She's Got a Ticket to Ride

Press link to listen to the Beatles sing "Kansas City/Hey-Hey-Hey":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14ijT4RVERY

She’s Got a Ticket To Ride

non-fiction

by Greg Larson

For the twelve-year-old, Gretta Farley, 1964 was a good year. She started listening to some Beatles records her older sister had bought, and she liked the snappy tunes. It was fun to play the records over and over and jiggle to the music. The four Beatles were cute and their music made Gretta happy.

In February, the Beatles “invaded” America, and Beatlemania became a fad. When the mop-haired performers made their famous appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, Gretta and some of the students in her class at the all-girl school decorated a current-events bulletin board with Beatles pictures and items. She enjoyed the new hobby of collecting Beatles articles and was an enthusiastic worker on the project, spending time with her friends to show off the musical group that was dear to their hearts. The Life magazine pictures of the Fab Four in New York seemed bigger than life itself.

During the summer of ’64, Gretta listened to the radio station WHB, where the Beatles hits kept popping out onto the airwaves. A radio announcement came one evening in August: Charles O. Finley, owner of the Kansas City Athletics baseball team, signed a contract with the Beatles for a concert in Kansas City to be held in September. Gretta couldn’t believe it. She rushed upstairs to share her exuberance with the rest of the family. The hottest group in the world was coming to Kansas City. But reality sank in, and she knew she would not be going to the concert. Her parents had no interest in the Beatles, and there was no way she was going to convince her mom to take her . . . and her older sister wasn’t as interested anymore about the boys from Liverpool.

 

Gretta's Beatles scrapbook

 

Gretta returned to school in the fall, and chatted with her friends about the upcoming Beatles concert, while Finley and Kansas City were making preparations for the event.

Charles O. Finley was known for his marketing antics. As a promoter, he considered any bizarre, tacky, attention-getting gimmick that would sell tickets. He changed the Kansas City Athletics baseball uniforms to garish green and gold. He put a mule named Charlie-O on a grass hill in right field at Municipal Stadium, and for a brief time he made the relief pitchers ride the mule from the bullpen to the pitching mound.

Finley believed a Beatles concert was one way to get future fans to the ballpark. He contacted Brian Epstein, the manager of the Beatles, and was told that all of the 35 concert dates for the 1964 Beatles tour were filled. Only one empty date remained, September 17^th, and it was to be a rest day in New Orleans. Epstein scoffed at Finley’s offer of $50,000 to fill the date with a Kansas City concert. Finley upped the ante to $100,000. Epstein conferred with the group. Their reaction was negative.

Finley contacted Epstein one more time and threw out a ridiculous offer of $150,000 for a thirty-minute concert. It was the most money any group had been offered for a performance. Epstein couldn’t turn it down. He convinced the boys it was no big deal to fill the empty date. Paul McCartney remembers being upset:

“Our days off were sacred . . . So by the time we got to Kansas City, we probably needed a day off. I can’t actually remember falling out with Brian about him wanting us to work on a day off, we’d talk to each other rather than fall out.”  Paul McCartney - Anthology

Surprisingly, ticket sales for the concert were mediocre. C.W. Gusewelle reported in The Kansas City Star that by mid-morning on the first day of sales there were no waiting lines. Some thought it was because the baseball fans and citizens of Kansas City hated Finley. The Athletics were horrible, and the Midwestern folks disliked Finley’s brash manner. The fans from the Show-me state and the metropolitan area were disappointed on a regular basis. To generate goodwill, Finley announced that all of the profits from the concert would benefit Children’s Mercy Hospital. He agreed to a minimum gift of $25,000 if tickets didn’t generate enough profit. The city hit Finley with a $5,000 rental fee for the concert. He grumbled. The Chiefs football team paid only $1.00 for their use of the stadium for pre-season games.

Ticket prices for the Kansas City Beatles concert were set at $4.50, $6.50, and $8.50. The $8.50 tickets were the highest cost in 1964 for a seat at a Beatles concert.  Due to the high ticket prices, the short period for ticket sales, and Kansas City’s hatred of Finley, it was the only date on the Beatles tour that never sold out. Slightly more than 20,000 tickets were sold for the 35,000 seats at Municipal Stadium. Finley’s marketing promotion was “Today’s Beatles Fans are Tomorrow’s Baseball Fans.”   

