Scottish Bowling

Twenty one years ago, this blog post planted its roots. In September 1997 I moved into an apartment in North Park, and for two years I drove by an iconic building almost daily. I’ve only been in it twice, but this week I finished a painting of this fascinating place. It’s the Scottish Rite Center in Mission Valley, and it’s enormous. Among other things, it has a 10,000 square foot ballroom for trade shows.

If you’re bored, stay tuned. This building had a different function in the 50s. It was A. Happening. Spot.

The center is right by Interstate 8 and the Texas Street offramp, which was my exit. That freeway, that offramp and certain San Diego landmarks have a really special place in my heart. My apartment wasn’t anything glamorous (think peeling linoleum), but the first place you live on your own—the first place you choose, where you’re the queen of the castle—those are powerful memories.  

But back to the building. It was built in 1957 as a bowling alley with 55 lanes and a lounge with a live band. In 1965 it became the Scottish Rite Center. This is how the building looked originally, when it was Bowlero. I love its style and personality.

A vintage advertisement from when The Scottish Rite Center was Bowlero (1957-1965).

I wish I could go back in time for a night to experience the fun of this place in the late 1950s.

But let’s get back to why I painted the building. I love design from the 50s and 60s. This building is a classic example of midcentury-modern architecture, with its dramatic peaked roof, and angled steel support beams. It also has a butterfly roof, which was a popular design feature in the 1950s. The 50s were the days of car culture, and roadside architecture from those days was created to catch the eye of drivers cruising around town. Motels, restaurants, bowling alleys and car washes featured giant signs with pointed arrows, neon, soaring roofs, or dramatic steel canopies—or all of these at once—to attract potential customers. The center’s huge, covered walkway was not designed to protect people from the annual few inches of rain San Diego received. No, at least in California, architecture was more about grabbing attention rather than providing shelter from the elements. Many buildings from the 50s no longer exist here, so when I find one that still has its original flair, I want to capture its style in a painting.

I began painting this building in early August, on a day when temperatures were in the 80s. While paint dried on my paper, sweat slid down my back. Hey, we artists suffer for our work. 

That August morning I set up shop in the back of my car. Tailgaiting a la Sarah. By coincidence--not planning--I had a few binder clamps and a towel in the back of my car, so I set up a sun shade by clamping the towel to the open rear hatch. It was my portable studio, and I appreciated the shade. First, I drew in the major lines of the building in pencil, using a ruler. I don’t always use a ruler when painting but I wanted to capture the sharp midcentury angles. 

Underpainting in orange.

Next, I did a layer of orange underpainting. Most of it would be covered but I left a little bit peeking through here and there, just for added interest and contrast.  

Here is how the building looks these days.

The painting turned out okay but I didn’t feel like it captured how cool the building is. So I came back recently to try again. I still got sweaty but it was cooler than when I painted here in August. I’m happier with the second version (below).

After I painted, I walked up the hill behind the building. The photo below shows the Scottish Rite Center from above. You can see that the main part of the (huge) building is a modified Quonset hut, which was a popular design, post-WWII. 

From the hill above. This place is enormous....

And so, more than two decades after first noticing this eye-catching building, I have painted it. That’s satisfying. Many people might not choose to paint on a hot morning, standing on asphalt, a few feet from a noisy freeway. But for me, it was awesome. The freeway sounds became a peaceful hum of background noise. The sweat reminded me that doing something meaningful has its cost—and that it’s worth it. I completed a painting I like, and studied some cool architecture. Sweaty mission accomplished. The center may not house bowling lanes anymore, but I feel like I bowled a strike.

To the Moon!

A few days ago I relived a very special memory from more than thirty years ago.

 

Despite a completely reasonable fear of heights, I climbed to the top of a thirty-foot metal playground rocket ship, and held on as it swayed ever so slightly in the strong wind. It’s a different rocket ship than the one I played on as a child, but it’s very similar. The nostalgia was so strong I felt like my heart would burst open and fly up, just like the rocket ship I’d climbed.

