Ray Wootten's Stories & Anecdotes
I think we were around 11 years old
when
Jimmy Dean invited me to go fishing
for sharks at the Berkeley pier. I spent the night at his house on the
corner of
Rose and Spruce. I remember
lying awake in the front room anxious for the morning to come, as passing
cars’ headlights danced across the ceiling. Everything was new and enchanting.
The adventure had already begun. We got up very early in the morning and
his mother drove us through the dark, empty streets of Berkeley down to
the pier, where she left us. Near the entrance there was a light and some
activity at what turned out to be the bait shop, where we bought some squid
and headed out on the pier towards the lights of San Francisco. The waves
lapped at the pilings and the cool, salty air blew in our faces as we walked,
but we were protected by heavy jackets and navy wool caps rolled down over
our ears. We went a long way out before Jimmy picked the place to fish.
We could have gone further, even all the way to the gap where a fire had
damaged the pier, but it could be dangerous. You could hook anything out
there – a huge shark or stingray, maybe even a manta ray! We baited our
hooks and cast our lines over the railing waiting for the sound of our
sinkers splashing on the surface to gauge the distance as it was still
too dark to see our lines and we could barely make out the dark, mysterious
waters below. The Berkeley hills were black above us with twinkling lights
that blended into the stars. Suddenly, a strike! My pole tugged violently
and the line ripped through the water, leaving a faint white streak of
foam
in its trail. Jimmy warned me to haul him in quickly because these sharks
would cut the line with their file-like backs as you tried to hoist them
up and over the railing. But we landed it successfully and then confronted
a new problem: what to do with it. It was a gray sand shark with a white
belly, probably a couple of feet long, and strong. It flopped frantically
around on the pier as I tried to kill it with my bait knife, wary of its
savage teeth and slashing tail. In the midst of the commotion I experienced
one of those strange moments when you feel opposite emotions simultaneously.
Here I was trying to kill this tough, scary shark while at the same time,
I secretly felt sorry for it as it fought for life. Fortunately there was
an older, more experienced fisherman nearby who knew what to do. He grabbed
the shark by its tail, swung it overhead, and clubbed it down on to the
pavement, thus putting both the shark and me out of our misery. I hid my
feelings of sadness and we continued to catch others, including at least
one beautiful, spotted leopard shark. We watched the sun come up over the
Berkeley hills and eventually carried our trophies back to the bait shop
where, I believe, we sold them (though I couldn’t imagine anybody eating
them). I don’t remember how we got home. Perhaps we took a bus, after all,
we were now a couple of experienced fishermen returning from a successful
adventure – we could do almost anything. We had proven ourselves. More
likely though, Jimmy’s mother came and got us.
Dance Class
Jim Dean – Thank you for your kind
words about my dancing, but we remember it differently. For one,
we did indeed receive dancing instruction at Oxford
as well as at Hillside. I’m sure of this for it is indelibly etched in
my memory from the time I got kicked out of my first class with Mr. Kazdan.
It was in that upper room in the northeast corner of the school. This was
an after school function, and I think we even had to pay for the lessons.
As I said, it was my very first class and, as if that weren’t intimidating
enough, the class ahead of us was there also. We were in fifth grade, as
Mrs. Moulton was there with us. All of the kids sat in a single row around
the perimeter of the room with their backs to the wall and Mr. Kazdan lectured
us on the etiquette of social dancing. To choose a partner, a boy was supposed
to walk over and stand in front of the girl and ask, with a little bow,
“may I have this dance?” The girl, as I recall, had the option of accepting
or politely declining. However, when it was the girl’s turn to pick partners,
the boys were not allowed to decline. I’m not absolutely sure about this
last point, but I think that’s the way it went. The girls were instructed
how to sit like ladies and the boys were told to observe all kinds of petty
social niceties that don’t come easy for boys of that age. I mean, can
you imagine say … Harland Bartholomew
or Bruce Duncan--or me, for that matter…. Can you imagine any of us acting
like perfect little gentlemen?
Well, sure enough, as soon as the lecture is over, Mr.