        

Reverse side of ticket

                                                              

Clarence Kelley, the police chief of Kansas City, Missouri, was confident that crowd control and security would not be a problem. He didn’t want any hysterical fans to create mayhem or rush the stage at second base while he was police chief. To make sure, he sent his head of the patrol unit, Lieutenant Colonel Don Bishop, to Jacksonville, Florida, to view the Beatles open-air concert at the Gator Bowl stadium and plan for any contingency. Kelley said eight first-aid stations with twenty cots, and ambulances would be at-the-ready. Cotton balls were made available to the policemen to use as ear plugs to prevent hearing loss.

The Beatles flew into the downtown KC airport in the dark of night. At 2:00 A.M. they were whisked to the downtown Muehlebach Hotel, where police detectives had secured the 18^th floor.  On the afternoon of September 17^th, they staged a classic press-conference at the hotel, with only those with press passes allowed into the hotel meeting room. The seasoned and feisty Beatles made some of the press corps wonder who was interviewing whom.

At Gretta’s school, the chatter about the Beatles had increased dramatically. Through gossip and conversations with her friends, Gretta learned that some of her classmates had Beatles tickets. Her friend, Jane, had a bunch of tickets, and Gretta knew that Jane had invited another friend, Martha, to go to the concert. Gretta went home from school on September 17^th wishing she had been invited, but it seemed her chances of going were nil.

Without Gretta’s knowledge, things started to happen. Martha’s dad decided to make the concert a father-daughter event. He bought two $8.50 tickets for Martha and him, which made one of Jane’s tickets available for someone else to use. Jane’s mom called Gretta’s mom: “Would Gretta like to use the extra ticket to the Beatles concert?” 

Well, yeah, yeah, yeah! Gretta’s mom popped for the $6.50 box seat ticket, upper deck, near the railing above first base. It was a dream come true.

On the early evening of the concert, Jane’s dad acted as chaperone and chauffeur, and he took the concertgoers, including Gretta, to a bus stop on Wornall Road. Special busses were running for the Beatles concert, and Jane’s group got on board. The little girls wriggled in their seats and chattered non-stop to Municipal Stadium. 

Gretta took very little spending money to the concert. Once they arrived at the stadium at 22^nd Street and Brooklyn Avenue, she saw vendors selling all types of Beatles merchandise, including the famous wigs. Her sole purchase was an official 1964 Beatles Tour program. As they made their way to the upper deck, she clutched her prize possession, which had big black and white photos of each of the Beatles.





Gretta Farley - 7th Grade



She remembers what she wore on that cool, clear night in September: a plaid skirt, an off-white blouse and a camel-colored sweater.                                             

The warm-up acts were boring, but the stadium came alive at 8:43 P.M. when the announcer shouted, “The Beatles!” and they ran out onto the field to the bandstand at second base. A line of 100 police officers prevented anyone on the field from rushing the performers. Gretta thought, “Gosh, it’s really happening! It’s just like I imagined!” She never got hysterical, but she remembers screaming and yelling just a bit. She was able to hear the music . . . songs like “All My Lovin’,” which was her favorite, and “Hard Day’s Night.” She accidentally stood on her program, which she’d placed under her seat . . . the dimples from the balcony concrete permanently engraving the black cover.



Headline - The Kansas City Times, September 18, 1964

 

Thirty-two minutes, twelve songs and it was over . . . $4,838 per minute for the performance.  The press reported that some of the girls were crying, “They’re gone, gone,” a girl said. “I’ll never see them again.”  Gretta remembers leaving the stadium in a happy mood.  Her dream had come true.  She had seen the group she loved, and she heard her favorite songs.

A Chicago promoter purchased the sheets from the Muehlebach Hotel suite occupied by the Beatles.  He cut the sheets into small pieces and sold them as souvenirs.

It was estimated Finley lost about $80,000 on the concert deal and the payment to Children’s Mercy Hospital, but he was pleased that the crowd behaved and had a good time.

For Gretta, the Beatles concert was a significant date.   She continued to fill her Beatles scrapbook, following the lives of the Beatles until the group broke up. Next to each newspaper and magazine clipping in the scrapbook she wrote a number and the notation “A.B.”  It was her code for remembering the number of days After the Beatles performed in Kansas City on the cool, clear night of September 17^th, 1964.

