Holiday Inn – Glendale, CA

Holiday Inn – Glendale, CA

The Holiday Inn had an upscale bar with a tiny stage and dance floor. The Band (which was there for years) featured Chief Alexander LongRifle http://www.myspace.com/alexanderlongrifle, http://glendalenewspress.com/articles/2005/08/13/export202.txt Vince Labor on keyboards, and John Horrigan on drums.

The Holiday Inn – Glendale, also had large rooms that Parents Without Partners rented out once a month for dances (where I met Joan Vandertuin).

In the immediate years following my best friend’s passing, my Mother, and my children, one at a time, going to live with their newly remarried (and to the kids, seemingly affluent and stable) father, who did everything he could to keep me from seeing them, I spent far too many nights at the Glendale Holiday Inn, often every night.

First at the Parents Without Partners functions, then in the bar after I met John Horrigan http://www.horriganmusicschool.com/ . My preferable evening adult ‘libation’ was Drambuie on the rocks. And I ‘libated’ a lot!

Eventually, I became friends with the bar manager, Eve, and found out how very good the breakfasts were there. There was many a morning I would meet Eve (when she ‘opened’) for a late breakfast. I would usually be the only patron, and would sit at the big wood bar enjoying conversation with Eve, my breakfast, and a couple of Screwdrivers.

Without my Mother and my Children, I was completely adrift. I had little work, and far too much alcohol.

However, I met some wonderful people, most of whom were kind, but had no idea how empty and broken hearted I was. I also mentored under the poet Bayla Winters, my first ‘mentoring’ experience, and did some good writing, most of which was NOT ‘emotional’ poetry, and some of which eventually got published.

First Publication!

The first item of any import (other than 'in-house' columns and articles, etc) that was published was a short article entitled "Dancing Girl". It was given Honorable Mention in the 'Article' catagory in the 1979 Writer's Digest Writing Competition.

The Dancing Girl
by: evvy garrett (not garrett at the time!)

We noticed her as soon as we had sat down in the mock-leather black chairs and ordered our first round of drinks. Her legs and arms were working rhythmically and methodically in the newest dance patterns as she and her current partner moved around the parquet floor, her brown stack-heeled sandals making a clicking sound when­ever they made even slight contact with the waxed wood. It was a week-night, Tuesday, and not crowded, so she had all the room that she needed to do the latest Discos. The four soft pink spot-lights that were supposed to be focused on the tired-looking rock band at the far end of the rectangular room overflowed the small square stage, adding a spectral look to the several dancing couples and to the stale little neighborhood bar itself.
Strangely, we ignored each other and the business that we wanted to discuss, settled back into the tub chairs, and watched. She was fairly pretty, but there was nothing about her features that anyone could call striking. An average type working woman, maybe a secre­tary, in her mid-twenties with tawny in-the-sun-a-lot skin and short dark hair that framed her face with a sweep of soft waves. But it looked like a plastic face that perhaps a make-up artist would de­vise for a stage somewhere; a face that didn't have a laugh or frown line on it, a face that didn't change expressions, a face that didn't smile once all evening. Still, she did dance, and dance well, her slim form moving lithly from one point in space to another, a study in natural untrained grace. And because of that, she was the focal point of attention this cool and rainy spring night. Her partners changed often as different men would approach the high bar stool where she was perched, shyly holding out a hand, asking her to dance with them; tall, short, drunk, sober, young, old, she accepted all offers, never once rejecting a dance. It seemed that it wasn't a particular man that she was looking for, or someone to buy her a­nother Margarita to sip daintily on, but just a warm breathing body to dance another dance with.
It didn't even seem to matter to her if the band played a fast or a slow number; she would slip gracefully off the bar-stool and head for the dance floor, passing our table on the way, with large loop gold earrings swaying as she walked and trailing behind a soft fragrance of soap and a popular perfume. Then stepping onto the dance floor, she stepped into another world, a world that she didn't allow anyone else to enter. Almost magically, she would be under the influence of the throbbing music, her tall body starting to move in time to the bored drummers beat, Ignoring her partner, keeping her gaze fixed just above his head when her almond shaped brown eyes were even open, she could have just as well been dancing alone in the privacy of her own living room to the beat of her own stereo. If it actually happened that she and her partner danced as if they were truly a couple, it was because the man of the moment was fol­lowing her lead, not vice-versa.
The dancing girl was wearing a too-early-for-the-season, summery navy-blue dress of a thin material that looked like it would feel soft to the touch, with small pink flowers scattered randomly over it; and very little, if anything, under it. As the girl moved so did the dress, as if it had a life of its own; first it would wrap itself this way around her curved hips, then the flowing mater­ial of the skirt would silently slide up a few inches to reveal a smooth knee, only to slip back down with the next harsh guitar chord to caress her stockingless calf. It was the same with the bodice of the dress too, which had a low V neck and gathered short cape-like sleeves that on the inside of the dress were cut down almost to her waist, One moment you would be looking at the dress clinging sensously to her small well-formed breasts, the nipples clearly erect as she threw back her shoulders, the next moment a quick flash of cleavage and pink skin as she bent slightly forward from her hips. But it was not lurid or obscene, you could tell that it was unintentional; it was like watching a new kind of art form.
She seemed to be completely unaware of her surroundings; of the cheap tables and chairs, the shadowy corners, the smell of beer, the various people, (among ourselves, we wondered how often she came here), And she was unaware that everyone’s eyes were on her, male and female alike. You got the feeling that she didn't care, that she was here for her own special reasons; to dance, to move her body, to feel at one with the music that she seemed to love, that was all that mattered. If the dancing girl had a job, an apartment, relatives, lovers, or bills to worry about, tonight wasn't the time for it. Right now, this moment, was the time for the thin blue summer dress, green-tinted Margaritas, pink lights, and throbbing music. Tonight was for transforming an everyday working girl into a princess for a night, in a dark and lonely Los Angeles bar.
The hours passed swiftly and our two drink business conversation had been forgotten long ago, but none of us minded, we had seen some­thing special this night. something that we would all remember for a long while. And when it was almost time for the bar to close up for the night, we were sorry that our magical interlude was over. As we were hunting car keys and the old bartender was polishing glasses, we saw the dancing girl leave. Silently, she finished her drink, slipped into her jacket and without saying good-night to anyone, walked slowly out the door. Alone.

