Category: Uncategorized

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Sat. May 15: Come Celebrate Big George Moore

 

georgemoore

 

Attached is the flyer fr Georges Memorial. Sorry for the delay in notification, but I couldn’t get a confirmation from the Legion on the space. Please do try and come, if there are any questions feel free to calL 707 761 3002.

Thanks and again – please try and come

diane

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fly or surf to London with your Creature Art

reatureartjpg
Creaturemag News – May

DIY show in Wakefield – Get invloved
Send us your zines. Send us your zines. Send us your zines. Send us your zines.

Temporary Art Space is an unfunded, artist-run project with a lifespan of six months, situated in the magnificent Grade 1 listed Piece Hall in Halifax and co-directed by Alice Bradshaw, Bob Milner, Tom Senior, Kevin Boniface & Georgia Boniface.

Opportunities:

Temporary art space are doing a DIY show at the gallery in Wakefield.
They require zines and alike… DIY arty stuff….etc.
Plus they are looking for people who “would like to make art live or to show old stuff”.
If you would like more info then please contact:

[email protected]

Or just send in your DIY stuff to:

Bob

6 Savile Drive

Horbury

WF4 6JP

Thanks a billion x

The Fete In Dalston – This Sunday

Get down to Cafe Oto on Sunday 10th May for the brilliant FETE. Creature has been along to a couple now, trust us if you like the DIY thing you will not be disappointed.

May 10th @ Cafe Oto

New Music Venue | 18 – 22 Ashwin St | Dalston | London | E8 3DL

12pm – 4pm

FREE

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1963: Statute of Immigrant Project: Where’s the statute?

Isn’t this a fascinating document? Was the statute built? 

Mr. Carlos Almeida
Supreme Secretary-Treasurer
U.P.E.C.
1120 East 14th St.
San Leandro, Calif.

Dear Sir and Bro.:
Thanks for mailing me your receipt for the donation of $100.00 to the Statute of Immigration Project, and again I repeat that I appreciate very much the opportunity in having myself become known as at least the son of an immigrant that did his part in developing the agricultural industry and economy of our state.

This also goes, in my behalf, to all of our other immigrants, and particularly to those Portuguese pioneers of Half Moon Bay, whose picture I left at your office last week, and whose names of those that I had the great privilege of knowing personally, are as follows:

(I don’t have the photo, sorry, but here are the names)

From right to left, and starting in with the first or front row: Jose Furtado, George Williams, Manual V. Nunes, John A. Bettencourt, Manuel S. Bettencourt, Candido Fernandes, Francisco Gomes 

Second Row:  John Lopez, Antonio Coelho, ?, Jose E. Cunha, ? and ?, Jose A. Fernandez, Joaquin Santos, Manuel Perfilho, Manuel Gaudencio

Third Row: Antonio Borreco, Munuel A. Cunha ? and ? Jose Trombas ? and ? , Jose Isidorio, Manuel Simao

Fourth Row: Benjamin Cunha, Jose Lisboa, Francisco M. Victorino, Jose Hel3nha 😕 and ? Manuel F. Cunah

Fifth Row: F.E. Pimentel, Josquin Bernardo ? and ? John Praeder, Jose V. Azevedo

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John Vonderlin: (Post 1906 Quake/Fire) All roads lead to/from San Francisco Or Let’s Sell Some Cars

Story from John Vonderlin

Email John ([email protected])

Hi June,
   Here’s the Corrected Text version of
the “How the Auto Has Brought City-
Dwellers Close to Nature,” from the
June 9th, 1907 issue of “The San Fran-
cisco Call.” It is interesting that while 
the auto had made some serious inroads
into the horse and buggy paradigm since
the 1905 article I sent you, it was still a
fair weather friend, as mentioned in the last
paragraph. This is only an excerpt that
concerns the Coastside. There are also de-
scriptions of Yosemite, Fort Ross, Clear
Lake and even Twin Peaks trips in the full
article available on the “Chronicling America,”
website of the Library of Congress. Enjoy. John
  