Gretta's first Beatles albums

 

A Haunting Melody

A Haunting Melody

travel memoir

by Greg Larson

          I’m what you would call a closet piano player, someone who loves to pound the keyboard, alone in the room.  I remember playing the piano in the basement as a child for hours at a time . . . Bach, Chopin, Mozart and other music filled the air.  But I’ve always wanted to play a grand piano in a public space, somewhere like a hotel lobby.  On a previous vacation at the Hotel Colorado in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, I found the perfect spot . . . a grand piano in a grand lobby.  Gretta and I scheduled a stay there for some R&R with friends, so I began to practice my favorite piano pieces and attempted to polish my technique for the upcoming opportunity.

 

Hotel Colorado

 

 

          Although the lobby of the Hotel Colorado seemed big and fancy, it had a casual western feel, and the townspeople considered it part of their public space. When we were there, families came to eat at the lobby restaurant or stop at the coffee shop.  They visited the hotel during the Christmas season to enjoy the outdoor lights, indoor Christmas trees and decorations.  On the weekends, teenagers came to the hotel and wandered through the lobby. Usually the girls gathered at the piano and played chopsticks, or impromptu arpeggios and chords.  Occasionally, someone played a bona fide piece of piano music.

Greg in the lobby of Hotel Colorado

 

           I selected three pieces of music:

•    Misty by Errol Garner

•    Waltz in A Flat Major by Frederic Chopin

•    Moonlight Sonata (first movement) by Ludwig van Beethoven

          There are different reasons for enjoying each one.  Misty is a classic lounge piece, a romantic song with lyrics by Johnny Burke.  When most people hear it, they think of the movie Play Misty for Me, which made the song more popular.  The Waltz in A Flat Major is crisp and quick, with several melodic changes which are typical of Chopin.  But my favorite of the three pieces of music is the Moonlight Sonata.  Beethoven weaves his magic with a slow haunting melody.  It causes one to pause and visualize a calm moonlit night with lunar reflections visible on a placid body of water.  As the sonata begins, the music soothes the soul, but very quickly Beethoven inserts mournful, stirring phrases, as if there are potential storms beneath the calm surfaces of the listeners and the fantasized body of water.  The soft bass notes conjure thoughts of impending danger.  Sometimes when the visualizations run wild, I picture the remnants of a torpedoed submarine sinking to the bottom of a calm ocean. 

 

          On the Sunday morning of our stay, I invited our friends to come to the lobby to listen to me play the piano.  There were people sprinkled about the large space, some drinking coffee and visiting with friends, others reading or working crossword puzzles.

          We opened the top of the grand piano and I sat down at the bench and played a few chords and scales.  For a piano that received much abuse in a public space, the key action was pretty good.  I played Misty for our friends and became comfortable with the keyboard.  Fortunately, no crowd formed, which was a good thing for a self-conscious person like me.

          The Waltz in A Flat Major flowed smoothly, but with a few missed notes. It wasn’t too bad, considering all the sharps and flats in the piece.  The hotel staff smiled, glad that someone was playing real piano music.

          Finally, I began the Moonlight Sonata with some trepidation, knowing that it was long and fraught with difficulty.  The music sounds deceivingly simple, but to play it well, one has to master the bifurcated activity of two hands creating a seamless stream of sound. 

Greg playing a haunting melody

 

I missed a few notes but continued to the tough parts.  That’s when I noticed someone approaching the piano – very slowly.  In my peripheral vision I saw a disheveled man crossing the lobby, step by step, headed straight for the piano.  As he came closer, I noticed his unshaven face, rumpled hair, and bloodshot eyes.  His silly grin revealed some missing teeth.  His pant cuffs were high above the floor and he wore a cheap, polyester jacket.  He seemed mesmerized as if the melody had control of him.  Was he drunk?  Where did he come from?  I tried to concentrate on the music before me.

He stood against the curved side of the piano.  I began to miss some notes.  Then he bent over and stuck his head underneath the angled piano top and looked straight down, hypnotized by the hammers striking the wires. While he remained with his upper body beneath the piano top, he cocked his head sideways and looked straight at me, silly grin and all – no more than two feet from my face.

