time would grow by some counts to 3,000 cars and include some of the finest cars ever built – the Bugatti Royales, the pre-WWII Mercedes roadster and a couple of boat-tail Duesenbergs. Alongside were the rank-and-file of Detroit production that most of us remember as kids.

          The management of the now-bustling casino in downtown Reno tried to ensure hacoldcollectionthat folks leaving the casino to visit the collection in Sparks actually returned upon viewing it to the Reno casino’s tables, to further their support of the collection that they had viewed and as we said in the day, “Keep Nevada Green.” This effort took the form of buses operated by the casino, the most popular being the replica of a San Francisco cable car. This was an honest copy of such that would make cable car inventor Andrew Hallidie proud, albeit running on rubber tires and powered not by a cable but a big-block Chevy V-8. (And here I’ll predict that I will hear from all of the 14,387 people who drove that cable car, just as I heard from the 9,489 who drove the Zamboni in Blyth Arena at the 1960 Olympics!)

          So – the cable car plied the tracks of East Second Street to the Icehouse, back-and-forth, rain or shine. But a burr had been forming under our collector-friend’s saddle. “I have all these beautiful cars and dozens of fleet trucks and my own Ferrari Boxer (red) and our Phantom V Roll-Royce limos. I’d like to put some license plate beside W78324 on my Boxer and give Sammy a Duesenberg with something beside WRQ784 on his plate.” Or words to that effect.

          And so he dispatched to Carson City his bevy or attorneys, lobbyists, those high in gaming and other influential persons, to buttonhole the legislators, upon whom our collector’s name did not fall on deaf ears. “How can we enable our friend with casinos and hotels and payrolls in Reno and Stateline, and the license fees generated to our State on his 3,000 cars, trucks, speedboats, the Thunderbird yacht, a Ford Tri-motor and four or five airplanes with tail numbers all ending in -411Hotel, plus an honest-to-god cable car, to put whatever the hell he wants to on all his license plates?” A valid question indeed.

      olds    Thus it came to be in 1971 that the legislators took his request quite seriously and directed the Nevada DMV to buy some letter stamp dies for their license plate factory east of Carson City. Thereafter, any motorist with a car and what I recall to be $25 could order a plate that didn’t contain some thinly-veiled reference to something naughty and shortly receive two such plates for the bow and stern of the vehicle. And thus one of the greatest Gazoo column themes that’s ever hit print was born, that being the late Ty Cobb Sr.’s periodic Cobbwebs columns of cool vanity plates. I’ve been asked why I don’t pick up on this theme of Mr. Cobb’s, at one time the Sports Editor and later Managing Editor of the Nevada State Journal. Ty was my friend and I respect the plate stories as his province, and almost 20 years following his passing I still leave them alone.

          But, I’ll end this yarn the way it started, about rubber-tired cable cars inspiring our friend to champion the cause of personalized plates in Nevada. On that venerable vehicle, at either end of its brilliantly polished and maintained wood and brass chassis, Bill Harrah bolted a blue plate that encapsulated the character of a San Francisco cable car: the simple word, CLANG.

          Have a good week, and God bless America!

I should have included that the picture at the hed of this column of Bill Harrah and 16 of his “Board of Directors” was taken in 1959, at the southwest corner of the intersection of Geiger Grade and Highway 395. One man, Bob Martin, remains with us at this writing in November of 2016…he’s in the approximate middle of the photo, the only man with both his hands visible…

 

 

 

Site is on holiday for a week or so…

This has been a long, wet week with a few friends and readers impacted by the fires, and I have little fresh to post. Come back in a while…Karl

Pictured, just for the hell of it, is the turntable inside the snowsheds at Norden. Why? I don’t know, just thought I’d post it. See ya soon…

30078-norden-snowshed

photo © Southern Pacific Railroad

Tee it up

golferWhy, with thousands of acres, maybe even hundreds, a new control tower for the Reno-Tahoe International Airport has to wipe out nine holes of a golf course escapes many of us, but rise one will, on Brookside golf course just northeast of the airfield.  The most salient comment to emanate out of this civic mini-brouhaha came from a linkster who knew of another golf course that shares its rough with a control tower already, in complete harmony and the tower’s structure playable as winter rules.

            Longtime Reno resident and dynamite golfer Virginia Thompson writes from out in the 89509 with some interesting background about Brookside.  The little player-friendly course has been popular with local golfers, with an untold number of kids starting their paths to the Masters in Augusta on its level fairways.  It opened in 1967 as the brainchild of some local folks, including the late Jack Mathews and his very-much-alive wife Mary (Duffy), Dr .Jack Brophy, barrister Loyal Robert Hibbs and golf course architect Bob Baldock.  They secured a lease from the City of Reno on land then housing the city dog pound and a duck hunting club (yup – Reno was a bit smaller then). 

            Somebody donated a refrigerator for the snack bar, and they hired a golf pro and another person to maintain the course and work the desk.  The trees lining the course, then and now, have somewhat of a heritage: They were brought to Reno from Winnemucca, where they were in the path of some construction, then transplanted at Brookside and are still flourishing nicely.  The golf course operated privately for about five years, then was transferred to City ownership and has been a popular and profitable asset ever since.

             But – the little course’s days are apparently numbered.  At press time (like that?) I have a call in to Duffy to learn a bit more about Brookside.  Watch this space.

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Recent talk on page 8 about Reno Browne’s Singing Pioneers and Cactus Tom’s “Smokey Joe” Christmas paean smoked out ol’ buddy Jim Henry, who transmits some dope on the 1954 sizzler “Reno, Nevada – the Biggest Little City in the World”.  This chart-buster was recorded on a 12-inch 78 phonograph record (ask a geezer), just as it was written by Edwin T. Church, who doesn’t exactly light up Google on a Web search, and as performed by Hal Southern, who Googles, if that’s a verb, as a buddy of Tex Ritter’s.  Jim sends a photocopy of the RCA Victor record label, and describes the song as kind-of-Sons of the Pioneers except worse, but the record does have the standard number of grooves for a 78 RPM record.  Imagine that: A song with our very own city’s name, move over Abilene, My Kind of Town Chicago, Tijuana Taxi, St. Louis Blues and My Heart in San Francisco.  Maybe we can get it on the radio someday; we’ll warn you ahead of its performance.  The Homefinders thank Jim for this information.  I think.

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 The end of an era: Scolari’s Market on Lakeside Court is closing tomorrow – who’d have ever thunk it?  Many have forgotten that the forerunner of that grocery and social institution had its early roots as a Warehouse Market, in the south end of Moana West where Ben’s Discount Liquor, er, Ben’s Fine Liquors, is located now.  And, for the record, let’s not forget that the structure that Scolari’s is closing was originally built as indoor tennis courts.  Right across the parking lot from the Elegant Wagon, a popular early 1970s watering hole then in the southwest corner of Reno.  That joint and the one at the Golden Road – now the Atlantis – deserve our recognition one of these Saturday mornings as headquarters for sybaritic nocturnal misbehavior in south Reno.

            The standard number of grooves in a 78 RPM phonograph record is, all together: One.  A long one.  Have a good week; thanks for last week off, our days can warm up anytime now, and God bless America.

 

© RGJ April something, 2005