 
HOW THE AUTO HAS BROUGHT
CITY DWELLERS CLOSE TO NATURE
 
That there is a hub of the universe every
one knows.  That there is a. hub of the
automobile world and that hub is San
Francisco every one does not know.
But such is the fact. San Francisco, sit-
ing among her hills, forms the hub of
an immense wheel from which innum-
erable spokes radiate in the direction
of the four earth corners. Some of
these radiating spokes form broad
highways in the automobile world;
others are but ramifications, byways of
the roads themselves, but all  lead to
haunts of unsurpassed beauty, rest and
loveliness, undiscoverable, inaccess-
ible save by that reducer of time and
distance, the almost ubiquitous auto-
mobile.
One of the most beautiful and pic-
turesque roads leading out of the city
has been practically unknown until a
few weeks ago when the Automobile
Dealers’ Association of California held
an endurance run to La Honda. When
that run was first suggested hardly
any one of those anxious to go knew 
what the road was like. So some of 
those who wished to do their machines
and their steering powers credit went
quietly over the course before the date
set for the contest. When the beau-
ties of the road were discovered amaze-
ment was universally expressed that
such exquisite spots should exist un-
known and unheralded just outside
San Francisco.
In order to take this particular trip
one must follow the San Mateo road.
Just before the heart of the little sub-
urban town is reached, one comes to a
bridge, but the bridge must not be
crossed, for it is the road just to the
right of it that leads to some of the
most enchanting bits of scenery in all
California. This road is so shaded with
tall, drooping trees that it resembles
a broad lane. For a mile or so there is
a gradual descent, then comes a reach
of open country, and then the auto be-
gins to climb a hill. It is a steady
chug-chug upward for about a mile.
until several branch roads leading to
private homes are passed, one has only
to follow the path which shows the
result of much travel to be sure that
he is in the right direction. When the
summit is finally reached a splendid
panorama bursts upon the eye. Far
down, some hundreds of feet below,
spread to right and left, is the Crystal
Sprlngs lake, where the water
for the city is corraled. Mountains
rise on every side and, in the field and
woods which border the lake there is
an impression of neatness and form
that conveys the feeling that one is
passing through the park of some
vast estate.
From the summit overlooking the
lake the road runs down to the shore,
and an easy coast all the way. A
crossing is made about the middle of
the lake, and then comes one of the
most deceiving bits of roads in the
whole run — the distance from  the
bridge to Burns’ store, about three
blocks away.
It is the steepest grade. Practically
every car has to go into a lower gear
to make it. From Burns’ store it is
mountain climbing for over three miles.
It is climb, climb, climb, following the
canyons as one gets deeper and deeper
into the mountains, twisting, turning
and retracing, till at times one thinks
he must be going in a circle. But every
instant, magnificent scenic effects are
dropping into view. The kaleidoscopic
picture is suddenly punctured when the
highest point is reached and Spanish
town valley unrolls before the eyes.
Down, down, twisting and turning, rib-
bons the road until it reaches the level
floor of the gorge where it disappears
in the distance, an undulating line to-