 

Some of my earliest memories are from the park in my LA neighborhood, where the playground rocket ship pointed high into the sky, sunshine glinting off its metal. We have photos of our family at the park when my sister is a newborn and I had just turned two. I remember my babysitter taking me to the park in a blue mesh umbrella stroller when I was no more than three. I took ballet lessons at the Park/Rec Center, and attended summer camp and school parties there. Birthdays. Picnics. We played there every week for almost a decade. It had everything: soaring pine trees, shade, sun, play equipment, basketball hoops, trees good for climbing…

When the rocket ship was taken down I was a young teen, past the age where the park was my regular hangout. I was surprised when they took it down and replaced all the 1960s metal play equipment with the newer plastic type. But by then I was too busy reading teen magazines to mourn the disappearance of part of my childhood. It was when I became a parent that I started to miss that old school equipment. Granted, our rocket ship did sway noticeably. Clearly, it wasn’t safe anymore, or up to code. The trend in the 80s was to build new playgrounds. Nostalgia for the original equipment wasn’t there, yet.

After this week’s visit to the rocket ship, I poked around online, looking for more information about this former park staple. Apparently, many parks across the US had a rocket ship slide in the 1960s. The Space Age was booming and this passion for space travel translated to design elements in cars, architecture, toys and playgrounds. There are plenty of stories online about rocket ship slides being removed from parks, one by one, as they aged, as safety codes changed, and as trends evolved.

Only a few of these original rocket ship slides remain. One of the final few dates from 1960 and is at Los Arboles Park in Torrance, CA, the one I visited this week. Like other rocket ship slides at other parks, it too was slated for removal in the late 1990s. But once word of the upcoming change got around, the community spoke up and urged that the rocket ship be retrofitted rather than be retired. And so it was.

 

As I Googled images of park equipment from the 60s and 70s, I found lots of images of playground equipment similar to what was at our park. Here are a few photos from parks of similar vintage:

 

 

I love design from the 50s and 60s—in cars, in architecture, in textiles, in funky wallpaper and shelf paper. So my nostalgia for the rocket ship slide is partly due to the actual look of it, and partly due to the childhood memories it evokes—the warm days at the park, the innocence of childhood…

Here’s an ad I found online, the kind that equipment companies sent parks. This model shows a spiral staircase inside, which is how our rocket ship was. Most had ladders going from one level to the next. The text is hard to read but I think its copyright date is 1960 or 1965.

 

 

Knowing that the Los Arboles rocket ship was saved is also meaningful in another way. It’s a reminder that sometimes a community has a lot of influence over which pieces of the past are preserved. Not everything can be left untouched—and I get that. But so much of Southern California has changed since I was a child. So being able to climb up a metal rocket ship like the one I played on long ago is more nostalgic for me than visiting a new park. Newer equipment is good, too, but physical reminders of my childhood are part of my soul.

Every child should have a neighborhood park. Play is important. Moving, climbing, laughing, reaching, running…Parks are good for the body but also the spirit. Thanks for the memories this week, rocket ship. We may not have left Earth, but you took me on an unforgettable journey…

 

www.instagram.com/sarahconleyartist

 

Cheery Chevy

 

This 1957 Chevy Bel Air wagon is rocking its holiday cheer. Seriously, you can learn a lot from cars. This car is owned by someone in the neighborhood, Jack. I blogged about this car years ago. See here. I love its style. I wonder if Santa could borrow the wagon if his sleigh gets too full. (See, I’m full of solutions!)

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas—whatever you’re celebrating, enjoy. Cheers…

Feathered Fun

I may have mentioned my obsession with flamingos once or twice before. A while ago I began sewing a dress out of some darling flamingo fabric but I ran into a problem I didn’t know how to fix. So I put the dress aside--for two years. That seems silly now but let’s not dwell on it. Recently I took that dress out and told myself that I was going to finish it, and I did. It’s not perfect but then again, I’m not building a piano. The design is my own creation—something with touch of a 1950s or ‘60s vibe. I dig it! Obviously, a photo session with a midcentury feel was in order.

 

I wanted to experiment with making some of the photos black and white. It adds to my vintage theme. On the other hand, it deprives everyone of seeing how delightfully pink the flamingos are, and gray flamingos just don't bring it.

