Table Mountain – A Wonder of the Natural World

Table Mountain

This writer is ecstatically proud to have but an infinitesimal connection to one of the provisional New Seven Wonders of the Natural World: Table Mountain, Cape Town’s magnificent proscenium. I was born on the Oranjezicht slopes of Mother Mountain at the Booth Memorial Hospital, before suburbia crept up the cypress-shaded hillsides.

Table Mountain was voted a first-count provisional winner as New 7 Wonder of the Natural World on 11.11.11, by way of a global phone/SMS campaign. Results will be verified by New 7 Wonders in early 2012. The finalists are: Amazon River, South America; Halong Bay, Vietnam; Iguaza Falls, Argentina; Jeju Island, Korea; Komodo, Indonesia; Puerto Prince Underground River, Philippines; and Table Mountain, Cape Town, South Africa.

The majestic mountain, a true world wonder, is Pre-Cambrian period sandstone, with a 300 million-year genesis—a plateau that evolved over six million years of erosion. Table Mountain, the crown in the range, extends to the jagged Twelve Apostles on the back table; the Peninsula’s spine to Cape Point. Two-mile wide Table Mountain proper is flanked by Devil’s Peak to the east, and on the western flank, Lion’s Head outcrop on Signal Hill. Cape Town, framed by a mountainous crescent, is one of the world’s most picturesque cities near Africa’s southern point, and the only terrestrial feature lending its name to a celestial constellation; Mensa, a galaxy seen only in Southern Hemisphere skies.

Table Mountain, where Cape Town now stands, was first sighted during the Age of Discovery by Portuguese explorer, Bartolomeu Dias in 1488, naming the stormy bay Cabo das Tormentas—Cape of Storms. Portugal’s Henry the Navigator funded expeditions along Africa’s coastline, but Dias was first to sail around the Cape opening Trade Routes. When passage to India was determined, King John III of Portugal renamed it Cabo de Boa Esperanca—Cape of Good Hope.

Table-Mountain

Reaching India was a 15th century quest; Columbus negotiated an Atlantic trade route for Spain, but foundering in doldrums; he found Caribbean shores instead. Dias had already beaten Columbus by four years, forging an alternative route to India, passing Table Mountain, and in 1498, explorer Vasco da Gama secured the trade route for Portugal. Navigators were unable to make landfall on treacherous rocky shores, becoming more mesmerized by the beckoning mountain. The windswept bay teamed with caravels; and many vessels crumbled on rocks, or were swallowed by roiling seas into a graveyard of sunken ships.

Table-Mountain
Antonio Saldanha reached shore — the first recorded European to climb Table Mountain in 1503 — lending his name to Saldanha Bay. One can only imagine the exuberance of the Portuguese mariner, having forged an untrammeled path to the top of the world, at the bottom of Africa.
For Capetonians, imbued with their homeplace history; there is no greater sunset on earth than the golden sun dipping into the curving horizon of twin seas. From vista points discerning sea colors emerge; where warm Atlantic Benguela and Indian Agulhas currents conjoin at Cape Agulhas, Africa’s most southern point.

Table-MountainCAPE COLONY

In 1652 the Dutch arrived at Africa’s Gateway, establishing a half-way supply station for Dutch East India Company’s ships sailing to Batavia for silks and spices. Table Mountain’s fertile slopes played an important role for pioneering Colonists when Jan Van Riebeeck established vegetable and fruit gardens on sunny gradients, planting citrus trees on the lap of the mountain stretching to Platteklip Gorge, and naming it Oranjezicht—view of the oranges.

Capetonians speak of their legend-rich mountain with affection—the Mother City’s anchor of storied energy. The 3,563 foot plateau connects to Devil’s Peak where hovering mists are attributed to Van Hunks, a pipe-smoking pirate and the devil. There are ghost stories too. Wandering souls, who once lived on the slopes, still haunt the mountain—the grey lady of Bree Street and spirits from the Castle. And there is the legend of the Verlaten Bosch ghost, Bush of the Forsaken. A man, said to have died of leprosy for playing a flute once owned by a mountain leper, still plays around silver leaf bushes late at night—whistling like the wind.

The Table Mountain range embraces Cape Town; cradling the natural amphitheatre in her rocky arms with breathtaking magnetic energy, as when the clouds come. Cooling sea winds propel a phenomenon of white billows, cascading along the spine from the back table, flowing misty fingers seeking gorge crevices, enveloping Mother Mountain with seemingly unreal orographic clouds—a tablecloth of white waves—a subliminal message that Mother Mountain lives.

Capetonians still halt to observe nature’s phenomenal display of a creeping cloud formation over the table. They stop to witness again what they have seen a thousand times—awestruck by their beloved mountain, alive with its own kinetic energy as the monolith vanishes from view.

Rock alpinists and hikers on trailhead treks, with short warning, can become disoriented; lose footing when the sudden mountain mist rolls over. Even on a summer’s day, it turns cold—seasonal gale force winds gust from the sea. People fraught with sudden peril, can fall from vertiginous cliffs. Spectacular Table Mountain radiates her mysterious energy; sometimes turning treacherous.

TABLE MOUNTAIN NATIONAL PARK
Table Mountain National Park, a protected World Heritage site, and Wonder of the Natural World, is literally within walking distance of upper Cape Town. The flora-rich mountain hosts a bio-diversity of over 2,200 indigenous fynbos plant specimens, more than all the United Kingdom combined. The indigenous silver tree, suikerbossie proteas, and other plants that thrive naturally in the Afromontane forest are protected; non-native trees are felled, allowing only intrinsic species vital to the ecosystem. Conservationists eradicate non-native flora and fauna, such as fast-breeding Himalayan tahr goats that escaped from a zoo, causing mutualistic imbalances. Fire-fueling eucalyptus, cypress and oaks, grown for wine industry casks, are felled to host a more mutualistic environment for snakes, tortoises, porcupines, mongoose, baboons, lizards, frogs and hyrax dassies. Gone to extinction, or Karoo plains are; the leopard, buffalo, quagga zebra and black-maned Cape lions, and the aboriginal Khoikhoi pastoralists who once lived on the mountain.

Table Mountain attracts millions of hikers and gondola riders; the 84-year cable system recorded its 20-millionth visitor last year. Once at the summit, there is no more spectacular panoramic view than bustling Cape Town and shoreline suburbs, where seas meet land—still a vital trading gateway to the world.

And on auspicious occasions, like seasonal festivals and Christmas Night, the mountain is illuminated—floodlights sending beams to her rocky bosom—Mother Mountain; Nature’s Own World Wonder.

MY YEARS ON MOTHER MOUNTAIN
Fires are the mountain’s greatest enemy; hillside dwellers are evacuated, homes gutted, people trapped by fast-moving infernos, fanned by 60-mph southeaster winds, hungrily consuming vegetation—scorchingly spectacular, stirring our secret pyro-maniacal tendencies.

I am deeply connected to Table Mountain; I was born and bred on her lower slopes. My childhood years were spent as student boarder at a sandstone Catholic convent on Devil’s Peak nestled in the mountain’s evening shadows. I had a constant front row view of her magnificence, and still devotedly cherish My Mountain; voted a Natural World Wonder. Fancy that!

The mountain caught fire one night, we girls were enthralled by the awesome danger so close to us; watching flames silhouette burning trees from high windows, the firestorm licking cypress-covered slopes, consuming everything like a fiery hungry monster. High winds whistled through the building cracks, smoke filled the dormitories. The nuns told us to pray.

Evacuees arrived, telling how bad it was. The sandstone school became a crowded refuge for strangers; it was all very exciting and dramatic, mesmerized by the scorching mountain. High winds finally died, brigades put out the rogue fires, evacuees left and we schoolgirls talked about it for years to come.

The mountain constantly brandished her incredible splendor within arm’s reach; years in her evening shadows anchored me with a very powerful sense of place. From the playfield, I was starkly aware of her majestic presence–memorizing ridges, gorges, and iconic contours with my eyes, sketching her outline in my brain—now etched forever in my mind’s eye.

I finally hiked to the summit from Platteklip Gorge, trekking the path, anticipating the thrill; ready to purge acrophobic fears and complete my quest. Dare this writer attempt to describe the sensation of my first summit in words? It was awesome. Up to then, I had only seen the mountain from below, but I knew the legends, and when I stood on the vertiginous edge, my insides somersaulting; the ecstasy was beyond words—I had reached my own personal Everest.

I went to the plateau summit many times in my youth, by cable-car and foot, but the most poignant trip was on the rear Kasteelspoort trail. I trekked with my friend Midge (also born on the mountain), specifically to bid farewell to our beloved Cape Town. We had booked ship’s passage to England and were leaving the following Friday. My last journey before departure for Europe was emotional. Overlooking the most beautiful city, from the most magnificent mountain in the world, I was tearfully overwhelmed to bid Table Mountain goodbye.

As I embarked on a life of romantic wanderlust, I could only imagine what wonders lay ahead on my own horizon, bidding my mountain birthplace and family a bittersweet farewell, and that by year’s end, I would turn twenty-one on the other side of the world.

Table Mountain was my last vision as the ship sailed northwest from Cape Town Harbor; the sentinel fading, vanishing into mist, swallowed by distance—the tearful departure from my homeland serving as a metaphor for a new life.

Two decades later I returned to Cape Town’s Table Mountain; a quasi-pilgrimage lending renewed poignancy to my birthplace milieu, evoking daydreams of my youth. Today I celebrate Table Mountain’s magnificence with the world, the storied marvel of South Africa’s Mother City—Cape Town’s own wonder of the natural world.

Share

Historic Diablo Country Club – Century Old Gem of the Valley

The historic Diablo Country Club was established in May 1914. Part of a large land parcel purchased by developer Robert Noble Burgess in 1912, it was known as the Oakwood Park Stock Farm stretching over 6,000 acres from Green Valley Road to Mount Diablo’s peak. The grassy knolls and woodsy terrain was home to thoroughbred trotters, contentedly grazing alongside cattle herds in the shadow of Mount Diablo. A eucalyptus stand bordered the raceway and horse feed was sheltered in Swiss chalet barns in the shade of heritage oaks and rocky outcrops. Crops of hay, wheat, barley and alfalfa grew near the fruit orchards.