“Beautiful music,” he said in a matter-of-fact demeanor.

My concentration became unglued at that point, so I stopped playing.

“Thanks,” I replied, “I think I’ll start this last page again.”  I wanted to regain my composure and finish the piece in a calm fashion.  Who was this guy?  My subconscious thought was that he was a poor man, looking for some warmth in the hotel, possibly still drunk from Saturday night, or walking off a hangover.  The music was sensory stimulation for his brain – probably good for it.

I started to play again, and I noticed that he walked around the end of the piano and briefly spoke to Gretta.  She told me later that he said, “The music is beautiful.  Is it Gershwin?” 

She told him, “No, it’s Beethoven.”

“Beautiful,” he said, and then he walked away.  We never saw him again.

I finished playing the sonata and then played some less significant pieces that weren’t as polished.  When I finished, I walked over to Gretta and our friends and sat down.

“Who was that guy?” was my first question. “What an odd encounter.”  We all agreed that the man had an unusual appearance and was attracted to the music like a magnet.  “Well, he must have enjoyed it,” I added. “I guess that’s a good thing.  I know that I have one fan out there somewhere.”

When I returned home, I wanted to learn more about the hotel, so I ordered a book titled Hotel Colorado - Fountains of Enchantment.  When the package arrived, Gretta opened it.  She perused the book while I read the newspaper in the next room.

“There’s a lot of good information in here,” she raised her voice so I could hear her from the other room. “There’s a chapter on ghosts, and some have been seen in the lobby.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “All those old hotels have stories like that.”

Then I looked away from the paper and took a deep breath. “Ohhh!” I remembered the man at the piano.  I saw his silly grin and the missing teeth and the stubble.  I felt chills on the back of my neck.  Could it be?  Was he?  

I’ll always wonder.

Listen to the Moolight Sonata - just click the link below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT7_IZPHHb0



Holiday lights at Hotel Colorado

 




 

A Meeting of the Minds

Shadows of Elpidio Rocha and Greg Larson on a Sacramento sidewalk

Preface:

While researching the Kansas City architect, Edward Buehler Delk, I was told that an eighty-seven-year-old man named Elpidio Rocha, who once knew Delk, was living in Sacramento.  I contacted Elpidio and discovered that in 1953 he was a twenty-seven-year-old engineer/architect working for the Kansas City Parks Department when he met Delk (1885-1956).  At that time, Delk was a consultant for the Parks Department and was nearing the end of his architectural career.

This blog posting is a brief memoir of my visit with Elpidio Rocha, and is not intended as a full assessment or review of the careers of Rocha or Delk.  The goal is to share the experience of my time with Elpidio and my thoughts on how it affected me.

The visits occurred during February 14^th and 15^th, 2013, in the second floor atrium at The Inn Off Capitol Park, in Sacramento, California, near Elpidio’s apartment.  We also met on the evening of February 14^th, when I drove us to dinner in the area called Old Sacramento.

 

A Meeting of the Minds

non-fiction research and memoir

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

I’m not a person who gets easily excited, but after making contact with Elpidio Rocha via phone and email, I was more than intrigued at the possibility of meeting him face-to-face.  The eighty-seven-year-old engineer/architect/artist’s mind was sharp.  He was full of energy and had much to tell about architecture, politics, Kansas City, and life in general.  Not only had he known Edward Buehler Delk, but they had long conversations and Elpidio was mentored by him. His recollections would add a big piece to the research puzzle that I had been crafting of Delk.  In February of 2013, during a trip to San Francisco, I scheduled a two-day visit with Elpidio in Sacramento.

 

At our first meeting, we ate lunch at a small deli just a block from my hotel.  Elpidio began the discussion on a variety of topics, and our minds traveled over decades, a journey through an intellectual landscape of design, politics and history.  Early on in the conversation I knew that our interests were similar, yet different, and our thoughts on architectural design were simple, yet complex.

After lunch, we took a leisurely walk in the warm winter sun, our shadows side by side as we made our way along the sidewalk to the hotel to continue the discussion.