I decided to make a killer headpiece to go with the dress and a cute pair of flamingo earrings my friend Roxie gave me last week. Every Monday should be this fun!

 

 

Isetta and Drive-a

(The first draft of this post was written on Nov. 23, 2011; It finally was posted on my blog on Nov. 23, 2014. Three years later. I feel a little silly that it sat unfinished for that long. It’s true that I get all gung ho starting projects and that I sometimes don’t finish them. Three years seems like a long time to let this post marinate. Of course not when I compare it to the age of our planet…)

 

‘Twas the day before Thanksgiving,

with much cleaning to do,

but Sarah was gazing online

at cars that looked like shoes.

 

It’s true. Thanksgiving (2011) is tomorrow and I do have tons of cleaning to do before people come over. But I’m procrastinating. I mean, I’m doing important research on my blog post about the Isetta. Do you know it? It’s a teeny, three-wheeled car from the 1950s and 60s. I love things from this era and this is no exception.

 

Before I go any further, allow me to do a mini Italian lesson. (I used to be fairly fluent in Italian and I studied there when I was twenty-one.) Please pronounce it like this: EEE-set-tuh. Not, I repeat not, like this: EYE-set-tuh. In Italian the “I” has an “eeeee” sound. When you start sharing facts about the Isetta with your friends, you want to pronounce this correctly, right? (On a related note, Iran and Iraq are not pronounced “EYE-ran” and “EYE-rack.” Talk to any person from Iran or Iraq and listen to how they pronounce it!)

My mom likened the Isetta to the cars Richard Scarry drew, which is right-on! Here are two of Scarry’s illustrations that remind me a lot of the Isetta:

  

 

 

 

 

(The photo above must have been a later incarnation, with four wheels. But its top remains mostly glass, like the earliest models, and like Scarry's illustrations.)

 

Of course, Scarry illustrated books in the 1960s, and Isettas are from that time period so the similarity makes sense. My appreciation for items from that time period comes from the rounded shapes used in a lot of designs from the ‘50s and ‘60s, from toasters to cars. Compared with cars of today, ‘60s cars had a lot of glass and chrome, rounded edges, and a more playful, less boxy look.

Isettas are were not the only microcars developed in the 1950s and 60s. (Microcars are exactly what they sound like: cars that look like they were shrunk in the hot water cycle.) Microcars were developed in Europe after World War II, when small vehicles were in demand because of their fuel efficiency. But today I’m focusing on the Isetta. Their small size (only 7.5 ft long by 4.5 ft wide) and unusual design make Isettas intriguing. But what really fascinated me about Isettas was that they opened at the front, like a refrigerator. An Italian company named Iso SpA, which built refrigerators and motor scooters, made its first foray into car design in 1955. Their engineers decided to use elements of what they already made, and when they combined an engine from their scooters and a door from their refrigerators, the Isetta was born. (Oh, how I love this charming backstory!)

 

Isettas were known as bubble cars because of their curved body style and almost all-glass tops. There are other bubble cars, including the one, below: 

 

 

In the 1950s Isettas were built in various countries including Spain, Germany, France, Great Britain, Belgium, and Brazil. In 1954, the French company VELAM acquired a licence from Iso to make a car based on the Isetta. Iso had sold the body making equipment to BMW, so VELAM developed their own body but used the original Iso engine. The VELAM body was rounder and more egg-like than Iso's Isetta.

 

In 1955, Iso licensed the Isetta to Romi, a Brazilian company. With each new manufacturer, the body style changed slightly. Some companies chose to elongate the car so that more people could fit into it. Other companies made their microcars pointy or squarish. But for me, the original Isetta design wins in cuteness and originality.


In 1962 manufacturing of the Isetta was stopped. Among other factors, competition from the VW Beetle and Fiat created less demand for the Isetta. The Isetta’s seven year ride was short but this unusual car has not been forgotten. Today small cars are in demand due to fuel prices and a growing concern about the environment. Fuel-efficient cars, electric cars and hybrids are popular. I’d like to think that the Smart Car has picked up where the Isetta left off. It’s small, it’s very different-looking and it’s fuel-efficient. Did I mention cute? (No, I don’t drive one, nor do I work for Smart Car!)