Burgess was a trailblazing entrepreneur who bought the land and developed the Diablo Country Club in 1914 to encourage investors to buy lots for summer homes. Despite the imminent possibility of the First World War on the horizon, the developer attracted wealthy buyers from The City by running four trains transporting the urban folk on the ‘millionaires special’ to the rocky hills to build country homes off the beaten path. The journey from San Francisco or Oakland to Diablo was truly an unbeaten path in the early 1900’s. Paved roads were sparse and automobiles few. Passengers traveled on the Oakland, Antioch and Eastern Electric Railway, to the pristine country that included Diablo, far from big city life and still years from the Great Depression that altered ostentatious luxury.

Tycoon William Randolph Hearst, whose printed words were peerless, compared the rugged wild magnificence of Mount Diablo to Yosemite; his newspapers focusing on Diablo Country Club’s sporty horsy set, Jazz-era dances and parties that he splashed across the society pages—dimmed only by movie stars’ antics at his own Hearst Castle. The Bay Area’s social upper crust flocked to be near their own kind.

They were not the first Big City seekers of peace who migrated to the serenity of Diablo’s undulating hills—green in winter, golden in summer—a palette of painterly perfection. In the late 1880s, Golden State captains of industry, the Southern Pacific Big Four; Charles Crocker, Leland Stanford, Collis Huntington and Mark Hopkins, ran the land parcel as the Railroad Ranch. They left their marks of luxury on the rolling hills, an imprimatur of pioneering prestige if you will, and other entrepreneurs followed.

Burgess carpeted advertising all over the Bay Area and people flocked to the raw beauty of the storied place. By building the Diablo Country Club; he knew they would come—600 potential buyers arrived in one day.

The 128 acre Diablo Country Club was a parcel cut from the original 6,000 acres. Club members enjoyed camaraderie—dining in the Red Horse Tavern with panoramic views, riding horses at gymkhanas, canoeing or swimming in the man-made lake, dancing at midnight parties, playing golf and attending harvest festivals—the club anchoring them to the pristine community, while lending a sense of belonging, a sense of place.

The serene hideaway mushroomed from a sleepy resort to year-round living for over 400 families who took ownership of the club in the 1920s. As the arrival of guests burgeoned, Burgess built the 28-room Chalet in 1922 to serve as an inn. The present clubhouse served as a gambling casino, movie theatre and billiard hall during the heyday of The Jazz Age.

All was well until the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, leading to World War Two. When supplies were restricted and food shortages trickled down to rich and poor alike—rationed gasoline hindered driving from San Francisco and neglected golf greens turned to seed. Diablo Country Club was put to wartime use for housing Naval Officers and military personnel stationed at Parks Air Force Base in Pleasanton, and 30 female telephone operators. The horsy history of the club slowed and the property gradually fell into disrepair.


Renaissance of Diablo Country Club

The legendary Diablo Country Club that today occupies 115 acres, part of the 6,000-acre Oakwood Park Farm, was previously on a land mass parcel that encompassed 50,000 acres from Diablo and Green Valley Roads to the mountain peak, clear across to where the Blackhawk Development is today. By 1948 Diablo Country Club, the spread of “God’s most beautiful acreage,” had seen better days and was in need of deep restoration. Investors put the club up for sale to a developer who planned to densely carpet the golf course greens with post-war $10,000 G.I. loan houses.

The clustered home-sites near-disaster was thwarted by one-time Vallejo naval ship builder, turned golf course architect, Larry Curtola, who bought the estate for $175,000 in April 1948, restoring grounds and refurbishing the buildings. Curtola built a sparkling new clubhouse with the stately columns reclaimed from the Pony Express barn on Mount Diablo, and added a ballroom spacious enough for big band dances.

The new upscale club instantly attracted dances, wedding parties and social functions—again taking its well-earned place, nestled among 400 private residences—as one of the most prestigious country clubs in Northern California.

Larry Curtola, one-time partner with Joe Alioto, gave new life to the club, growing the membership with social activities; the upgraded facilities becoming a viable and vital asset to Diablo’s community. Curtola’s success grew; designing the Auburn Country Club, and in 1952 purchasing Castlewood Country Club, later devastated by fire in 1969.

In 1961 the Diablo Country Club members purchased the facility from Larry Curtola for $445,000, and in 1988 invested $5.2 million to rebuild and renovate the existing structure.

Diablo Country Club offers many upscale amenities; seven tennis courts, of which five are lighted, a pro-shop and lounge, fitness centre, Olympic-sized pool, bocce ball courts and year-round recreational activities. The golf course has small but demanding greens; tough par 3’s and challenging bunkers—designed for walkers and carts. The PGA pro, Jason Walter, is dedicated to the needs of guests and members.

Diablo Country Club, set on a knoll above the greens, managed by a superbly professional staff, offers elegant facilities for weddings, social functions, business meetings and charity fundraiser events in several small rooms, the old-world charm bar or the spacious ballroom.

Historic Diablo Country Club, its white building shimmering in the light of uninterrupted panoramas, reminiscent of antebellum grandeur, nestles near majestic Mount Diablo. The celebrated club remains a favorite destination for great golfing, socializing and elegant functions, offering a unique banquet ambiance exuding a warm welcome and a long-standing heritage of excellence mirrored by a traditional sense of place and a century of stories.

For more information about the Diablo Country Club, go to www.diablocc.com, or visit the club at, 1700 Clubhouse Drive, Diablo, CA 94528. Phone: 925. 837.4221

 

Share

Ambassador With a Golden Voice

Many people work tirelessly to support their favorite charity causes, spending umpteen hours on the road, on the project, and on target to do what they have committed to do. Volunteers make an enormous difference to non-profit corporations, and are rewarded with unheralded glory and the quiet knowledge that we have helped those who really need our talents. From selfless hard work we derive personal satisfaction—a reward in knowing that someone somewhere is living a better life through our dedication to charity works.

The virtue of giving abounds; we never know when our talent may do the most good. Each charity forges ahead with such people as Danville’s own George Komsky who serves as ambassador for Police and Fire: The Fallen Heroes. His ambassadorship comes in the form of his splendid tenor voice. George makes himself available when a police officer or firefighter dies in the line of duty; he offers to sing pro bono at the funeral or memorial of fallen first responders to help heal the family through his music.

“I sang at the funeral of a Hawthorne Police Officer who died in the line of duty. There were thousands of mourners at the memorial service and I sang my heart out. I was really touched by the officer’s young family—a wife and two small sons. I hope my singing brought them just a small comfort— performing really touched my heart. I knew right then I wanted to offer my singing for families and friends at a time of need, just the beautiful music may touch them somehow. That was when I decided to sing pro-bono at funerals of those men and women who give so much for their communities, for their country…”

George maintains that by singing for charity events he is giving back to the community for all that America did for him and his family when they emigrated from the Ukraine. He wants to do the good things for others that were so generously done for his family when they arrived in California with limited funds after the disintegration of the USSR.

George Komsky has since achieved layers of success in the East Bay; the Monte Vista High School graduate excelled on the debate team, joined the choir, sang Verdi’s Requiem in St. Paul’s Basilica in Rome, was part of the Twelve Tenors national tour and the Irish Riverdance production, and a finalist on America’s Got Talent. He has produced and starred in several fundraising concerts all over California to packed houses.

His first Bay Area concert at Walnut Creek’s Lesher Center for Performing Arts sold out within days and his premier performance at San Francisco’s historic Herbst Theatre was SRO with people waiting in the lobby.

GHK Productions is presenting George Komsky Live in Concert revisiting the Herbst Theatre on November 19th donating a portion to Police and Fire: The Fallen Heroes. The concert will be honoring all the California Police and Fire personnel who lost their lives during 2011 in the line of duty.

The fall performance will feature opera arias, Neapolitan songs and pop opera music. Seth Riggs, a renowned Los Angeles voice coach who worked with Michael Jackson and Josh Grobin, commented that “George Komsky is the next Andrea Bocelli” as he flawlessly crosses over from classical opera to pop opera.

Performance: Saturday, November 19th Ticket info: www.cityboxoffice.com/eventperformances or call 415.392.4400.

Share

FDNY Eye Witness of 9/11

Twin Towers Down in New York

When it was learned that New York City First Responders were not invited to the 10th Anniversary Memorial Ceremonies at the World Trade Center, many people were surprised. Their exclusion opened old wounds for those Ground Zero rescuers—the forgotten witnesses.

One such firefighter was Sean Francis Hickey, one of the first on the scene. Hickey, a retired FDNY Ladder 144 Firefighter, now lives in California. In a recent exclusive interview, Hickey recalled his personal experience with the event that would forever change our world.

“I awoke on my first day of vacation in Bayside, New York City and took an early morning stretch. I said, ‘What a beautiful day.’ My brother Bert called and told me we were attacked. Attacked! I turned on the TV and saw the smoldering building—the first one hit. I said, ‘goodbye,’ and ‘I love you.’ to my wife and children, but when I said goodbye to my firefighter brother, it was another thing altogether. I knew it could be the last day for both of us. My brother was trained in terrorism fire tactics. He knew the possibility of biological and chemical devices, and knew there could be much more than just fires. I rushed to my fire house in Queens, and was told to drive to Shea Stadium to be bused to the World Trade Center. I was in a bus with eight guys with a police escort to 11th Avenue, ten to twelve blocks to Westside Highway.”

Hickey then turned the inside of his left arm, showing how he identified himself in case of the worst. “I took some photos of the guys on the bus, and then with a marker pen, wrote my name ‘Hickey’ on my arm. When the lieutenant heard the guys laughing, he told them to do the same. We all knew we may die that day.”

When Hickey’s group arrived at the World Financial Center, they entered the WFC3 to get to the Command Center where Chief of Department Commissioner William Feehan had set up under the catwalk between the Twin Towers on Westside Highway. “By the time we started the search both buildings were down. Street sidewalks were makeshift morgues,” said Hickey. Their mission was to find Feehan. Sean Hickey knew the 71-year old Chief—he was a neighbor and had been with the department over forty years. When they entered the building, Chief Tori told Hickey to stay within shouting distance because they knew the city-issued handy-talkie radios did not work at close range.

The group of nine firefighters, on a mission to find Feehan, passed through steel doors and descended four stories down the stairs to the garage, feeling for each step in the pitch dark. Water from broken sprinkler systems and main pipes was flooding the basement. There was a real fear that the water could be electrically charged from exposed wires. The firemen had no respirators or radios, but were protected in knee-high rubber boots. In higher water they could be electrocuted. Hickey, thinking the water was only ankle-deep, stepped off the five-foot high loading dock into waist-high water. Fortunately, the water was not electrically charged. Others followed.

