Visited the San Diego Zoo. It is tremendous. Ate lunch in Balboa Park. The boys swam at the campsite. Barbecued hamburgers. Tim caught several sharks and a manta ray.
Marge Binder, July 8, 1969
I’m gonna say this is the San Diego Zoo because Dad would have been there to take this pic. It could be Marineland. Or it might be the National Zoo in DC. Know what? it could be anyplace that kind of looks like a zoo. No matter, I grew up to dislike both zoos and aquariums. But I thank Mom for trying.
The 60s were a thing. Lots of mystique and tumult, triumph and tragedy. War, assassinations, race riots, civil rights, the moon landing. The Beatles. JFK. The Summer of Love. Freedom Rides, MLK, RFK. My birth.
As I was preparing this blog, I looked back at the events of 1969 to see if there was a way or a reason to correlate the events of our days with the events of the day. Turns out, 1969 wasn’t the s**tshow of the previous two years.
In fact, June and July 1969 were surprisingly un-60s-like. Yes, troops were still in Vietnam and Ted Kennedy drove off a bridge. The Stonewall uprising happened, but it wasn’t in the news outside New York for a while.
The one current event Mom includes in her diary is the moon landing in July 20.
Woodstock happened in August. It was three days of rain, drugs and misery that have been romanticized into something altogether different. That same month saw the Tate-LaBianca murders in Benedict Canyon, at the hands of the Manson clan. This is featured in yesterday’s post.
By year’s end there would be death at a low-rent Woodstock wannabe (Altamont), which some people cite as the end of the Age of Aquarius. Conveniently, that was also the end of the 60s. The 70s, to me, were the hangover (and puberty).
As for the 80s. The best decade. Ever. News-wise, I know that’s debatable.
Packed, washed and headed for San Diego. Found the state beach park full so we settled at Mission Bay in an unfinished Camplands. Took a drive around.
Marge Binder, July 7, 1969
Another Deluxe Campground
Maw says that she called ahead to some of the campgrounds, especially if she was in need of a deluxe experience (i.e., showers). This one was a beauty, and the unfinished Camplands looks to be thriving today after 50 years. Happy Anniversary!
I’ll admit it: I have no recollection of this day. Chances are I was still fretting over the sad fate of Mr. Lincoln. Or perhaps the Disneyland fireworks were still popping inside my brain.
Actually, I don’t remember most of this trip. So when I started tinkering with the idea of recounting it, I knew I needed some meat. What a revelation to find Mom’s diary (thank you, Helen Binder!) and to get her permission to use it. The surviving photos offered some assistance as well (Thanks Miko!). But the actual memories are few and far between; I’ve conveyed them in here when applicable.
I’ve also attempted not to co-mingle memories from other trips and similar experiences. So I didn’t include a picture of Mike and me in the Redwoods in 1969 because — as I discovered a few weeks ago — it wasn’t taken in the Redwoods in 1969. It was, in fact, taken in the early 70s in front of very Redwood-looking trees towering over north-central Michigan.
One of my other distinct memories I had attributed to this trip was at Pismo Beach, where Mike and I stormed the surf, throwing rocks and yelling “Bomb Cambodia!” (We Binders were a hawkish bunch back then.) Mom recently set me straight: Bomb Cambodia happened somewhere in Ohio a few years later. Figures. Mom remembers best.
Got the car washed. The kids swam twice at Redondo Beach. Had fried chicken and toured Ports of Call at San Pedro.
Marge Binder, July 4, 1969
I almost forgot! Here’s an interesting article about “childhood amnesia.”
In my head: “Wait, I’m pretty sure that dude is dead. He definitely has some issues with mobility and speech. Poor Abraham Lincoln. Let’s go ride the train.”
Seriously, this show freaked me out. We boys had been immersed in American history in our few years in Virginia, so I was one confused little 4-year-old.
I don’t remember much more of that day at Disneyland. I was too small to ride the Matterhorn (something I finally checked off my list 25 years later). I have the feeling my first day at Disney was a strictly A-Ticket affair.
FUN FACT: E-Tickets Matter!
Those old Disney ticket books could be worth big coin! Even if you just have a few individual tickets from way back when, Guest Relations at the parks can calculate what they’re worth and pay you on the spot. If you have complete books in good condition, Ebay can calculate what they’re worth, and the sum total might be worth college tuition to a decent, in-state school.
Had a time getting Mike’s allergy shot but finally managed. Picked up Jim and got to Disneyland about 12:30. Had pancakes etc and visited everything. Stayed until 9 o’clock fireworks. Big crowd.
Marge Binder, July 3, 1969
Disney and Life
This was my first Disney park experience. I wouldn’t return to Disneyland until 2001.