ward the sea. If this road is followed
until near Halfmoon bay, or Spanish
town, the sullen booming of the surf is
heard, sounding like a rolling bom-
bardment in some distant battle. To
the right, through the haze that over-
hangs the shore in the early morning,
looms Pillar  Point, an eternal monu-
ment over the graves of  those  souls
that found their last  harbor in  the
green depths of the merciless sea. It
is a point dreaded by the mariners
along the coast, for many a stout ship
has  gone ashore there, driven by ad-
verse winds and tldes, though in full
sight of  the Golden gate.
A RESTFUL SPOT
Halfmoon bay reached, the road
leads through the main street, in a
southerly course. The town is a quiet
little place, restful and peaceful, where
the inhabitants seem to extract pleas- ;
ure and contentment from the long
languid days as the bee extracts honey
from the shading vines. Thoroughly
Spanish in character it has all  the
happy-go-lucky air of the days long
past when the rush of the American
for the elusive dollar was yet a  night-
mare of the future. As the car winds
slowly, through the village, one is
greeted on all sides by smiling maids
and matrons with the familiar “Buenos
dias, senor,” in the softest of musical
tones. Speeding along a barren shore
for some miles, a bridge is crossed. and
a quick turn is made to the right and
the long grade begins. Straight up
the cliff sides for nearly five miles this
road mounts with never a halt till one
feels the ascent is endless. Higher
and higher yet and a dazzling glimpse
of the coast line with its miles of
white ribboned surf billowing in the
sunlight is obtained. The air, clean
and salt from the sea, puts, if possible
a keener edge on the appetite, and
the thought of a good, square meal
is not dismissed promptly as you
feel that your poetic instincts should
justify.
   The grade ended, the downhill work
commences.  Turning  slightly-inward,
San Gregorio  is soon  reached  and a
sharp  curve made, over a third bridge
in the direction of La Honda.  Now, the 
heavy wraps  that were put on when
the trip began are thrown off and
one feels the  heat  of the pervading 
Sun.  A few  miles through open coun-
try brings the automobile to more
shaded roads  and  then come the red-
woods followed by La Honda where
even the  most  ardent stops
to get rid of the  pangs of hunger.
Resuming. the journey which so far has
covered  some 54 miles, one starts out 
on a long grade of fully five miles.
First redwoods, then shaded country,
until suddenly  the road plunges into
the clear tops of the mountains. Now
like a  stage effect at the end  of  a
Christmas pantomime,  the.exquisite 
Santa Clara valley, in all its beauty
breaks into view. One simply cannot
go on; he is spellbound. The blue
waved bay, the  red university  roofs of
Palo Alto and the rest of a superb
prospect stand out in such a way, that
it is  almost impossible to believe that
one is not in a dream. From this sum-
mit, with its climax of beauty, it is a
coast  of  13 miles  down  the mountain
to  Redwood and then the  home  jour-.
ney is but a matter of hours.
    Hundreds of these short, but enviable
trips are now possible to the automobiles
in the summer days now rapidly
approaching, and the remembing of
scenes visited, long drives in the cool of
evening, or wild bursts of speed through
the open country, will prove valuable
assets in the short days of winter when
the hum of the  motor  is  no longer heard
in the land and the cars  stand silent in the
garage.
 