As they waded through the pitch-dark garage, Hickey discovered the bodies of fallen comrades—dead firefighters. “I stood there, just me and God,” Hickey remembered. The other firefighters followed Hickey’s flashlight and waded towards him. They climbed over piles of smoking twisted metal and debris, once a towering building. “Sean, we were the first ones out,” a firefighter friend, Mark Klinger, later told him.
Hickey knew so many others who perished that awful day. “Father Mychal Judge was among the first to die, one of the first brought out—the chaplain was my friend. Chiefs Bill Feehan and Peter Ganci had also died when the 110-story South Tower fell.”


“A HERO IS A SANDWICH”
Some historical accounts have been sanitized, stressing healing, hope and forgiveness. Journalists were given tips on “9-11 Healing and Remembrance Programs,” being told to mitigate eye-witness accounts; to not state the number of dead, thus whitewashing much of the truth by avoiding graphic images.

Sean Hickey showed me Ground Zero photos. They are not “media” images, but what was seen through the eyes of a firefighter who was there. “The other firefighters who had beaten us to the Twin Towers were already dead; our group in the garage miraculously survived. We got out of the building and climbed over the hot smoking rubble, thirty feet high, strewn with the dead, pieces of people. Nothing was recognizable. It was a field of grey dust, ash and smoldering debris—surreal, like being on the moon. I was overwhelmed. I got on my knees and prayed for all those who had died.”

For the rest of the day, seventeen straight hours, the only people Sean and his team found were dead firemen—many crushed under the rigs they drove when the towers came down. The rescue team found no one to rescue. They carried buckets roaming over the site, finding dismembered body parts. Hickey was close friends with twenty-seven firefighter brothers who died that day. They were friends from Queens and The Bronx—none of them were ever found.
He and his rescue team came upon Fire Department bunker gear under a crushed truck telling him it belonged to a Fire Captain. He decided not to read the name on the captain’s bunker coat when he saw the man’s condition. He did not want to know the name of the broken man that will haunt his memory. Hickey pulled the body from under the heavy steel beams and with the help of other rescuers, passed the captain’s body from one to another, as respectfully as they could under the circumstances, to carry the body out of the area. One rescuer became physically sick—the only normalcy of the day. Every firefighter brother carried from Ground Zero adds to the loss, pain and collective memory of endless, exhausting hours.

Even though the nerve jacket was torn from Hickey’s shoulder, he slammed the bone back into place and continued the rescue—spurred on by pure adrenalin. The firefighters breathed in the towers’ toxic fumes, dust and residue of airborne poisons. As they breathed in the noxious mixture, their throats and lungs burned and their dry mouths became filled with grey, flying ash.

When the firefighter rescuers finally got to drink water, all the poisons were swallowed. “It was impossible not to inhale the debris with every breath,” explained Hickey, “everything I saw was coated with layers of fine dust which was all that was left of the towers and everything in it; pulverized remains of buildings, furniture…people. The dust was so thick, we could not see very well and had to pick our way blindly through everything to search for survivors.”
Through the eeriness of a grey field of death, a surreal vision interrupted Hickey as he searched the rubble. “The only contact with a living civilian that day was a Middle Eastern shopkeeper, dressed in typical robe and head garb; he was crying and carrying water to survivors—there were none…”
I told Sean Hickey that he is a hero, to which he laughed and replied, “A hero is a sandwich,” as he broke the somberness of the moment with typical Irish humor.

AFTERMATH

Sean Hickey was forced into early retirement. Today, at only fifty, he is divorced and disabled. His right arm jerked from the shoulder socket at Ground Zero is atrophying; diagnosed as Complex Regional Pain Syndrome and the spine casing is stripped. His lungs have multiple tumors; tissue samples show deposits of carcinogens—benzene, glass, fiberglass, lead, insulation, Freon, asbestos and human remains. Doctors have said many First Responders have “lungs like fish tanks,” lined with glass. Hickey said that a high percentage of the 9/11 responders are divorced. Large numbers have either committed or attempted suicide. Many, given legal drugs, are now hooked. Hickey recounted how life became so difficult, that at one point he tried to end his life. My heart broke that a vital young man would have to endure so much. And there are many more Sean Hickey backstories; hopefully they end as well.


When he received the “settlement,” being a stubborn, Bronx-born proud Irishman and not wanting to profit from 9/11, Hickey paid all his family’s bills, paid off his children’s college tuition and gave a brand-new Lexus to a young stranger who lost his legs in a roadside bomb blast in Iraq.

Sean Hickey has designed his own therapy program; he builds shadowboxes—each one a unique work of art using bits of steel and found objects from the North Tower, things significant from that long day in the pit. He welds firefighter figures, like old-fashioned toy soldiers, and places them in the framed diorama, as if telling a story on a small stage. “I put my emotions into my art. Art is my therapy. I never sell my shadowbox creations, I donate them. Four of my art pieces are exhibited at FDNY HQ at 9 Metrotech in Brooklyn. One contains the medal I received from New York City for being one of the first rescuers at the scene. Each art piece I create peels away another layer of grief—I have many more to make…”

Sean Hickey, badge number 2886, FDNY, does not sign his works of art, per se. He places a thumbprint of blood somewhere in the shadow-box; his signature to be inside forever. It is Hickey’s reminder that he collected the DNA of so many people at Ground Zero. It was all he could collect. There was nothing else left.

Share

Seventy Years Ago – When Planes Flew into the Rising Sun

On December 7, seventy years ago, at 0600 hours on a Sunday morning, the first wave of 40 Japanese Nakajima B5NZ torpedo bombers, 51 Aichi D3A1 dive bombers and 92 high altitude bombers flew into the rising sun, their wings blazing iconic red suns. They droned over the Pacific Ocean towards Hawaii to bomb the U.S. Navy’s fleet of the mightiest warships on ‘Battleship Row’. At 0753 hours came the second offensive wave; 170 aircraft, mostly torpedo bombers, attacked the anchored ships. Among the nine destroyed battleships was the USS Arizona, pierced by bombs in the forward ammunitions compartment, blowing apart the ship within seconds, on fire, burning, sinking to the bottom, entombing 1,117 men.

In all, nine battleships were destroyed; however, aircraft carriers were miraculously unscathed. Twenty four Japanese pilots were assigned to target battleships along Ford Island on the eastern side of Pearl Harbor—twenty one struck intended targets, strafers and dive bombers eliminating 423 U.S. combat planes on Kaneohe, Ewa and Hickam airfields. Five attackers diverted to the flagship California moored in the F-3 slot along Ford Island’s eastern side and nine struck the Maryland and Oklahoma in outboard positions near the Tennessee and West Virginia. Astern of the Tennessee lay the Arizona; the repair ship Vestal alongside and last in line was the Nevada at F-8. The moored ships clustered in Pearl Harbor almost equaled the entire Japanese fleet, and their decimation was the sole mission of Japanese attackers.

The Pennsylvania was dry docked in the Naval Yard, the mighty Enterprise was en route from Wake Island, the Lexington was ferrying aircraft to the Saratoga, and the Colorado was stateside for repairs; those ships were spared the Pearl Harbor attack.

“Air raid…Pearl Harbor…this is no drill!”—alarms blared as planes strafed dependents housing area and blew up trucks to hinder evacuations. The strategic Kaneohe Bay Naval Air Station was hit twice—Lt. John Finn firing at low flying planes, and dying from shrapnel, protecting the fuel farm at the navy yard. A gunner reported making eye contact with a pilot, dodging tracer bullets as low flying strafers bombed munitions magazines.

The surgical aerial attacks sent five burning battleships beneath the waves—entombing dying men and heavily damaging the rest of the fleet trapped by flames and black smoke— burning fuel and floating fires billowing to the skies. On that fateful December morn, the ‘day of infamy’ 3,500 Americans died; a brutally poignant harbinger of what was yet to come, foreshadowing that the dawn surprise attack was just the beginning of a long-grinding war machine.

The Japanese Empire attacked the sovereign shores of Hawaii and the United States Naval fleet to prevent interference in their plans for expansionist conquest. They had succeeded in killing and maiming thousands of Americans, decimating the United States fleet and combat planes, but they were not prepared for America’s resolute determination to win; the power of patriotic cohesiveness and the iron will to deter the enemy—and then the ultimate act that was to end the war in the Pacific in 1945.

The Japanese were already expansionist aggressors in search of raw materials and oil, the reason they occupied China in mid-1937—the siege of Nanking, the harshest of the occupation. To replenish their fast-dwindling resources, they desperately schemed to seize the mineral-rich East Indies and Southeast Asia leading to island-hopping battles in the Pacific Rim. Trade was halted with Japan in mid-1941 and by November the U.S. anticipated a Japanese attack on the Philippines, Indies and Malaya. The United States, neutral until that point, did not consider that such surprise attacks could succeed on Hawaiian Island bases—the naval solar plexus of the body America—the dominant battleship fleet in Pearl Harbor. America entered the war.

The fateful raid on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese Empire, was one of the great defining moments in history, the catalyst that sparked the United States to enter World War Two—the conflict with Japan and Germany that ultimately lead to over fifty million deaths,  civilian and military, in the Pacific and European theatres of battle. The empirical Japanese had succeeded in decimating the naval fleet, but they could not have foreseen how the American Navy, Army and Army-Air Force could forge such fierce battles, and with an unfaltering stalwart determination to win, finally terminate the interminable war with the ultimate, ostensibly essential act in August 1945. The B29 Enola Gay flew on a momentous mission over Nagasaki and Hiroshima, that not only ended the war, but set the world on a proliferate course of no return.

DANVILLE MAN TELLS OF PEARL HARBOR

Herb Jorgenson was a 3rd class petty officer on the U.S. Honolulu in December 1941. He had gathered confidential intelligence reports to burn in the incinerator and left his ship. When he heard the planes, he rushed back to his ship and then came the bombs. Today, 92-year-old Herb Jorgenson tells of his experience as an eye witness to the Pearl Harbor bombing with detail, recalling each moment of that fateful morning and his years in the U.S. Navy.