I’m a good driver but I don’t understand much about how car engines work. I am convinced a really fast hamster is running through a wheel under the hood to power my car. Even if I know very little about how cars work, I’m intrigued by the design of cars from the 50s and 60s. Cars had such unusual design features back then: exaggerated lines and curves and true personality. And some had really fun, pointy tail fins!


This is only somewhat related to our chat about the Isetta, but I did spot a tuk-tuk on the streets of San Diego a few years back. It too is three-wheeled, small and efficient. I was shocked to see it!

That’s why I’m keeping my eyes peeled, people. I’m always on the lookout for something unusual and I feel it’s my calling to share my observations and photos with you. Fear not: this won’t be my last post about vintage cars or unusual sights. I’m on it…
 

Special Delivery

Earlier this year I discovered a piece of the past that has loads of charm and a good back story. That’s all it takes to pique my curiosity.

Have you ever heard of Mailsters? Officially called Westcoaster Mailsters. They were three-wheeled vehicles used for mail delivery in the USA in the 1950s and 60s.

I discovered these darling little cars quite by accident while in a post office I’d never been in before. (As you may know, this is how I find many blog topics: by stumbling upon something intriguing.)

This model was from 1966, after various modifications to the original design had been made:

 

I love the design of anything from the 1950s and 60s: the rounded corners of things made in that decade make everything look friendlier. There’s something so charming about the design itself. It looks like an adorable toy! It reminds me a bit of another vehicle that has fascinated me for years: the Isetta. (I actually once drafted a blog post on the darling Isetta but it’s been on back burner for a while. Three years, if we want to split hairs. I’ve been a little busy…Perhaps this post will kick me into gear on the Isetta post!)

Like most inventions, the Mailster was created in order to save effort and time, and therefore money. Some carriers rode bicycles to deliver mail but most walked. By driving Mailsters, which could carry 500 pounds of mail, postal carriers could cover more ground in less time than they could on foot. In their heyday (1966) there were approximately 17,700 Mailsters in use.

Below is a photo of a 1955 Mailster, before they were designed with doors:

 

Although it looks like a large toy, the Mailster could travel as fast as 35 miles per hour. Drawbacks to the design included the fact that it only took three inches of snow to render the vehicles unusable. Another issue was the Mailster’s likelihood of tipping over if it rounded a corner too quickly. One carrier even complained that a large dog tipped over his Mailster (the dog must have shared my take that this was a toy). Eventually Jeeps replaced Mailsters because the US Postal Department needed reliable vehicles. I get that. But for the fun factor, I cast my vote with Mailsters.

 

Shiny Chrome

People in San Diego have some cool vintage cars. I love stumbling upon these treasures just by chance. It makes my day. Two days ago I found this Falcon wagon in a parking lot. I just dig those tail lights.

Yesterday I was walking near school and found this beauty, a Coupe deVille. It has such style and attitude. Check out those fins!

 

Since it’s a long weekend--Memorial Day—there may be plenty of vintage cars ambling around town, doing a slow cruise through the city, lingering at stoplights so all of us can admire them. I’ll keep my eyes open…

The Art of Fencing

A few nights ago I discovered a mural with lots of personality. It’s not far from where we live, but it’s on a street I rarely take and so this was the first time I’d seen it. I was delighted and made a note to circle back during daylight hours.

 

I’d noticed this property before. Well, in honesty, not the house itself. I couldn’t pick it out of a lineup. But they have a darling little vintage car that I had noticed before. When we drove by a few nights ago I saw that the car was still there and that someone had painted a mural to showcase it. Hurray!

A day or two later I returned to the scene and walked right up to the fence. I love that someone wanted to personalize their fence this way. The bright primary colors appeal to me. A real orange tree growing in the back yard is painted in the mural, which adds to the playful feel of the mural. The little yellow jewel of a car is depicted of the mural, which is charming. The car is a Metropolitan Nash and I’m not certain about the year but I’m making an educated guess of 1960 (based on photos of the 1960 Nash body style).

 

Finding surprises in my own neighborhood is such fun. My discovery this week brought together several things I like: vintage cars, murals, and personalizing your space. Fences can be quite mundane, so it really makes my day when I see one that doesn’t fade into the background but becomes a canvas that brightens the neighborhood. Fence makeover: now that’s an art form!