Elpidio’s childhood stories reveal much about him, his culture, and how he established his passion for science and art.   He was born at 23^rd and Holly in the Mexican-American Barrio in Kansas City in 1925, where poor education, subservient jobs and ongoing discrimination were dished out to the community by those in the majority.

Elpidio’s parents believed in a good education, both from school and from quality time spent with the family.  He remembers meetings at home to discuss various topics, with different family members assigned to lead each gathering. 

He has memories of time spent with his father during trips around the city, especially the time they went to see the circus when it came to town.  They watched the elephants and men unload the train cars and erect the small village for the performers and staff.  His father could not afford tickets to see the big-top performance, so he informed Elpidio that the activities “back stage” were much more interesting.  Elpidio remembers the sights and smells of walking through the commissary tent, of watching the clowns practice with their colorful props, and of seeing the raised pedals in the car operated by a dwarf clown.

During elementary school, Elpidio’s parents transferred him from the school in the Barrio to Lowell School, which was located near Penn Valley Park, in the German-American community.   An open-air wing had been added to the school for children at risk of getting tuberculosis.  Elpidio’s aunt had died from the disease, and his parents believed the open-air school was a good prescription for him.  He remembers the windows in the classrooms being fully open during the winter, and students were given special meals, cold showers, and hooded clothes.  He thrived in the educational environment, but remembers the German-Americans yelling at him to “go back to Mexico” as he walked near the school.

His teacher, Miss Gladys Blunk, noticed Elpidio’s artistic talent and she was able to get him a scholarship for Sunday classes at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, and later for classes at the Kansas City Art Institute.  Wilbur Niewald was one of his classmates at Lowell School.  Both he and Elpidio would become future instructors at the Kansas City Art Institute.

Elpidio saw the world from two perspectives: the Barrio view and the “cultural world” of the majority.  At the age of eight, he struggled with what he described as a “painful racist environment,” and he remembers several times when he sought out a darkened gallery at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, sat on a bench, and confronted his emotions as he focused on a sculpture of the Shiva dancing on the monsters of ignorance


Shiva Nataraja
(Los Angeles County Museum of Art)

 

As his artistic talent grew, Elpidio’s father showed him the Country Club Plaza.  He pointed to the Spanish-style buildings and told Elpidio to “unlock these people from their cages,” referencing those who perpetuated the use of architectural symbols of the European design, symbols for those in a position of power.  In retrospect, it is ironic that when Elpidio began his professional career as an architect, he came to know and respect Edward Buehler Delk, who had created the Country Club Plaza master plan.



The Country Club Plaza - Kansas City, Missouri

The professional career of Elpidio has been an interesting journey, and what is mentioned here just scratches the surface.  He not only “unlocked some cages,” but he also rattled a few during his career while sharing his design philosophy to wed art and science to create an organic, sustainable and democratic architecture for the public. 

After studying architecture, engineering and humanities at Kansas State University, he obtained an engineering degree in 1951 and began working at the Kansas City Engineering Department, while working at a structural engineer’s office at night and on weekends.  He accepted a job in the Kansas City Parks Department in 1953, where he met Delk.

Elpidio’s remembrances of Delk confirmed one of my conclusions, that Delk was a true gentleman . . . but our meeting also revealed something new to me.  Elpidio believes that in 1953, the sixty-eight-year-old Delk was tired of the Beaux Arts style of design, and may have been tired as a practicing professional.  Delk had a small office in the Parks Department, as a consultant.  Six months each year, Delk and his wife travelled to Europe.

          Elpidio took Delk’s marketing advice to heart and in the 1960s he began his own professional practice.  He also taught design at the Kansas City Art Institute.  One of his projects was to design a park on the 27^th and Madison site where Lowell School had been.  He privately dedicated the project to his mother and to the art teacher, Miss Blunk.  Unfortunately, the park was demolished when a freeway was extended towards downtown Kansas City, Missouri. 

          He was also influenced by the organic designs of Bruce Goff, and they became friends.

          In the late ’60s he became the lead designer on the Urban Renewal Agency – Center City Project for the downtown mall in Kansas City, Kansas.  It received mixed reviews depending upon the social, cultural, or artistic viewpoint of the reviewer.