The sounds and smell of burning fuel, the flames and the smoke are still poignant memories. “The Honolulu was hit, I survived.  For two weeks we went out in small craft and picked the floating dead from the sea, it went on for days…the admiral could not get our ship under way…”

Herb was shipped to Melbourne, Australia in the 7th Pacific Fleet, and was part of the U.S. Missouri taskforce that pushed to the Philippines. “After the war in the 1950s, I was stationed at the Yokosuka Navy Base of the 7th Fleet with my wife and two sons. We went to school and learned Japanese. I remember a lot but my sons have forgotten it all,” Herb chuckled, as he spoke Japanese to prove his point. He explained his mission as staff at the strategic Yokosuka port, spider-webbed with tunnels, bombed in 1942 by the Doolittle raiders, and years later the American naval base during the Korean and Viet Nam conflicts.

I made a point to thank the affable nonagenarian Herb Jorgenson for his service to his country.  Herb still has the enthusiasm and energy of a perennial navy man; he volunteers at the Blackhawk Museum as an archivist of automobile literature—Herb knows all about ships and cars—just ask him. He is at the museum most days when the doors open.

GROUND ZERO—HIROSHIMA

In the early morning hours airplane engines droned above the clouds. There was a loud noise, fire, then concussion waves of boiling debris. A cloud of dust, as if erupted from a violent volcano, reached to the sky—a stem of debris that billowed up to the shape of an umbrella—a canopy that hovered over the port of Hiroshima and forever becoming the iconic symbol of atomic destruction. The delivery of the atomic bomb was the eleventh-hour act that ended the war with Japan.

Takashi ‘Tommy’ Tanemori was eight years old on August 6, 1945, when he saw the white bright light flash, and then felt the heat burn his skin. The boy was within a mile of ground zero when planes flew over Hiroshima, air raid sirens blaring, and loudspeakers announcing an attack—too late to get to underground shelters, the bomb fell, a crater tore up the ground, bodies flew in the air, others caught fire, screaming, then silence. It was just after 8 o’clock in the morning, the day that the world woke up to new weapons of war—weapons of mass destruction.

The Enola Gay and two other B29 bomber aircrafts, carrying heretofore unknown destructive payloads were vehicles of last resort, the single most-desperate act to end the war with the Japanese Empire. An atomic bomb was dropped on the Hiroshima naval shipyards, a city of 500,000 citizens and 40,000 military personnel and then later Nagasaki. Japan was aware of the possibility of an invasion and civilians routinely rehearsed drills to practice the killing of Americans. They were also forced never to surrender and live by their code of honor yamato damashi—to die before capitulating. On August 15, 1945, nine days after the bomb drops, Emperor Hirohito announced on the radio that Japan had capitulated; surrender was the only option—the nation relinquished yamato damashi.

Tommy Tanemori, now blind, lives in Lafayette, and a book of his life story tells of his experience when the bomb fell on Hiroshima and his life in Japan and America. The story of Tanemori was brought to life by John Crump, the senior editor of Hiroshima: Bridge to Forgiveness spending two years weaving the story, weaving Tommy’s raw words of narration into a concise tapestry of extraordinary events. Tommy Tanemori, raised under the Seven Codes of the Samurai, was orphaned, oyanashigo, his family dying from radiation exposure and the yurei survivors—living ghosts wandering in Hiroshima. His sisters had survived in Yoshida; the Imperial Military Power of Hiroshima had announced that all third grade students must be evacuated to preserve the seeds of future generations.

Tanemori, at eighteen said sayonara to Hiroshima and immigrated to America in 1956. Years later he wrote of the ashes of the Hiroshima horror, and being a subject of a radiation study in California. He felt resentment and revenge at the loss of his family and found solace in putting his thoughts to paper. Today Tommy tends to his garden and teaches his family peace and harmony and the ancient ways of the Samurai.

John Crump who masterfully edited the 507-page book is a journalism and history major, a former television host and producer of the Silicon Valley Report on KTEH who was responsible for the weekly news and analysis of Silicon Valley events and other technology regions. In the 1980s John Crump was a KNTV news reporter and presently teaches at the Tech Academy of Silicon Valley.

To obtain a copy of Hiroshima: Bridge to Forgiveness by Takashi Thomas Tanemori and John Crump, go to; jcrumptvp@earthlink.net.

 

Share

The Colombo Club and Italian Oakland

ALIVE Colombo Club

Women workers at the Rossi Cigar Factory in west Oakland in the 1930s.

The long-awaited book Images of America: Italian Oakland, by now-retired award-winning Oakland Tribune reporter and columnist Rick Malaspina, portrays East Bay Italians through some 200 vintage photographs, interviews and commentary. Rick emailed me that his book, with the assistance of actual family remembrances and photographs, was his parting gift to the Italian community before relocating to South Carolina.

I researched the history of the East Bay Italian community, asked a lot of questions and interviewed some Colombo Club members who enlightened me how their social club fits into the cultural paradigm of Oakland, specifically those who hailed from Italy’s north-western region.

Immigrant Italians, mostly from Piedmonte and Liguria, who had settled in San Francisco’s Little Italy in the 19th century, became dislocated when the 1906 earthquake toppled The City from its foundations and entire neighborhoods were consumed by fires. They picked up their possessions and relocated across the bay to Oakland where they found ample masonry work and jobs in the rock quarries to rebuild not only San Francisco’s infrastructure, but also to gravel and macadamize miles of newly needed paved roads for the new horseless carriages—the automobile.

The rock and gravel quarries in the coastal range yielded greenish-grey sandstone and a near-basalt quartz diorite, used as aggregate which was shattered manually in mountain pits by 30 to 50 men at any given quarry during dig season. One of Oakland’s largest quarries once occupied the area where Rockridge Safeway and Shopping Centre now stands. Since the 1890s, Piedmont Hills quarries yielded about 20,000 cubic yards of aggregate a season, all shattered to pebbles by the powerful arms of about 35 men in the pit caves busting bedrock, pounding hand-forged iron plug drills, flat-wedge plugs and cape chisels weighing as much as four-and-a-half pounds apiece. There were occupational side effects unbeknownst at the time; men who literally moved mountains working the quarries were prone to lung ailments from inhaling lime dust, asbestos and other pulverized stone particles.

At those rock quarries the Piedmontese labored for meager wages; most being unmarried men who worked to save enough scudi to return to Italy, others toiled for fare money to bring their families to America—digging out the mountain, slogging in the quarry cave, nella cava—six days a week for less than $2.00 a day. After a week of hard work their Saturday nights were lonely—living in cheap overcrowded quarry-owned boarding houses they yearned for their families and talked of the Old Country. Maggiorino Lovisone, who lived across the street from the Bilge Quarry, offered the use of his basement for Piedmontese paesani to play cards, enjoy wine, traditional foods and commiserate in their native language and… voila, a social club was born! The quarry club fellowship initially had meetings in the basement which evolved to become the Oakland Colombo Club, founded in 1920 by 34 immigrant pioneers—among them Maggiorino Lovisone and Pietro Puppione.

When I asked the club’s past president, Rich Puppione, about his fondest memory he offered, “I was honored to have the opportunity to reside over the club’s 90th Anniversary Celebration—my grandfather Pietro was a charter member in 1920 and I pictured him and my grandmother Lucia with their amici celebrating the grand opening of the Colombo Club…”

Chuck Reyna kindly introduced me to his in-laws and I met with Elma Roggero Dickson and her husband Don; she told me her father was the club’s chef. “My father Marco Roggero was a charter member when he was chef at the Claremont Country Club—then he became the first main chef at the Colombo Club.” A vintage photo shows Marco Roggero happily preparing the meal for boxing legend Rocky Marciano’s visit in 1959.

Then John Penna told me about the day he met the undefeated heavy weight champ. “When I picked up Rocky Marciano at the airport I got a flat tire. Rocky sat there and watched me change the tire with his arms folded.” Penna laughed as he shared vintage photos of Rocky at the club.

The Colombo Club with a 950-men membership, plus the active women’s auxiliary, is presently the largest Italian social club in the United States whose enduring mission is to preserve Italian culture and Piedmontese traditions. The Piedmonte region, translated ‘foot of the mountain’, borders France to the west and Switzerland to the north. The capital, Torino, named Augusta Taurinorum during the Roman Empire, now thrives with manufacturing industries and is home to the Agnelli empire Fiat factories. Iverea is home to Olivetti, Alta produces Ferrerro chocolates and Monferrato is Italy’s premier wine district.

It was in 1920 when the founders bought a parcel of Oakland property at Broadway and 49th Street, within a sledgehammer’s throw of the quarry, and formed the Colombo Club. When membership expanded, they built their present building on Claremont Avenue in 1951. The club, presently under the presidency of Tony Tedeschi, not only promotes Italian-American culture, but also raises funds with the women’s auxiliary, for college scholarships for members’ children or grandchildren. The spacious banquet facility seats 565 diners and traditional Italian cuisine is prepared for weddings, social events, fund raising projects, family dinners and meetings.

A women’s auxiliary young member, Maria Falaschi 32, literally spent her childhood in the Colombo Club. “While in New York earning my MBA in Internet Marketing, I often reflected on growing up in the club and the invaluable influence so many successful individuals had on me, both in business and the Italian community…”

In addition to the club’s many social activities, Carlo Tamburrino, Laura Ruberto and Maria Grazia offer Bambini Ciao classes for children age two to eight on the first Saturday of each month where they play games, sing, do art projects and learn Italian. Carlo encourages parents and children to speak only Italian during the sessions thus promoting culture and keeping the Italian spirit alive.

The Isabella Room is the heart of the club’s historic archives, compiled by past president historian John Penna, highlighting the past with photographs of well-known visitors or images of ordinary people in daily lives capturing a certain nostalgia of Little Italy in the Temescal neighborhood. The New Americans proudly embraced their adopted country albeit still imbued with the spirit of their Italian homeland—the heritage that endures today.

“I organized the club’s history in the Isabella Room as a token of heartfelt appreciation and to recognize those who immigrated to America to provide better lives for their families…” Penna said proudly.

ALIVE Colombo Club

Early Italian immigrants were among the first to employ “multi-cultural” innovations as this 1920’s photo showing restaurant proprietor Carlo DiStefano (right) with his wife and sons, standing in front of his Italian “Tamale” restaurant on Eleventh Street in downtown Oakland.