Cecil Chimes In (Part 2 of 2)

I’m reminiscing about my next-door neighbor Cecil, and the friendship we had. I have some wind chimes that were Cecil’s, and when the breeze makes music with the chimes, I think of him.

 

Three years ago Cecil passed away. I knew it was coming as he was in his eighties and his health was declining. But I was still sad to hear the news. After Cecil passed on, I wrote a blog post about him. He was a kind neighbor for seven years, and I think of him when I see my Yucca plants, which were daughter plants of his Yucca trees.

Cecil was from Georgia, a place I associate with front porch chats and leisurely visits. Although Cecil didn’t have a front porch, he always welcomed visitors. I sat in his living room many times, chit-chatting while my babies crawled around on his floor. We talked about his growing up on a watermelon farm. Cecil moved to San Diego for the Navy and told me what the city was like half a century ago. We chatted about kids and friendship and life. He talked about his pet turtle that lived outdoors under the house. More than a few times Cecil said, “Oh, you just missed the turtle. He came out and got some sun for a while.” I believed that the pet was real but I wondered if I’d ever see him. Apparently turtles do not keep to a schedule, so a sighting is nearly as rare as running into the queen at the pharmacy. Finally, I spotted him one day. The turtle didn’t do any tricks for me, but I was glad to see him with my own eyes at last. I’d waited six or seven years!

Cecil was part of what I liked about our neighborhood. Like others on the block, he’d lived in his house since shortly after it was built in the mid-1950s. He became good friends with others who had lived on the block for decades. I found that so charming. I liked joining a neighborhood where people knew their neighbors well, and were friends.

When Cecil passed he left a house full of furniture and household items. His sons lived far away and I wondered if or when they would sort through the house. Probate issues took time to resolve and a few months passed. One day I was shocked to hear a loud crash as a truck delivered a metal dumpster into the driveway next door. A crew started to clear the house of belongings. It bothered me that the entire house was emptied so quickly and unceremoniously. They weren’t taking Cecil from me but it still felt uncomfortable to watch my friend’s belongings thrown into a dumpster, all signs of his time in that house erased.

 

Soon, more changes came. Investors walked down the driveway, examining the exterior. The house was stripped down to its studs. Concrete was poured, the house was expanded a few feet, and interior walls were reconfigured. I snuck in one day to make peace with the changes while there was still some evidence of Cecil’s having lived there. I’d only seen a few rooms of Cecil’s house before and in a room I hadn’t seen, I discovered the original wallpaper from Cecil’s sons’ room. I was touched that the original wallpaper remained so long after his sons outgrew the room. I took photos of the print, a playful design that made me feel I'd walked onto the 1950s set of Leave it to Beaver.

 

 

Just as quickly as work began next door, it stopped. For months, there was no activity. Finally, things started happening again. Stucco was applied, and new sod was laid in back. The remodel was complete. Although Cecil’s house had needed a lot of TLC, I was a bit sad to see so much change because it didn’t look like Cecil’s house anymore. But the newer version was well-maintained and no longer a fixer-upper. Another good facet of the change felt like a gift directly from Cecil: a friendly new neighbor moved in next door. She was easy to talk with, cheerful. If we had to lose Cecil, I felt our new neighbor was a wonderful addition to the neighborhood. It felt as though Cecil had chosen a terrific neighbor for us, and I’m grateful for that. I think a neighborhood should be a place where people feel a bond with those who live nearby. In our neighborhood, people become friends with one another. We borrow things and lend things. We look out for one another. Our “new” neighbor has been here for more than a year and a half now, and she is a great addition. By coincidence, our new neighbor’s name starts with “C,” as Cecil’s did. I like that serendipity.  

Who really knows whether Cecil guided our new neighbor to our street? Maybe it is coincidence, but I like to think Cecil had a hand in it. Maybe our new neighbor was simply attracted to this kind of neighborhood: one where people want connection, and are down-to-earth, where they walk their dogs and greet passers-by.