          Elpidio then focused his career towards teaching and instructing, and he moved to the west coast, where he taught at several different institutions:

•          California Polytechnic State University – San Luis Obispo, California and Pomona, California
•            The Oakland School of Arts – Oakland, California
•          University of California - Davis, California
•            University of Southern California – Los Angeles, California
•            University of Oregon – Eugene, Oregon

          For a brief time in 1978, he took a break from his academic career to become the architect for the United Farm Workers and Cesar Chavez.

          On the second day of my interview with Elpidio, I showed him the historical slides of Delk and his career.  He shared with me that he did not agree with Delk’s Beaux Arts design style, but he respected him.  Delk was an honest man and shared with Elpidio his method for obtaining clients.  Delk told him, “Wash your hands before you meet with clients.  Wear the style of clothes they wear, drive the types of cars they drive, and eat at restaurants they frequent.”  It was valued advice that Elpidio used in his early career.

          We sat beside each other on a sofa in the hotel atrium, with the laptop computer in front of us.  I displayed the 1951 picture of Delk standing at Starlight Theatre, his last major design.  Elpidio looked at the picture and spoke in a soft, reverent tone, “Oh, Eddie, you were quite a guy.”  In that moment, it seemed as if sixty years were washed away, as if he wanted to pick up the conversation that had been silent for decades.



Edward Buehler Delk - Starlight Theatre - 1951
(archive photo courtesy of Starlight Theatre)

 

         I was overcome with emotion but held back the tears.  I realized that my journey to research Delk had introduced me to unexpected people and places.  My research back into history has taught me more about life and how I fit into it.  Delk was from the generation of Elpidio’s father.  Elpidio is from the generation of my father.  In our Sacramento meeting, Elpidio and I connected as professionals, as artists and gentlemen, sharing cross-generational and cross-cultural wisdom.  

          We said our “good-byes” and I drove out into the California sunshine, a better person for having met Elpidio Rocha.

Elpidio Rocha - Sacramento, California - February 2013

Sources:

·        Email correspondence between author and Elpidio Rocha from late 2012 and early 2013.

·        Meetings between author and Elpidio Rocha on February 14^th and 15^th, 2013, in Sacramento, California.

·        entrelíneas, vol. 2 no. 1-2, 1972, Penn Valley Community College, Kansas City, Missouri.

 

Notes on a San Francisco Morning



Small boats at Fisherman's Wharf

 

Notes on a San Francisco Morning

travel memoir

by Greg Larson

It’s 8:00 A.M. and the city is not yet fully awake.  I grab a paper and walk out of my hotel near Fisherman’s Wharf.  The moist air wraps around me while the sun attempts to burn off the small remnants of fog that cling to the hillsides. I stop at the Cannery shops and pop into a bakery for a butterfly pastry and a cappuccino.  Other than the noise from the cappuccino machine, all is quiet.

I like the early morning when the sidewalks are still empty of tourists, before the bustle begins.  The peaceful setting . . . the bakery, the sidewalk, and the table at the window . . . it looks like an Edward Hopper painting.  My mind clears quickly as I smell the cappuccino and sip through the foam in my cup.  I sit in the empty bakery, savoring every bite of the flaky pastry, and read the morning paper, which is much like any other big city news. One article reports of misuse of funds by public officials and another tells of graffiti artists painting over an existing graffiti mural.

Cable car begins an early morning run

Leaving the bakery, I hear the bell on a cable car making its early morning start up the hills.  The pier with historic ships beckons me, and I’m the first person of the day to buy a ticket to board the old vessels.  My ears strain through the quiet to hear the sounds of a soft, gentle morning.  A seal barks from a pier to the east.  The sea gulls cry from overhead as they fly out to the bay.  The water laps against the piers, then washes over the sand on the beach.

Historic three-mast freighter - Balclutha

          I breathe deeply, taking in the smell of the barnacles and the sea air, then begin to inspect a three-mast freighter.  I try to visualize the port of San Francisco in the late 19^th Century, a port much noisier than today.  At the end of the pier, a gull sits atop a post that is wrapped in coils of sun-bleached ropes, and warms itself in the sun. A patch of moss clings to a crack in the pavement edge.