Kazdan calls on me to stand up and go pick a partner. The very first! All
alone, with the whole class watching, I’m supposed to go stand in front
of a girl. “Sure, Mr. Kazdan, I’ll just announce to the whole school which
girl I like. Are you kidding?” I was terrified and embarrassed. I wanted
to disappear, but he wouldn’t let me off the hook. I couldn’t do it and
he finally gave me the ultimatum of properly choosing a partner and asking
her to dance or leaving. I left, humiliated. I had on my cool, pink and
charcoal, tab collared shirt with blue corduroy pants and black loafers.
My flat top was slicked on the sides and I wanted to dance, but I was humiliated.
Mrs.
Moulton chased after me as I went down the hall and attempted to console
me. It was one of the few times that she and I seemed to be on the same
side.
I still tell people that I went to
school with a genius. His drawing, and especially his knack for cartoons
were so good that our teacher (Mrs. Rutherford) would reward the entire
class for good behavior or some special achievement with a period of Bruce
drawing on the blackboard. Think of that. What does it take to bring a
class of sixth grade children to order? The promise of Bruce’s drawing
could do it. That’s some mighty force. We would watch, enthralled, as he
began making incoherent lines, maybe talking as he went. Maybe just making
funny noises and movements as he labored delightfully at his art. All of
a sudden one stroke of the chalk would bring it all together and the whole
picture would come to life. And Bruce would be moving, creating, telling
a story, making us laugh, making us wonder – how did he do it?
When we were in Mrs. Moulton’s class, Bruce was seriously
burned in a home accident and was hospitalized for quite a long time. He
sent us drawings and continued to entertain us from the hospital. I am
sure the staff was also entertained and amused for I remember such scenes
as Bruce lying bandaged in his hospital bed as nurses entered with giant
hypodermic needles.
Singing
Music was a big deal at Oxford. In
Mrs. Conklin’s Kindergarten class we sang about spring and daffodils and
pollywogs. But as we matured, our songs also became more sophisticated.
By the time we were in Miss Swain’s third and fourth grade classes, we
were practicing syncopated rhythms. I remember an elaborate production
of “Me and My Shadow” with the Conner twins dressed in white and black.
Anyway, the ability to sing was highly regarded and could raise one’s stature
throughout the school, much as being a good athlete. Unfortunately, I was
not one of them. However, I did have my brief time in the limelight. In
sixth grade, Mrs. Rutherford dubbed me “second soprano” and assigned me
to an honored position standing next to her as she played the piano. And
this was not a one time thing. For the rest of that semester, whenever
we sang for practice, or even when we put on a show for our parents, I
took that special position next to her while the rest of the group was
up on that little stage in the cafeteria. My confidence soared and so,
I fear, did my volume. As I look back on it, I wonder what was dear old
Mrs. Rutherford thinking? I can only speculate. Maybe it
wasn’t such a bad strategy after all. While I was at her side, my back
was to the audience and they were spared my enthusiastic outpourings. Or
was it that she hoped I might learn to stay on key if I was that close
to the piano? In either case, she paid dearly as I was right in her ear.
But she won me over with that move and I love her for her sensitivity and
courage.
Mortadella
One day I sat next to Bill Stallone
in the cafeteria. I can even remember which table and direction we were
facing. We decided to trade sandwiches and I got the better deal. I gave
him my 1950’s American staple - baloney – and in exchange I got my first
taste of Mortadella. Wow, what a great taste! “Mort. . . a . . . what?”
He had to repeat it a few times for me. To this day, I still love Mortadella
and the name always reminds me of Bill Stallone.
Song Flutes
The only useful function of song
flutes came in the unremitting torture of parents, siblings and
teachers. We even went to the Berkeley Community Theater where we combined
with classes from other grammar schools, similarly armed and filled its
vast acoustical chambers with whining toots from hundreds of those little,
black, plastic, slug-shaped flutes from hell. I think it was an experiment
by some enlightened school board official. I'll bet they never repeated
it!