The Colombo Club — Home Away from Home

The Colombo Club, a longtime hub for the mutual benefit of the Italian-American community, boasts a host of renowned visitors; athletes, civic leaders and politicians alike. Oakland was home to the Oaks, a baseball club managed by Casey Stengel who in 1948 took the team to the Pacific Coast League Championship. Many players, sons of Italian immigrants, stopped at the club to socialize and enjoy traditional Italian wine and food, fellowship and camaraderie. Among the athletes were Billy Martin, Ernie Lombardi of the Cincinnati Reds, Harry “Cookie” Lavagetto, Brooklyn Dodger’s third baseman, Dario Lodigiani of the Philadelphia Athletics and Martinez-born Joe DiMaggio, who signed with the New York Yankees in 1936, and was a one-time celebrity bartender at the club, rumored to shake up the best Martinis.

Boxing Hall of Famer, Rocky Marciano, was a guest in 1959. He retired in 1956 as the undefeated, Heavy Weight Champion of the World. He has a place of honor in the Isabella Room’s photo gallery that tells the club’s visual history, the essence of the past—rekindled by images of those who passed through the storied doors—the Italoamericani who impacted the culture and heritage of Italian communities.

ALIVE Colombo Club

Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, a celebrity bartender at the Columbo Club, shakes things up in this 1940’s photo.

ALIVE Colombo Club

This 1959 photo was taken at Oakland’s Columbo Club at gala dinner celebration held in honor of Italian American boxing champion Rocky Marciano (left). The champ was joined by the local Italian American hero from north Oakland, baseball great Cookie Lavagetto (right).

On my first visit to the Colombo Club, I was warmly welcomed by Ray and Pat Frantangelo. An instant home-away-from-home ambiance was twinned with genuine warmth. I was a guest of Tom Gallinatti, retired Battalion Chief of Oakland Fire Department and Fire Fighter Engineer Jennifer Schmidt, board members of the non-profit Police and Fire: The Fallen Heroes. After introductions, I was promptly spirited to the heart of the club—the bustling kitchen—where chefs were cooking for 500 diners on family night in the spacious banquet room and then I was given a tour of the storied Isabella Room. Yes, the Colombo Club truly lives up to its reputation as being a place of familial camaraderie and a home away from home.

ALIVE Colombo Club

The Italian heritage of the East Bay includes ALIVE’s publisher. Shown here is his maternal grandfather, Andrea Corso (second from right), grandmother, Eugenia Corso (third from right), uncle Stefano (boy, fourth from right), and uncle Angelo (young boy, sixth from right, at rear). Andrea, Eugenia and their sons emigrated from the town of Celle Ligure in Northern Italy in the 1920s. This photo was taken at the Corso farm in Lafayette, California, c1931.

Organizations such as the Colombo Club keep the flame of pioneering Italians alive, reminding us never to forget the courageous generations who immigrated to this once unknown land in search of better lives. The generation that is now gone once told us first-hand stories of their odysseys; enduring weeks in steerage with children, arriving at Ellis Island—Isola delle Lacrime, isle of tears—or journeying endless days by train in search of prosperity in California, some with but one suitcase, the clothes on their backs and a pocketful of dreams. With raw courage they ventured west, many laboring in back-breaking jobs for less than a buck a day—in agriculture in the Santa Clara Valley, fishing in Pittsburg and Monterey, the Napa Valley vineyards or the Oakland rock quarries. Some returned to their homeland but many remained forever.

The Great Italian Diaspora

Those who immigrated in the 19th and 20th centuries were not the first waves of intrepid Italians, besides of course, the Genovese, Christopher Columbus. Giovanni da Verrazzano was the first European to enter New York Bay in 1524. The first permanent resident was Pietro Cesare Alberti and the Venetian Tagliaferro family was the first to settle in Virginia. In the 16th century, Antonio Pigafetta from Vicenza circumnavigated the world with Magellan. Filippo Mazzei was Thomas Jefferson’s friend whose maxim was ‘all men are by nature free and independent’ and we all know that Amerigo Vespucci gave his name to the Americas five hundred years ago.

In 1823, an explorer Giacomo Beltrami from Ferrara discovered the mountain headwaters source of the Mississippi, in a location later to become Minnesota. Italian Jesuits and Franciscans founded the universities of San Francisco, Santa Clara and Gonzaga and the six Piccirilli brothers carved the Lincoln Memorial sculpture and Italians painted the Capitol murals. Italians served in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, fought in WWI and one million Italian-Americans served in WWII.

What were the catalysts to spark such massive migratory waves from Italy to America you ask? The first transatlantic wave started after Garibaldi’s 1861 Unification of Italy. The country’s once powerful City States became rapidly integrated causing a breakdown of agrarian societies; the Mezzogiorno region of Southern Italy and Sicily saw soil erosion, deforestation, a lack of coal and iron for industry and tenant farmers and landowners’ crop productions diminished by the emerging fierce competition from the industrial north. Birth rates rose, death rates fell—overpopulation meant fewer jobs and between 1876 and 1924 4.5 million migratory ‘birds of passage’, so-called by historians, emigrated to South and North America with the intent to work abroad and return home.

Natural disasters also played an important role in driving migration; when Vesuvius erupted in 1906 and Etna in 1910, the homeless fled, but the catalytic thrust for the mass exodus was the 1908 Messina 7.2 earthquake and forty-foot tidal waves in the Straights of Messina that destroyed Sicilian and Calabrian coastlines, killing 100,000 and leaving hundreds of thousands homeless and jobless. The devastated survivors looked to the western horizon and most sojourners stayed forever.

My children’s great-grandparents were part of that Italian diaspora—as intrepid ‘birds of passage’ they migrated to America—the land of golden opportunity. Now a century later we celebrate the pioneering spirits of Rocco Venezia from Montescalioso who journeyed from Basilicata in 1909 and Giuseppe Brocato from Cefalu, Sicily who stowed away in 1911—both men on the same daring quest; to work and earn passage for their families who were to ultimately reach California and achieve better lives in America. If those valiant exiles who arrived on these shores, from all over the world, could have telescoped into the future and witness what their descendants have achieved—they would be gratified in the realization that their sacrifices were not in vain.

Those Italians, who often sadly left their homeland, braved the cramped steerage quarters, often with just a pocketful of lire, were the same ones who built the soaring skyscrapers, subways, roads and bridges—they built American cities with the sweat of hard labor and a fierce determination to succeed. Statistics show that ninety percent of public works projects involved Italian labor—and many moved west, to already-established enclaves where religion, traditional foods, ideals, and family values gelled with their own. As early as mid-1800s, a thriving Italian community had already settled in San Francisco and by 1869 The City was celebrating Columbus Day with parades and festivities.

In 1908, two years after the earthquake and fire, the San Francisco Italian community was able to secure their savings and apply for loans through the concept of branch banking when A.P. Giannini founded the Bank of Italy—later to become Bank of America—thus spring-boarding Italian-Americans into business ventures all over northern California.

Many Italian-owned businesses later burgeoned to multi-million dollar industries. Such as the example of the resourceful Genovese folk from Genoa, who when they saw the need for trash pickup, bought wagons, horses and bins, then established neighborhood collection routes. To identify themselves as bona fide scavengers, the then-term for trash haulers, they painted their ‘honey-wagons’ blue and climbed the Oakland hills from sunup to sundown gathering refuse from backyards. There were ancillary recycling angles too, before such a word was invented; bottles were washed and sold to wineries, metal to scrapyards, rags to repair shops, newspapers to paper mills, and food scraps sold for compost or hog-feed at Italian-run pig farms. The refuse was sorted by hand, wearing no gloves or aprons, and the unusable surplus was dumped.

By 1920 the Genovese-Americans had organized co-operatives consolidating operations into one major Oakland Scavenger Company where men worked for a buck a day and two on Saturdays. In the 1980s, owing to labor disputes, many original share-holders sold to corporations thus disintegrating the long-held privately-owned enterprise. Now big blue trucks collect garbage, and high-tech efficient ‘honey-wagons’ are corporately camouflaged with new-fangled words; waste management, recyclers and ‘recologists’.

So how do we measure the cumulative impact of quintessential Italian historical culture on our own contemporary culture? We could look back in time two millennia when Julius Caesar and Mark Antony lead the expansionist Roman Empire, influencing twenty million people in the Mediterranean Rim. We could be awed by their still-standing lithic monuments in Italy, North Africa, Spain, England and Turkey. We could touch just the tip of the Italian cultural iceberg and identify centuries of influence; monumental sculptures or the enduring art of Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Botticelli and Caravaggio, the music of Rossini, Puccini, Vivaldi and the 20th century tenors Enrico Caruso, Franco Corelli and Luciano Pavarotti.

But wait, we must not be remiss in mentioning how Italians first impacted this great land when Columbus, a man from Genoa, financed by Queen Isabella, landed on San Salvador in 1492, followed by cartographer Amerigo Vespucci after whom the Americas are named. We may refer to the Renaissance Medici dynasty, the banking and infrastructure giants, or the explorer Marco Polo who traversed continents from Venice to China and altered siege warfare tactics with gunpowder, and Galileo whose scientific footprints forged more than just a cultural impact.

ALIVE Colombo Club

This photo is of the procession known as the Grand Entrance as Columbo Club officials and members enter their spacious, new club located on Claremont Avenue in Oakland in 1951.

And we celebrate contemporary Italian-American ‘cultural icons’; the two Franks, Capra and Sinatra, Fellini, De Sica, Pirelli, Enrico Fermi, Alberto Moravia, Joe DiMaggio, Henry Mancini, Vince Lombardi, Yogi Berra and Joe Montana or Andretti, Zamboni, Rudy Giuliani, Mario Cuomo and Leon Panetta.

Is it an odd observation on my part that the aforementioned Italians and Italian-Americans do not carry deserved cultural weight in the media or in films? Hollywood and the mass media insist on ignoring centuries of precise Italian culture by grossly perpetuating demeaning and inappropriate images of Italian-Americans as stereotypical swarthy mafia-types such as the defaming ‘Vinnie the Whacker’, and offensive typecasting of Al Capone, and fictional Vito Corleone or Tony Soprano personas—criminal thugs all.

A long-overdue recognition should be duly afforded Italian-Americans who have made this country great—recognized and celebrated by organizations like the Colombo Club who proudly strive to promote Italian philosophy by honoring those generations before us who tirelessly toiled to propel their quintessential cultural achievements to the forefront.