Seagull warming in the sun

Sailboat glides past Alcatraz

 

          I find a bench on a giant old ferry boat and look out towards Alcatraz where the morning light warms the rocky perimeter of the former island prison.  Sailboats small and large begin to bob and glide through the bay.  My eye catches a giant freighter plying the water beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, bound for Oakland with stacks of containers full of merchandise from China and the orient.  A jumbo jet above, slowly gains altitude, destination unknown.

Freighter bound for Port of Oakland

A fire truck’s sirens and horns pierce the quiet morning and a busy day in San Francisco begins.


A busy day in San Francisco



Sicilian Wheels

 

Sicilian Donkey Cart

Sicilian Wheels

travel memoir

by Greg Larson

 

“What is this?” I asked as we strolled through the hotel grounds near Mt. Etna in Sicily. A large wooden cart with detailed carvings lay under a shade tree along the path.

 

“It looks like some type of donkey cart,” said Gretta, my wife.

 

I gasped at the carved detail, the painted panels, and the deteriorating condition of the weathered cart. “Whatever it is, I can’t believe it’s exposed to the weather.  This should be in a museum.  It’s so old, and the detail is unbelievable!” I exclaimed.

 

“Look at the carvings and hand-painted pictures,” said Gretta.

 

Intricate carvings and paintings

“Was this built for kings and queens?” I asked. “This looks like something you would see on Antiques Roadshow. I can’t imagine what it is worth. I pointed to the painted panels, “Look at the medieval battle scenes.”

 

The cart's resting place

 

Questions swelled inside of me.  What was the significance of the carved symbols and painted scenes? How many times had these wheels turned their circumference, making revolutions on the dusty Sicilian hillsides?  Why was the antique exposed to the harsh Sicilian climate? I touched the sun-bleached wooden frame which seemed like the relic bones of someone’s livelihood, and stared at the patina of the fading paint.

 

Gretta and I discovered the donkey cart while strolling along the paths through the green shady grounds of Villa Paradiso dell’Etna which is located at the base of Mt. Etna in northeast Sicily. A paradise it was to us, after spending several days in June of 2012 on a bike tour, experiencing the hot sun and the twisting, turning roads that rose and fell over the hills of eastern Sicily.  The three-acre walled estate was built as a resort in the late 1920s as a spot for tourists and artists to view Etna and experience the cool breezes at the base of the volcano.

 

Entry to Villa Paradiso dell'Etna

Front steps

The cart continued to reveal intricate details of carved spokes on the wheels, and multiple painted panels and carvings on the box and side panels.  Some strange metal ornamentation had been welded to the axle frame.  Although mostly hidden from view, the metal trinkets on curved tracery gave an artistic flourish to the undercarriage.



Metal trinkets near the axle

 

We asked our tour guide about the cart, and he explained they were used by everyday merchants for transporting goods throughout Sicily.  They have become an enduring symbol of the region, a slice of history about the hard-scrabble lives of the Sicilians.  The decaying cart is akin to the rusted model-T pick-up trucks which rest beneath elm trees in rural America.  Some of the carts have been saved in museums or used only in pageants or parades, but thousands have been left as outdoor relics to remind the Sicilians of their pride of ownership and their ability to overcome daily hardships. 

Antique details exposed to the weather

 

Cart-making and painting has quickly become a lost art, but when carts were the mode of transportation, the cart-makers flourished.  Carts of varying quality were available for centuries to carry the goods of Sicilian society, such as grain, wine, lumber, and fish.  A cart owner’s social status was quickly determined by a glance at the detail on their cart, just as we look at the differences in American cars today.  Cadillac or Chevy?  Ford or Chrysler? 

 

Today, only a handful of people continue the trade of cart making and cart painting.  In the book, Seeking Sicily, one of the last cart painters, Franco Bertolino, bemoans the fact that when he quits painting as his grandfather taught him, the art will be lost.  He said that some fine-art graduates have begun to do some cart painting, but the style and colors are not the same as those created by the old tradesmen.  



Details of a lost art

 

I'm back at home, sipping American coffee and reviewing the photographs of the cart.  I see a poignant symbol on the grounds of Villa Paradiso, where countless Sicilian wedding receptions have taken place.  It is a reminder of the island’s history to the new couples, a symbol which shows the strength and pride of the Sicilians as they went about their daily lives.

 

A man, a donkey, and a cart . . . all that was needed to conduct business on the Mediterranean Isle.