I feel fortunate that I have a kind neighbor next-door and before that, another great neighbor in Cecil. Change is sometimes hard but it can be a gift in disguise. Recently, there has been a lot of change on our street. In the last six months, six houses have sold. Our street only has 24 houses on it so you really notice that much change. I was sad to see elderly neighbors move to assisted living, and other families leave the area. But I’m trying to embrace the new, even if I miss what was. There is new life on our block. I’m making a point to welcome the new neighbors. Maybe I can be to the new neighbors who Cecil was to me.

And This Little Piggy...

For those of us with little kids (or anyone who has been around little kids lately), we’re familiar with the story people tell as they tickle someone’s tiny toes. Each toe has a story, starting with the big toe and ending with the baby one. It’s a playful thing people do with the (usually naked) toes of babies and little kids, who find it exciting that their toes have personalities and are the stars of the show. It starts out, “This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home.” The last piggy supposedly cries, “Wee, wee, wee, wee, all the way home.” I’m here to change the ending on this story. Why does the little one have to cry and feel sad? I say this little piggy went to the Piggly Wiggly and was treated like a king!

Let me take a (baby piggy) step back a moment and tell you why I’m blogging about toes. This morning I am taking a happy meander down a nostalgic lane. I’ve been obsessing about Piggly Wiggly, a supermarket chain that has the most charming name. I want to shop there! Sadly, most Piggly Wiggly stores are in the Southeastern USA. I’d have to drive at least 1,000 miles (maybe 2,000) to reach one. And I don’t care how many coupons they might give me: I can’t quite justify driving twenty hours for a loaf of bread!

Anyway, Piggly Wiggly once had stores in San Diego. In 1938 there was one at the corner of Park Blvd and El Cajon Blvd, close to where I lived in North Park in 1998. I will share the photo of the store, but you must forgive how grainy it is. It’s a photo I took of a newsprint photo, torn out from The Reader, years ago. But it’s all I’ve got right now. (I spent thirty minutes online trying to find a better photo but our local historical society does not have a photo (or any record) of a Piggly Wiggly on that corner.) Although the grocery store had closed long before I moved to that neighborhood, the building still remains. I was tickled when I learned that a building I’d passed many times had been a Piggly Wiggly. That name is so fun to say. It makes you happy just saying it. It’s adorable!

 

 

These thoughts were crossing my mind this morning at 4 a.m., when I should have been counting sheep, not pondering pigs. Eventually I told myself I could not lie awake thinking about Piggly Wiggly and that the pigs could wait until daylight. When I awoke this morning I sat down to write an explanation of why Piggly Wiggly is enchanting.

It goes beyond my interest in old architecture and the history of supermarkets, which are a piece of our societal makeup, something to which everyone can relate. There are grocery stores on every corner, it seems. But Piggly Wiggly stands out among all these stores because of its cheerful, rhyming name.

The first Piggly Wiggly was opened in 1916 in Memphis, TN, by Clarence Saunders. Saunders was the first to open a self-service grocery store. Previously, customers gave a list to grocery store clerks, who would gather the items for the customer. Saunders noticed how inefficient this was and decided to revolutionize grocery shopping by having customers gather their own food, using baskets or carts. I think we can safely say—97 years later—that the idea caught on. When asked why he had given his stores the bizarre name of Piggly Wiggly, Saunders said. "So people will ask that very question." Clearly, the memorable name lingered in peoples’ minds and the stores continue to draw customers. As of 2013 there are more than 600 Piggly Wiggly stores in America.

This photo (courtesy of JP DoublinGeorgia.blogspot.com) shows a roadside sign for Piggly Wiggly, with a 1950s style. Irresistable!

 

 

A 1959 edition of the San Diego Union Tribune newspaper advertises Piggly Wiggly locations in eleven San Diego locations (some open on Sunday!). The newspaper ad boasted a deal for ham, at 35 cents per pound.  

Perhaps the littlest piggy toe would think twice about going to a Piggly Wiggly where ham was the special of the week. But I still like to think about that piggy having an ending that does not involve tears but instead, cheers. From now on, when I talk about the five piggies, I’ll end it with the little one going to Piggly Wiggly and receiving a standing ovation. Long live Piggly Wiggly!