ALIVE Colombo ClubImages appearing with this article are provided courtesy of Rick Malaspina, author of Images of America: Italian Oakland, published by Arcadia Publishing. Images of America: Italian Oakland is available from the publisher online at www.arcadiapublishing.com or by calling 888-313-2665.

Share

Blackhawk Museum Guild Presents Second Annual Bargain Basement Sale

Blackhawk MuseumThe Blackhawk Museum Guild of Danville is sponsoring their Second Annual Bargain Basement Sale that begins with a first-choice buying opportunity at a wine tasting and hors d’oeuvres preview on Friday Night September 9, from 5 to 8 pm for a $20.00 per person donation. Admission to the weekend Bargain Basement Sale is free to the general public on Saturday September 10th and Sunday September 11th from 9 am to 5 pm.

Donated items from the East Bay community, including Danville and San Ramon, will be offered for sale at bargain prices. Items that were generously donated for last year’s blockbuster charity event raised funds for the Blackhawk Museum Children’s Education and Transportation Fund. Many objects that were purchased for extraordinary bargain prices at the last event included antiques, collectibles, oil, acrylic and watercolor paintings, a Remington equestrian bronze recast, sets of Lenox and Wedgwood dinnerware, sterling silver flatware, table linens, Royal Doulton and Lladro porcelain figurines, Baccarat and Waterford crystal, jewelry, watches, furs, vintage and designer clothing, kitchenware, toys, sporting goods, camera equipment and thousands of books. Furniture and electronics are not being accepted for donation.

To guarantee that the 2011 Blackhawk Bargain Basement Sale event will prove to be even more successful than last year, the public is invited to donate tax deductible items to the 501c (3) non-profit charity. Items suitable for the sale may be dropped off at the Blackhawk Museum from Wednesday to Sunday or call 925.736.2277 Ext. 651 for pick up or more event information. Blackhawk Museum, 3700 Blackhawk Plaza Circle, Danville, California.

Share

The Hart Kidnapping and Midnight Lynching

Hart Kidnapping

I knew Alex J. Hart; he was a customer in my Los Gatos antiques store and longtime friend of my late husband’s mother. Mr. Hart was the epitome of a gentleman, with elegance and class, Mr. Panache, I called him—and he always smiled his inimitable, shy smile. I recently learned that he died last August, just shy of 90. Alex Hart had achieved a sad kind of fame at thirteen—a fame that put his family on banner headlines of America’s front pages. He was the younger brother of Brooke Hart who was kidnapped and killed on November 9, 1933 for ransom; an angry crowd of San Jose townspeople, still raw after the Lindbergh baby kidnapping—publicly lynched the two captors.
The kidnappers had demanded $40,000 for his safe return, an enormous sum during the Great Depression, even after they had already murdered Brooke within an hour of the abduction. They had watched his movements for weeks and snatched him at the parking garage behind Hart’s Department Store, then drove him ten miles south to a rural road, switched cars and took him to the San Mateo Bridge.
In the days before San Jose’s urban sprawl and shopping malls, Hart’s Department store, at the corner of Market and Santa Clara Streets, was a retail giant where everyone shopped, where everyone knew and everyone loved the Hart family. The Hart kidnapping was to become a California landmark case; when an angry mob seeking vigilante justice took vigorous action and lynched the pair of kidnappers at midnight from trees, swinging side by side, in San Jose’s St. James Park on a chilly November Sunday in 1933.

I had wanted to write of the historic lynching for a long time. I had saved yellowed newspapers for years. I perused the 1933 time-yellowed crumbling papers: San Jose News blared a banner headline HART KIDNAPPED; San Francisco Chronicle KIDNAPPERS KILL HART—Crime Confessed by Pair, Youth Bound, Tossed in Bay; The San Francisco Examiner blasted the boldest—HART BODY FOUND, San Jose lynching threatened—November 27.

Upon reading the actual November 1933 newspaper reports, unfiltered and undiluted, and not tinged with modern-day moral relativity opinion—reported in a time when political correctness, neutral attitudes and the use of alleged did not exist, it is clear how the media inflamed the crowds to become so bloodthirsty, so desirous of justice—albeit devoid of even a constitutional right to a fair trial. The Examiner’s headline about a threatened lynching was taken as a serious suggestion. Revisionists would argue otherwise. Radio stations broadcast the kidnapping and the captors’ confessions, announcing that angry mobs were seeking justice at the Santa Clara County jail across from St James Park—promising “to be broadcast as a ‘live’ event.”
There was never good reason for such deplorable extrajudicial action, but it must be understood that in 1933 during the Great Depression, there was intense economic stress in a period of unrest and disillusionment; people had no jobs or money and people were hurting, hungry and angry. They vented their simmering fury to a boiling point, four years into the country’s worst depression—the lynching may be seen as a social catharsis of taking control, and taking justice into their own hands with electric mob action galvanizing their sense of immediacy, camaraderie and potency.

Alex Hart, Sr., Brooke’s father, was one of San Jose’s most beloved business owners, having founded and operated the landmark Hart’s Department Store in 1902. The first 1866 operation started as a dry goods store in the Valley of Heart’s Delight. The Hart family was involved in the San Jose community and had generously supported many causes, including the later donation of their historic family home on The Alameda at Naglee to the YMCA. The Harts were a respected and well-known family in the Jewish and Catholic community—Alex was Jewish, his wife Nettie was Catholic. The kidnappers could not have chosen a more beloved high-profile family to target, as the public lynching so dramatically had demonstrated by the citizens’ collective wrath.

Brooke Hart had graduated from Bellarmine College Preparatory and Santa Clara University—his parents supported school programs and knew everybody. Brooke’s stunning good looks, athletic build, blond wavy hair and blue eyes added to his dashing popularity and ‘the town’s most eligible bachelor’ attracted the valley girls. “They went to Harts just to look at him…” Marie Venezia, four years younger than him, told me many years ago. “Everyone loved him, everyone was shocked…everyone wanted to go to the park…”

After Brooke graduated from SCU, he was groomed to head the family business. His father Alex Sr. never drove an automobile so Brooke bought a 1933 Studebaker Roadster to drive his dad to and from work. It was the same green roadster he was retrieving from the parking garage when the kidnappers grabbed him. No one ever saw the twenty-two year old man alive again. A phone call that night to the family home confirmed that their son was kidnapped. “We have your son; we want $40,000 for his return, drive the money to Los Angeles and you will get him back.” Ransom notes had also been mailed from Sacramento and San Francisco to send the police off the track. One note demanded that the number 1 be placed in Hart’s store window if they agreed to pay for their son’s safe return. The kidnappers nonchalantly strolled by the store and saw the sign, believing the $40,000 ransom money would be paid (millions by today’s standards), and the men waited it out.

The San Jose News printed an overture from the family on the front page on 14th November, 5 days after the kidnapping: “To the kidnappers of Brooke L. Hart, we are anxious for the return of our son Brooke. We desire to negotiate for his return personally through any intermediary who may be selected. When contact is made we will want evidence to prove Brooke is held by you. All negotiations will be considered confidential and we will allow no interference from outside sources; signed Alex J. Hart, Nettie Hart.”

Guards were placed in front of the family home and telephones were tapped. When Thurmond made calls from a hotel and a pay phone in a parking garage, police nabbed him. He squealed and fingered Holmes as his accomplice.

The details of the abduction, as confessed by the pair were reported by newspapers spelling out the gruesome scenario; Thomas Harold Thurmond and John M. Holmes had driven with Brooke from the San Jose garage around six o’clock on the 9th of November to rural Evans Road 10 miles south—now Milpitas—Holmes in the Studebaker with Brooke and Thurmond following. Brooke was transferred to the rear seat of a ‘long-hooded sedan’. A woman had seen them; the green roadster was in front of her house, lights still on—that night her husband reported the incident; the police now had proof that Brooke Hart was abducted.

The confession to interrogators by Thurmond and Holmes explained that as Brooke Hart was exiting the garage, Holmes opened the passenger door poking his hand in his pocket as if he had a gun. Thurmond followed and they drove to Evans Road, switched cars and drove through Irvington to the San Mateo Bridge. They asked Brooke for his wallet and split the $7.25 take. The kidnappers were prepared; Holmes had already bought a brick, two 22-lb concrete blocks and 55 cents worth of bale wire from a San Jose cement company.

“We planned the kidnapping for six weeks,” Holmes confessed. The town was shocked that two cold-blooded killers lived among them; Holmes had attended Lowell High School and lived on Bird Avenue with his wife and two children; Thurmond was a Campbell High School drop-out.

The kidnappers confessed that they drove to the San Mateo Bridge, bound Brooke Hart’s hands with bale wire up to his shoulders and attached the two cement blocks to sink him. Holmes beat his head with the brick, Brooke screamed for help, he hit him again and grabbed his upper body, Thurmond held the knees and they placed him on the railing. “He was still struggling when we threw him off the bridge; it was low tide so we shot him.” The shell casing was found but no bullet actually penetrated Brooke’s body, police reported. Thurmond returned to San Francisco and called at 9.30, then again at 10:30 for the ransom. The plan was not going well, they had told Alex Hart to drive to Los Angeles with the money. Alex Hart could not drive.

The San Jose community went berserk when the news first broke about the kidnapping; one of their own beloved citizens had been taken for ransom and then when they heard about the murder, anger erupted. Everyone knew the family; they all shopped at the store, the Harts were part of their town and besides, people were still raw from the recent kidnapping and murder of the Lindbergh baby.

Radio news broadcast the plot, told of the death—stations in Los Angeles and San Francisco spurted retaliation and the media composed a mob. Reporters and camera operators flocked to the city of 60,000, newsreel cameras were set up in St James Park across from the Courthouse. It was to be a show of shows.

When the Hart family was informed on November 14th by the police about Brooke’s death, Mr. Hart collapsed to the floor—the family went into mourning. Guards were removed from The Alameda home. The City of San Jose went into shock.