In the meantime, I was introduced to Walt Disney World just a few months after it opened in 1971. As I do the math, that was a scant two years after my Lincoln freak-out. No matter, WDW became a big part of my youth; Mom and Dad arranged for the Family to spend every other Christmas there for years. More fond memories of roadtrips and camping and so much more. (Blog-worthy, yes, but not nearly as epic as this journey we’re on.)
When I worked at WDW in the 80s, in a number of capacities, I thought of my Mom whenever I dealt with families in distress. They’d planned, they were protecting family, they just wanted to enjoy the experience, but sometimes things don’t pan out as they’d hoped. If I had the ability to make things right (which I most often did in Guest Relations), I would, because I know what it would mean to Mom.
That empathy made me really good in those WDW jobs, and I think it affects my approach to work and people to this day.
Did battle with Sears but still couldn’t get top poles. Visited Huntington Park. Drove to Burbank, getting lost often, to take the NBC studio tour. Had pizza and visited Jim at the Sportsman’s Lodge. The boys swam and we all had ice cream. He stayed. We came back.
Marge Binder, July 2, 1969
My memory of seeing Dad at the Sportsmen’s Lodge is mesh-melded with the episode of “I Love Lucy” when they road trip to California and get put up in a swank Hollywood hotel (perhaps marking the first-ever shark-jumping moment in television).
In my mind’s eye, the furnishings and view from the Ricardos’ room is the same as Dad’s, but Dad’s place is in color. He resided there a few more days, while Mom and the rest of us slunk back to the tent in Lomita. As Mom put it: “He stayed. We came back.”
I think that’s when I started appreciating the five-star hotel lifestyle over other modes of lodging.
The Sportsmen’s Lodge is still there. According to its website, it is “The Soul of Iconic Hollywood.”
Mom moved with Gran and Uncle Harold to Los Angeles in the early 1940s, soon after my grandfather’s very untimely passing. She was about 12. All my life, she’s shared her fascination with southern California, recounting tales of the trolleys and buses that ferried her all over. There were still plenty of orange groves and a feeble infrastructure back then, but it sounded pretty glamorous to me! She recently mentioned her discovery and love of artichokes; something else she missed when they all returned to artichoke-deprived Michigan after two years.
Mom and I visited again in 1980 (a whole other story, including bunking at Howard’s Weekly Apartments on the way-sketchy Hollywood Boulevard, a day of Family Feud and an evening with Lynda Carter and Tom Jones!).
It was always my destiny to live here. Accomplished, if only for a half dozen years.
No smog in Lomita but lots of refineries. Spent 2 hours at Marineland. Mike & Doug swam in swim club pool. Washed and restocked. They all had a romp in the ocean, then a shower.
Marge Binder, July 1, 1969
Here’s a screen grab from the Lomita website. I love the illustration of a proud and bustling Lomita surrounded by the fields that would soon rise high and shut out the bright lights of mighty Los Angeles.
The Tick Tock
While this location doesn’t appear to be ideal, Mom says it was convenient to everything, especially the beach. One of the highlights I remember is a place called the Tick Tock (or TikTok) that neighbored the campground. Most mornings, Mom and Dad would entrust Mike and me with several dollars to retrieve coffee, donuts and whatever else caught our fancy.
Like so many monuments of our 1969 trek, the little market is gone and forgotten, at least by the internet and chamber of commerce.
Had trouble pulling stakes & had to leave several. Drove down that terrible road. Doug threw up his crackers and kool-aid when we got to Azuza. Visited Uncle Russ & Aunt Marge. Had lunch. Phoned campgrounds. Set up at Lomita trailer park. Visited the Pacific.
This is the road Mom references. Looking at it, I’m feeling the kool-aid and crackers gurgling up even now!
Seriously, what could go wrong when you load a four-year-old up with crackers and Kool-Aid, stuff him in the back seat and then traverse this serpentine nightmare?
As I recall (which might have been a dream), I erupted forth with a smooth pink sloosh into the front passenger seat, right down Tim’s back.
Ever since, Mom considered this episode a highlight and a low point of the trip and my childhood. To this day, Mom refers to this moment by its exact geography: “25 miles north of Azusa.”
Got the wheels balanced. The Guys had a swim before we left at noon. Also cooked a big breakfast in spite of a balky stove. Stopped at Sears in San Bernardino. Drove way up in the mountains to Crystal Lake, a federal campground.
Marge Binder, June 28, 1969
In preparing for this blog, I purchased a number of maps, atlases and guide books from 1969. It’s astounding to see what people are selling on Ebay. And it’s equally astounding what people are buying there. What a country!
Maps. (before apps, Google, GPS, etc)
Back then, every gas brand had its own maps for sale, usually limited to that state or region. Book stores might have a broader range of full US maps and atlases.