Assorted Memories
I remember the smells of the sawdust
that the janitor (Mr. Grey, who came after Mr. Jones) used as he endlessly
swept the hallways, and of the white paste which some kid ate on a rainy
day session; the damp cement floors of the basement and the old pendulum
clock that clicked in the corner; the sounds of the double doors at the
Oxford Street entrance and the hollow noise of our foot steps when we reached
the porch outside the cafeteria. I remember when we received our first
ballpoint pens – red and blue and shaped like the old ones that we had
to dip in the inkwell and blot, and when they installed the first fluorescent
lights and the noise they made. I remember fastening straws together so
we could blow bubbles in our milk cartons without bending over and how
it tasted kind of sickening if you did it too long; my first taste of Mexican
food when
Miss Swain took us for lunch
to a restaurant down on University Avenue because we were studying Mexico
in the fourth grade; playing eraser tag; the tree planting ceremony which
Mr. Rhodes presided over next to the pathway at the North side of
the school yard; when termites attacked the wood chips under the bars and
they changed to a black, rubberized cushion which smelled on hot days;
how on your birthday, you could go to the principal’s office and the secretary
would make you a paper crown with stars for each year. I remember how the
lower terrace would puddle at the West side on rainy days and that if you
picked the leaves from the bushes that grew on the other side of the chain
link fence and dipped them into the puddles, it would make oily rainbows
that danced on the water’s surface; their large, hard berries also made
great ammo, but they were very sticky so you didn’t want to put too many
in your pockets. Then there were those other bushes (I think by the Walnut
– Oxford walkway) whose leaves you could fold into a whistle; sourgrass;
grass bombs; forts in vacant lots; that awful smelling, phallic shaped
fungus that Miss Swain found growing under her porch one day and brought
to school to show us; the first day my eyes and throat burned from the
air during recess and teacher called it smog; Mr. Rhodes swearing that
the brown stains on his hands were caused by picking walnuts and not
from smoking; and, of course, playing on our football team and our wonderful
coach, Dick Bruhney; and how we almost went undefeated, even beating the
dreaded Thousand Oaks. But we could never beat Jefferson.
More on Oxford football
As I mentioned earlier, we were coached by Dick Bruhney.
He was a Cal student. He came to Oxford every day and was in charge of
after school sports related activities (maybe he was called "playground
director"?) Football was his favorite. He created and diagramed plays
for us which we memorized and practiced, so that when they were called
out in huddle we all knew what to do. We had a six man (boy) team. This
was touch football played on asphalt courts. The team I remember most was
Bob Avakian as star quarterback and team captain. He was truly a gifted
athlete - he could pass as well as run and was a brilliant strategist and
a spirited leader. His father should also be mentioned here as I remember
Spurgeon attending almost every game, standing on the sidelines and cheering
us on, waving enthusiastically. Jerry Strong
and I were halfbacks; Harland Bartholomew was at center, but his main contribution
was ! to provide comic relief with his antics when we were in a tight spot
and the tension was too great. Norm Randolph
and Tom Brunk were ends. Tom was also our field goal kicker. Norm was very
strong and, with his height and long arms, could snag the ball from some
incredible distances. Jerry was consistently good in the clutch and brought
a degree of polish to the team. When Bobby called for a "flank pass", for
example, Jerry would run a few steps, fake one way, spin and cut to the
opposite direction and receive the pass, all the while looking like a focused
pro. Our most successful play was the “cross field pass.” Some other players
I remember include, Alan Kent, Dave Gamba, Martin
Stryker, Carroll Sinclair and
maybe Scott Turner.
Saturdays we took on our rivals. If it was at their school,
we would all pile into Dick's little gray primed Chevrolet convertible
with wide white sidewall tires and bounce along sitting on laps, poking
ribs and cracking jokes while we were supposed to be absorbing his pep
talk. If we got too rowdy, he might swing his arm around to quiet us as
he steered with his other hand on the "necker knob" attached to the steering
wheel. Regardless of who we were playing, we took every game seriously,
played hard and won more than our share. Once we trounced Cragmont 76-0.
For at least two seasons we were only defeated by Jefferson.