Thurmond and Holmes signed confessions, each blaming the other, and were jailed in the Santa Clara County police station across from St James Park near the Courthouse on November the 14th. When angry crowds gathered in the park, the pair was to be sent to the San Francisco Potrero Hill police station. Searchers dragged the San Francisco Bay for the body, rewards were offered for his discovery. Then on November the 26th, seventeen days after the November 9th kidnapping, two Redwood City duck hunters found Brooke’s partially-dressed crab-eaten decomposing body south of the bridge. Radios blared that a lynching would take place in St James Park across from the Courthouse at 9:00 p.m. on that Sunday and would be broadcast ‘live’. Scores of reporters staked out positions, and by sundown over 5,000 people, including children, had gathered for the event.

The fury had been fueled all week when the Santa Clara County District Attorney advised that unless the confessions could be corroborated by independent evidence of the crime, the confessions were not admissible in a court of law, hinting the murderers may be innocent, hinting they may not get the death penalty. The Court required that the kidnappers be inspected by psychiatrists to possibly plead not guilty by reason of insanity. The crowds went berserk—they wanted blood. Sheriff William Erig requested that Governor Rolph deploy the National Guard to protect the prisoners. He refused. Agnew State Hospital sent their psychiatric experts to preclude the insanity defense and found the pair to be sane, able to stand trial. Holmes’ father paid San Francisco attorney Vincent Hallinan $10,000 to defend his son and he also asked the governor to send out the Guards. He refused again. “I will pardon the lynchers.” He said.

MIDNIGHT LYNCHING IN THE PARK

By the evening of Sunday the 27th November, the park crowd had swelled to an estimated 5,000; some reported 10,000. Over 3,000 cars, some with motors still running, jammed the surrounding streets. Near midnight the heated crowd was chanting “Lynch them, lynch the murderers…” The police fired tear gas into the crowd, thus inflaming their already boiling fury. People ran to the Post Office—now the San Museum of Art—to get materials for a battering ram. The police, unable to control the mob, sought safety in the higher floors; the prisoners were in cells below. The mob broke down the doors, stormed the jail, dragged the kidnappers to the park, strung them up—Holmes on the elm and Thurmond on the mulberry tree—and hanged them. Jackie Coogan, the precocious child star, Brooke’s school chum pulled one rope. The hanged men swung half naked from the trees, photographed by the press, their corpses taunted and sworn at—people jockeying for position to get a close view, onlookers wanting to be present at the midnight hanging, perceived as justice for the death of one of the city’s most beloved.

When I lived in San Jose, I saw photographs and had heard many firsthand accounts forty odd years after the lynching by those who were present in 1933, men who lived a generation or two before me—reminiscing in a matter-of-fact manner, as if it were a film on a screen, like an outdoor movie played in the dark park at a midnight show. “After midnight it was all over, and then everyone left and we walked home to Hobson Street…” For decades people boasted of their presence in the park that historic night—the night that vigilantes got justice, the night that people took collective control, the night that amplified their madness and put pre-hyper grown San Jose on the map of notoriety.

The newspapers blasted the story, doubling issues to 1.2 million. When images of the half-naked hanging men made the front pages, faces in the crowd were purposely smudged so as not to identify the perpetrators. There is no doubt that the lynching was a media-fueled event with inflammatory reporting, protecting those who murdered the kidnappers without a fair trial. I read the reports in the original 1933 editions, devoid of neutrality, devoid of unbiased opinion—it is clear that the lynching was not subtly orchestrated—it was blatant; yellow journalism at its best.

The elm and mulberry trees were later destroyed and removed by the City because souvenir hunters tore up the park ripping off branches, twigs and leaves and scraped bark from the infamous “gallows trees”. Seven lynchers were tried in court, but there were no convictions. The City could not afford to host another riot.

In tragic irony, 1934 was the first year that Nazis imprisoned Jews in concentration camps; Hitler used the images of the San Jose lynching in his despicable propaganda to show that ‘lawless mobs in California protected the Jews’. The ‘frontier justice’ lynching made international headlines and heated up telegraph wires. Lynching was not rare per se; public hangings victimized Blacks and Whites in the post-Civil War South, but there were near equal numbers of Whites lynched in New York, Pennsylvania and Colorado. In The West during the Gold Rush, White cattle rustlers and horse thieves were hanged as were Chinese in California and Mexicans in Texas— and in late 19th century New Orleans, 20 Italians were lynched.

Historians tell that lynchings happen mostly late at night and during colder winter months when crops are dormant, no agriculture revenue is coming in and money is scarce—in short, economic strife adds frustration and with no ethical qualms; mobs victimize the defenseless. Their awful unlawful actions may be defined by poverty, uncontrolled hate and volcanic anger as depicted in numerous films, including four about the San Jose incident; Fury, 1936; The Sound of Fury, 1950; Night Without Justice, 2004; Valley of Heart’s Delight, 2006.

Alex Hart, Brook’s younger brother, was 13 at the time of the kidnapping and was sent to San Rafael Military School and Santa Clara University, and then pursued a music career writing scores for Paramount Pictures. When his father died in 1943, Alex returned to head Hart’s Department store—switching from music composer to haberdasher. When I moved from Italy to San Jose, we shopped at Hart’s for shower gifts and children’s clothes and Alex often walked across the store just to say hello. We both supported St Elizabeth’s Day Home and he attended meetings. After Hart’s closed, Alex headed the I. Magnin fine jewelry department at Valley Fair where my mother-in-law, Marie worked in cosmetics. “The family sponsored San Jose’s first traffic light at Market and Santa Clara Streets, so customers could safely cross the street…” Marie told me.

It was the way things were in San Jose, nestled among blossoming orchards, The Valley of Heart’s Delight— before it burgeoned to The Valley of Silicon—times when people made phone calls, wrote letters, and chatted about family and unimportant things. Alex Hart was one of those Garden City people; always caring with elegant humility. Fame had come uninvited to the Hart family, and fame had come with great heartache—may I bid farewell to Mr. Panache, farewell to a forgotten era.

Share

ICE – One of Many Arms of Department of Homeland Security


When my editor and I first discussed an article on ICE—Department of Immigration and Customs Enforcement— I was not quite aware of the scope of all the government agencies that fall under the broad umbrella of the Department of Homeland Security, DHS, the all-encompassing agency that handles the myriad protective security issues concerning our United States.

I soon became acutely aware of protocol and the intricate breadth and depth of networks connected to Homeland Security (an inside tip set me on track) and hoping for a one-stop-shopping solid lead— the Office of Public Affairs, OPA, seemed a good place to start.
During my telephonic enquiry for the media kit and search for a personal interview with an agent—the OPA rep turned the tables by interrogating me; such as the intended focus of my Department of Homeland Security story. Feeling somewhat castigated for my journalistic boldness, I returned to internet surfing. In short, I am in awe of the myriad agencies that fall under Department of Homeland Security and the vigilance in securing our borders from daily dangers, including threats from hostile nations.

While researching, I discovered spin-off agencies that reach out from the DHS Mother Agency—founded and reconstructed after 9/11. Many arms such as ICE fall under DHS with sub-groups falling under ICE like tiers within tiers of agencies morphing into bureaus. For example: the legacy Immigration and Naturalization Services, INS, is now under the Department of Justice, DOJ; United States Border Patrol, USBP, is now under Customs and Border Protection CPB; the legacy Customs Service is now under the Department of Treasury, which is under DHS.

Homeland Security Investigations, HIS, which falls under ICE, as does the Enforcement and Removal Operations, ERO, which falls under DHS, as do the Customs Immigration Services, CIS; Federal Air Marshals, FAMS, as well as a host of others that fall under the ever-broadening umbrella of DHS. Are you still with me?

To add to the confusion; agencies that fall under ICE—consist of more work-related agencies such as ICE’s Mutual Agreement between Government and Employers, IMAGE, an outreach program for high risk industry and national employee concerns since the 9/11 Commission Report. Somehow, I had naïvely expected I could find all this explanatory rigmarole in a Media Kit, but now I understand the meaning of a focus story, which will be ICING.

ICE IN HOT PURSUIT
While reading the 2010-2011 ICE press releases, I was flabbergasted at the range of security breaches and criminal activities handled by ICE task forces within the DHS. The many agencies now sharing information; the Federal Bureau of Investigation, FBI, assists ICE with criminal investigations through vast banks of biometric systems IAFIS—integrated automated fingerprint identification system and since partaking in the programs, over 55,000 people were convicted as criminal aliens. The agencies are now “talking to one another” and have Facebook and Twitter accounts.
Department of Homeland Security

Crimes, other than immigration and customs, under ICE, involve murder, human trafficking and human rights violations, cultural patrimony property, weapons and drug dealing, smuggling, fraud, selling Department of Defense secrets, counterfeiting, intellectual and copyright properties, importing endangered animals, and agricultural infestations that could result in catastrophic crop destruction.
The most dangerous work done by ICE and CPB agents is the protection of our southern border. In the last five years, it is estimated that across the Texas-Mexico border 35,000 have died as a result of drug cartels. Recently two ICE agents were ambushed on the highway to Mexico City; one died and one was severely wounded in a rain of gunfire. Two missionaries were attacked; one died— a jet skiing couple was shot on a lake; only one survived. Two mass graves near the Texas-Mexico border were recently dug up; 145 corpses in one, 72 in another—many headless—the vengeful mark of narco-traffickers.
Monitoring global terrorism is an insurmountable job unto itself; every day reveals serious threats .Two brother ‘sleeper-agent moles’ working IT for British Airways, and having access to sensitive airline computers, were recently arrested for feeding information to an Al-Qaeda cleric in Yemen who targeted BA planes for ‘a spectacular attack’. The same cleric has targeted Wall Street executives and banks with anthrax attacks and warnings were recently posted. San Francisco Bart trains have CAPT, the Critical Asset Patrol Team that monitors the stations on a regular basis to deter potential threats.

PSST! — I CAN SELL YOU A WATCH, SNOW OR AN AIRPLANE!

One of the most blatantly brazen offences pertaining to national security involved the attempted selling of Department of Defense secrets and a fighter jet. A California man, investigated by Homeland Security Investigations, HIS, Defense Criminal Investigative Service, DCIS, Secret Service and ICE, was arrested last year for attempting to sell a Fighter Jet and sensitive Defense technology to a hostile nation through HIS UC, undercover agents.

Two recent ICE arrests involved international situations; a Bosnian ex-soldier returned to stand trial for violations against humanity and a UK national was apprehended for allegedly hijacking the identities of dormant publically traded companies, causing the trading of virtually worthless stock shares to British investors with boiler-room telemarketing. The London ICE Attaché worked with the Securities and Exchange Commission, SEC, and the defendant was arrested in Florida for $130 million mail fraud and money laundering.