As I reviewed these maps, I found it interesting (and a little frustrating) that each brand of map was slightly different in scale and symbols. Assembling “one” map of the trip from this disparate collection yielded a few incongruities that I hope you’ll forgive. For instance, on July 21 we will cross from California into Oregon; the California map is a AAA brand, while the Oregon map is Standard Oil’s Western US map. Hoo boy, you can just imagine my conundrum!
There were guidebooks too. AAA published regional guides that listed restaurants and lodging, town by town (but not on a map). These were often less than a smattering of what was actually available. And because it was heavily advertiser-supported, it seems suspect to me. Plus, the AAA guides didn’t cover campgrounds, so these books weren’t very helpful in this project. Btw, there were no apps like Yelp or Trip Advisor, as if I needed to remind you.
AAA also created Triptiks. These were customized, hand-marked and -assembled pamphlets of maps bound together in order of the trip. One page would get you from point A to B, the next from B to C, and so on. The pages had an odd configuration such that the route always went from top to bottom or vice versa, no matter the direction you were actually heading. Mom didn’t use a Triptik on this trip because I think she wanted to be open to diversions. She did call on them plenty of times for later trips.
Mom’s bible was Woodall’s 1969 Trailering Parks and Campgrounds ($7.95 on ebay, plus shipping). At over 1200 pages, this no-nonsense guide included seemingly every strip of land big enough for a tent to stake claim anywhere in the USA.
While Mom preferred the cheaper state parks for most nights, she would research a “deluxe” facility every third night, for comfort and hygiene.
To book these campgrounds, Maw would use pay phones along the way, a day or so in advance.
Believe it or not, that was an innovative approach back then — long distance calling! — if we are to believe this ad from Ma Bell in one of the guide books.
At least the lady is letting the man do the talking(!). Hello 1969.
“How to read a road map”
“It’s very simple.”
I could imagine seeing this headline on any print map in 2019. 50 years ago, though, such a skill would seem to me to be basic, like reading an analog clock or writing cursive or surviving gluten.
The Best Navigation Advice I Ever Received
“As long as you have a tongue in your head, you will never be lost.”
Marge Binder, throughout my childhood
I recall Mom adding adding something about a dime or a quarter in her advice — things required to make a phone call back in the day — but I’ll keep it pithy here.
A rare interjection in this blog from 2020: Maw passed away last night, peacefully and at home. My brother Mike was there with other family. And because she kept driving us west 51 years ago, despite so many obstacles and hardships, I’m going to keep re-publishing these posts every day to honor her memory. A grand coincidence is that 51 years ago today, Mom did finally arrive in California, her Promised Land.
Got a good start thanks to the time changes. Drove through the desert all day. Reached Barstow about 4 and got a fancy ($4) tra-tel with pool, shade and showers, also rocks. Has been blowing hard ever since we reached Oklahoma.
Marge Binder, June 27, 1969
Mom calls the camp “fancy” and indicates she dropped 4-large for this TraTel. For me, at four years old, it must have been my first encounter with a portmanteau. Thank you Barstow for so much love!
I passed through Barstow every few months on working roundtrips from Santa Monica to Las Vegas back in the aughts. It was not a place where I ever stopped. I preferred Baker, with its almost rustic main drag and sky-high thermometer.
In revisiting Barstow for this 1969 travelogue, I have to admire that it was an original crossroads of the interstate system — Interstates 15 and 40, nee Rte 66 — as well as the gateway to the Mojave Desert and a number of military installations. Next time I pass through, I’ll let myself wax nostalgic for the place that treated Mom and her boys nice, if even for a night. But I probably won’t stop.
In my 54 years I have never met anyone who actually liked the Grand Canyon. It’s a place you have to visit, of course. You stand on the edge, make some jokes about falling in, take some pictures and head back to the car. (These days you might also attempt a selfie, an activity that has been thinning the Gen-Y herd quite aggressively here in 2019). Then you drive for hours back to whatever highway you’d been on and put the whole dusty encounter behind you.
As a courtesy, past visitors don’t bad-mouth it to others who are thinking of visiting. Let them undertake the same aforementioned actions and draw the same lame conclusion for themselves. Shhh.
Got a very early start with no packing to do. The kids slept again later but I drove 350 miles. Stopped at Flagstaff for groceries, a picnic and Mike’s shot. Set up in a KOA at Williams and drove 60 (+60) miles to see the Grand Canyon. Windy and dirty.
Marge Binder, June 26, 1969
Here’s your chance to own a campground!
There weren’t many KOAs (Kampgrounds of America) back in the day, and Mom was keen to camp there whenever budgets afforded and a hot shower beckoned. Guess what: Today, you can own your very own KOA. Go on, sounds awesome! I’ll stop by. On my way to a Hyatt or a Marriott.