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Sat, May 30: Almost Everybody Loves A Party: Grand Opening for the new Spring Mtn Gallery

party

 

Hi June,

You are cordially invited to our Grand Opening on May 30, 2-5 p.m. (or any time, actually). Attached is the invite that we are sending out; Spring Mountain is also celebrating 30 years of business. We’re not sure what attendance will be like, but figured that it is one way of letting folks know that we are here. We’re trying to keep the fare simple – like us – nuts, chips & salsa, cheese, wine, Martinelli’s, nothing fancy. In other words, within our budget! Everyone also gets a free postcard. Now don’t you know that will draw the crowds! :))

Take care,
Deb

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Medium Rare: Miramontes & Vasquez,HMB rancheros

Story from John Vonderlin
Email John [email protected])

Mission Dolores/:Pomponio Storu

[Image: Vasquez and Miramontes can tell you of the struggles of the fathers with the Indians and the last days of Dolores, under the Spanish rule, for they were a part of the generation that passed from the mission then and of the generation that lies dead and unknown to us now. Would that you might have heard the e of the Pablo Vasquez as he told the story in the little hotel in Half Moon Bay  while the other, the Don Pablo Vasquez, son of Jose Tiburcio Vasquez, was majordomo of the mission, is 20 years younger.

md

This is the excerpt from the Jan. 2nd 1910 issue
of the “San Francisco Call,” that refers to Pomponio.
It is in a lengthy article about the two survivors who
had trod the ground of the Mission Dolores, before
it was secularized in 1843 . The two survivors, Mira-
montes and Vasquez, have a lot of interesting
things to relate, though some of their memories
seem to differ from historical accounts. There are a
few other references to the HMB area I’ll dig out and
send soon. Enjoy. John

One name remains to us in history to
tell of an instance when the fathers
made the mistake of capturing a savage
who was in years beyond the age for
peaceful subjection. Then Pablo Vas –
quez shook his head when he mentioned
the great Pomponio, and indicating
with his thumb the location of a valley
in the hills back of Half Moon, he re –
marked in his gentle English.
“Pomponio, my father knew him;
they say he killed many and there is a
canyon yonder that bears his name.”
Pomponio was the cause of many wild
nights in the settlement, for every so
often, he broke from the watchful fath –
ers and returned to his
comrades, mustering them into maraud –
ing bands that would swoop down in
the dark upon the cluster of adobes that
sought shelter in the shadow of Do –
lores, where, amid havoc and massacre,
they would ransack the dwellings and
flee to the safety of their lairs in the
hills. More often they would creep
stealthily into the settlement in the
early hours of the morning, and make
away with the corraled horses while
the padres slept. This practice became
so prevalent that the wily fathers con –
ceived the idea of tying a bell to the
neck of the mare in each corral that
they might be alarmed when the thiev –
ery was in progress. This custom was
generally adopted in later years and
even today the: Spaniards of the penin –
sula refer to the “bell mare.”
Even after this precaution, the padres were
frequently crestfallen, to awaken, and
discover, their corrals empty. The In-
dians, quick to adapt themselves to
new conditions, employed every caution
in approaching the inclosures. One of
their number would quietly capture the
“bell mare,” deftly remove the bell and
tinkle it occasionally to reassure the
padres, while the remainder of the
party filed out of the rear of the corral
with the horses.

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This was Auntie Edith’s Favorite Pix

Auntie Edith  kept this “sexy” photo  in her wallet and when we went to lunch she’d pull it out and show it to me…..again and again….I never tired to looking at it. She always wanted to be a dancer, she told me when she was 91. Ever the fairy princess, that’s me, I thought well, start now at age 91. Bad advice.

Update: I received many emails about my dear Aunt Edith’s pretty legs! If only she had lived long enough to read them herself.

(Image: When Edith was growing up, she lived in this pretty apartment house on Milastrasse, now a landmark because it was originally built by a well known beer mfg. She lived on the top floor in a room called “the Winter Garden.” milastrasse

Her photo, of course, was small in size. I made the larger version on the Canon printer I smashed to bits after my partner’s death. Some people do that. They break everything; it just releases a lot of pain. So I don’t have a photo printer at the moment. But I do have Auntie Edith’s photo, which is better anyway.

She, like me, could have been living in Berlin, her native home, until war moved her to exotic places she had surely never even dreamed of. Her husband, whom I never met, died a terrible death and she remained a lifelong widow and great mom and grandmom and even a great-grandmom. I always felt a closeness to Edith, and I will miss her..

She passed away in her late 90s recently, but I was so involved with Burt”a final weeks, that I couldn’t do anything else. No multi-tasking for me.  I was focussed on Burt, and that was it.

To Aunt Edith and her family: I am so sorry. Aunt Edith was born in 1910, so you can imagine what her eyes saw. She, like my mom and dad, felt held back by their accents that they just couldn’t get rid of, and, just like today, limited her possibilities. But, with me, she felt so fear, and  spoke in English to me, which surprised her daughter who always spoke German to her, believing she understood that language the best.

The shot of Aunt Edith was taken at Ocean Beach, I’d say in the early 1950s. For many years she and her mom (my Oma on my dad’s side) lived in the Richmond District near Golden Gate Park. I love visiting them because Oma and Edith would gently rub my arms until I fell asleep. I did the same with Burt, and he, just like me, loved being touched in that way.

 

edith