Drug smuggling is a multi-billion dollar challenge, and besides coming through labyrinthine tunnels from Mexico to the U.S., Canadian crossings, and ships and planes—drug-runners are getting more innovative. They have tricked-out vehicles; double-paneled trucks, false seats and floors, tires and dashboards and drugs in gas tanks and exhaust pipes. The most ominously dangerous being female carriers like the woman arrested at Detroit Metro Airport carrying 91 heroin pellets inside her body. Recently a 5,000 lb. marijuana load came through hidden in tomatoes, and in Valencia 103 lbs. of cocaine was concealed in romaine lettuce on produce trucks to Canada, along with $2.4 million in cash. ICE in tandem with Customs and Border Protection, CPB, and Intellectual Property Rights, IPR confiscated $4.4 million worth of 22,000 cartons of counterfeit Marlboro cigarettes, $4.7 million worth of ride-toys and $1.8 million in vehicles at Port of Miami. The IPR Center manages domestic and international law to stem counterfeiting threats and supports the ICE commercial fraud program, protects U.S. rights holders and copyright infringement on intellectual written materials such as software, novels and stolen songs.

The agents are everywhere; at a Florida flea market raid, a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of 16,171 contraband products were confiscated, including Rolex watches, DVD burners, DVD movies, music CDs, NIKE, Ralph Lauren and knock-off Prada, Louis Vuitton and Gucci purses (warnings to home purse parties). In Chicago, an illegal Cuba cigar shipment was confiscated and in the Philadelphia airport sniff-dogs intercepted $43,000 in laundered currency en route to Jamaica.

Other areas that fall under the ICE multitude of agency responsibilities, in tandem with U.S. Fish, Game and Wildlife, are the exotic animals and hitchhiking bugs that come from abroad; destructive willow weevils were found infesting Italian ceramic tiles, Khapra beetles were at LAX airport, 55 exotic tortoises and turtles were seized from luggage concealed in Japanese cookie boxes, and at Dulles Airport, agents intercepted a suitcase with prohibited animals, blood and soil from Ghana, and an innocent-looking shipment of reindeer figurines were made from prohibited seeds and grasses.

In January, ICE agents confiscated 163 counterfeited NFL jerseys in Phoenix when a buyer complained of poor workmanship and fraying edges—a surefire indication that the merch was bogus. No matter how cagey the forgers, counterfeiters and smugglers are— ICE and CBP agents are giant steps ahead of them.

CULTURAL PROPERTY SEIZURES
As antiques and art are my interest, I researched how specialized ICE agents extricate info about artifact forgeries and the annual $6 billion global black market antiquities trading—third behind weapons and illicit drugs smuggling. Cultural art and antiquities, without legal provenance, are considered patrimonial artifacts belonging to the country of origin; sarcophagi, grave goods, temple fragments, amphorae, pottery, bronzes, paintings, sculptures et cetera, are objects deemed national treasures and cultural patrimonial heritage. Without provenance, articles are not permitted to be exported, traded or owned—period. Prime examples of high-profile purloined patrimonial treasures are exhibited in the British Museum and are presently in contention as belonging to their home countries.

As readers can see, I have only touched the tip of the ICE iceberg which may necessitate a trilogy focusing on the ICE odyssey; the DHS most powerful far-reaching investigative arm.

Share

Trooper Bobby E. Smith – Grand Marshal at Police and Fire: The Fallen Heroes Second Annual Celebrity Golf Tournament at Diablo Country Club

The organization Police and Fire: The Fallen Heroes proudly features a true hero Grand Marshal for their 2011 Second Annual Celebrity Golf Tournament on June 13th at the historic Diablo Country Club. Trooper Bobby E. Smith, Ph.D. will be the Grand Marshal and keynote speaker for the event, having made inspirational presentations to over one million people nationally. The Bobby Smith story is compelling; he was a Louisiana State Trooper twenty five years ago when a gunshot to the face took away his eyesight and his life changed forever.

It was a routine traffic stop on Highway LA15. Louisiana State Police Trooper Bobby Smith had pulled over many vehicles before, but this night would be different. This night his life would change forever. At the time of the pullover, Trooper Smith was unaware that the driver was a drug offender that would react with such violence. Then it happened. Very fast, from a distance of about twenty feet, a shotgun blast hit the Trooper in the face. It was on that dark night, the 14th day of March 1986, as Trooper Bobby Smith lay face down in the centre lane of the highway, not knowing if he would live or die, that Trooper Bobby Smith’s life changed forever. On that dark night that he met fate on the Louisiana highway—a fate of a life of darkness—his eyesight was lost.

There is no way that others can even imagine what happens to the mind, body and emotions of a young vital police officer when the medical diagnosis is pronounced; permanent blindness. Trooper Bobby Smith knew one thing for sure that day—that life as he knew it would be changed forever. How can one know the feelings, deep in the soul of a young trooper, upon hearing the shattering words about his loss of sight? The benchmark of one’s mental and physical core is how one reacts after a trauma is suffered.. The individual himself is captain of his proverbial ship—the one who commands his own destiny—when the initial crisis subsides and the healing starts.

Bobby E. Smith, well aware of post-traumatic stress disorder, decided that he would help others who have gone through immeasurable loss. His dedication to aiding those with PTSD imbued his life with determination and new meaning. He did not want his life to be defined by tragedy but by the driving force of his own vision of life.

His personal losses were enormous; losing his own mother at the age of ten, permanently blinded by a shotgun blast, his nine-year law enforcement career ending along with his self-confidence, independence and eventually his marriage. When it seemed like all that any human could endure had already been heaped upon Bobby Smith—the most heart-wrenching heartbreaks were yet to come—the death of his twenty-two year old daughter Kimberly in a car accident, and later the passing of his son Brad ten days after his twentieth birthday.

Against all odds to forge ahead and succeed in the mission Bobby Smith had set for himself, he wrote his second book in 2005 as a catharsis, “The Will to Survive.” It speaks of the driving force behind the man who has faced more tragedy in his life than most men, and who was strengthened by learning from the solid character of his late mother—to see the best in the worst of things.

Smith was determined to use his own experiences and education to counsel and train other men and women in law enforcement by helping them overcome difficulties, unseen stresses and adversities that face them on a daily basis. After the critical incident of the highway shooting, he returned to the University of Louisiana for a higher education. He realizing that he was to be blind for life. Bobby Smith acquired a cane to assist him as he maneuvered through his sightless world—not the white cane of a blind person, but a regal blue cane, the color blue symbolic of a policeman—imbued with pride of the Force. It was that blue cane that he carried when he entered the dean’s office at the university; it was that regal blue cane he held when the counselor advised him that returning to college would be very difficult for a blind person. But, Bobby Smith had heard many negative things about the blind not being up to the task; he drew upon his unyielding courage to prove his audacious determination to succeed.

Bobby E. Smith succeeded. He had already acquired a B.A. in Criminal Justice at University of Louisiana in Monroe in 1981, in 1991 earned a Master’s degree in Education, and in 2000 a Ph. D. in Counseling and Psychology from Pacific Western University in Los Angeles. Extensive education and dedication made it possible for the extraordinary man of courage to assist others in Law Enforcement with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. In 2001, he founded FORTE—Foundation for Officers Recovering from Traumatic Events, and he serves as the President and Chairman of the Board. Bobby Smith has written two books; “The Will to Survive” and “Visions of Courage” and is an inspirational keynote speaker at about 150 national events, having done presentations to over a million people.

To research this extraordinary hero, I listened to Bobby Smith’s inspirational talk at the National Sheriff Association on the recovery after traumatic events on YouTube, and I am not shy to admit, I cried. He speaks from the heart recalling personal accounts of what happened to him, and how his life changed to lead him on a journey to help others. He does not harp on his blindness, but speaks with savoir faire about how sightlessness has affected his life, working with what he had; everything but sight itself. The most poignant part of his presentation is the emotional pain he suffered when he removed his beloved badge and hung up his uniform for the last time.

Trooper Smith’s shiny badge represented with great significance, his law enforcement career, explaining the mnemonic meaning of B.A.D.G.E; B for Bravery, A for Attitude, D for Dedication, G for God, and E for Empathy—the daily attributes of a police professional.

FALLEN HEROES POLICE AND FIRE: The Fallen Heroes sponsors several fund raising events annually for their 501 (c) (3) non-profit corporation providing guidance, tribute and outreach support to family members impacted by the loss of either Police or Fire personnel who die in the performance of their duties within California. The Second Annual Celebrity Golf Tournament, honoring all California Police Officers and Firefighters, is run entirely by dedicated volunteers and the event is their largest fund-raising venture. The 2010 Golf Tournament and Auction raised over $55,000 of which they donated $40,000 to be equally divided between the families of the four Oakland Police Officers slain in March 2009.
Reservations are open to golf participants in this year’s June 13th event at Diablo Country Club. Celebrities who have committed, schedule permitting, are; Oakland Athletics’ Vida Blue, a Cy Young awardee, rocker Eddie Money and Friends, Ron Masak (TV star), Gary Plummer, former 49er and San Diego Charger, presently the 49er’s radio broadcaster, and many others. Police and Fire: The Fallen Heroes is spearheaded by the Chairman of the Board, retired Battalion Chief Tom Gallinatti, a 30-year veteran of the Oakland Fire Department, a Board of Directors and dedicated volunteers who work throughout the year planning and brainstorming. There is a great need for volunteers to be involved with this exciting and rewarding non-profit organization in the areas of fund-raising, coordinating events, computer skills, PowerPoint and DVD presentations, assisting in marketing, community liaison, making phone calls. What they need most of all, is the donation of printers and computers.
One of the most outstanding donations to the organization is our new Walnut Creek office space generously contributed by RREEF through their CB Richard Ellis leasing principals. Police and Fire: The Fallen Heroes will operate the all-volunteer organization at their new Walnut Creek headquarters at Mount Diablo Plaza, 2175 N. California Blvd. Through the generosity and dedication to community involvement, corporations like RREEF and CBRE and its stellar charity-minded principals, can make a significant difference to those families who have lost their loved ones in the line of duty.
www.thefallenheroes.org email; info@thefallenheroes.org phone 925.831.2011

Share