It was WEEKS before I came off the ceiling!

Grace Garrett's Hatpin

This was my Grandmother’s (Grace Garrett) hatpin. Grace Garrett passed in 1956, and she was quite ill for about 8 years prior to that.

She had, and wore many hats and hatpins, especially during the 1920’s-1940’s. But this is the only one I ended up owning.

It has been living in my jewelry box for over 30 years. My Mother (Aldine Bush) had it stuck through this ‘postcard’, that I guess she never mailed to her co-workers, and there it has remained!


It is 5 inches long. The head is Filigree Gold, Copper, or a mixture (It is so old, I cannot tell for sure!). And other than needing cleaning up, it’s in perfect condition.

Since none of my family knows what it is, nor cares, nor is interested in it and I need money; it is often on sale on Craig’s List San Diego/Collectables.

John Eugene Suydam

One Friday evening, late in 1965, a friend from work phoned me. Her boyfriend had dragged along his brother, a Navy man, just out of boot camp on their date. My friend was looking for a ‘date’ for the brother that very evening, so it would be a foursome and not a ‘third wheel’ situation.

I was reluctant. I was just out of a short and unhappy dating situation with a man named Blaine. Plus, I had never been on a ‘blind date’ and didn’t see any reason to start now. On the other hand, I could spend my Friday evening watching TV with my mother.

Fate was set. The minute our eyes met, it was all over for me. We had a brief, hot, courtship and married on January 9, 1966. Unfortunately, I was in love with him, and he was in lust with me. Add to that, we had absolutely nothing in common, a disaster and heartbreak in the making.

Surprisingly, I still love the man he WAS (no, not the man I thought he was, nor the man I wanted him to be), but the man he was at the time. Now, he is on his third wife. I never remarried though there were a couple of ‘serious’ relationships along the way.

I still have a large packet of his ‘love letters’, written all those many years ago, tied with a red ribbon, put away in a box. Every once in awhile, on a rainy day, and with a box of tissues at hand, I reread them…

Radio Magic

Some of my earliest and fondest memories revolve around a big old floor radio that looked very much like the one above.

Late afternoon on most days, my Grandfather, Thomas Earl Garrett, would gather up a big pan of potatoes to be peeled for dinner, and his favorite paring knife. We would then, just the two of us, go into the living room of 3910 Jefferson St., Kansas City, MO, where we all lived. In the quiet of the room, the day, Gramps would turn on the radio.

Gramps would pull a chair up close to the radio, so he would not miss one word of the broadcast, and I would sit at his feet. That paring knife would not start moving until some wonderful show like the ‘Lone Ranger’, ‘Amos & Andy’, or ‘Our Miss Brooks’, magically erupted from the big wood box.

Once a show had started, there was only Gramps and me, and the deepening dusk of the evening. That paring knife would start slicing the skin from the potatoes in an almost perfect, thin spiral. I would watch the potatoes ‘unwind’ one by one and hear the voices coming from the radio, enthralled by both events.

Occasionally Gramps would chuckle, or even laugh out loud at something that had been said by the radio actors that I did not understand without ever losing his pace. And that too, was magical.

Furicin Anyone?

When I was growing up, Furicin, a thick green salve, was valued as much for the container it came in, as the salve. Furicin Salve could be used for just about anything, minor burns, splinters, bug bites, minor cuts and scrapes. I do not know if it actually facilitated healing, but we all thought it did.

And the jars, originally dark green glass, and now black plastic, were treasured by everyone for storing ‘stuff’.

Above is a jar, decorated by Joan Vandertuin’s Mother, given to Joan, and passed along to me sometime in the early 70’s. It is still going strong, and I still store ‘stuff’ in it…

Our First Hollywood Christmas Parade

By 1962, Mom (Aldine Marie Busch) had landed a job (PBX operator, of course) at the huge Retail Clerks Union 770 Dental Clinic on Hollywood Blvd. (This was before there was even ONE star on the ‘Hollywood Walk of Fame’!)

We had a nice one bedroom furnished apartment one block south on Carleton Way (Gramps, Thomas Earl Garrett, got the bedroom. Mom and I slept on corner-to-corner day beds in the living room.)

Soon after, Mom and I attended our first Hollywood Christmas Parade (gramps was not interested in going). There were no bleachers, only wall-to-wall people filling the sidewalks, craning their necks to see.

Looking for a better vantage point, we wandered behind the crowds, up towards Grauman’s Chinese Theater (one of my favorite hangouts those days!). I got a little further up the block, when I realized I’d lost mom, and started back.

Imagine my amazement to find my totally UN-star struck Mother, with her arm around the base of a light post, staring face to face at James Gardner, whose Limo was stuck in a turn at a corner in a pre-parade area! Mr. Gardner had his window rolled down, and was in the back seat of the Limo alone. His car was stuck there for a few minutes, and my Mom stared at him, arm wrapped around pole, the entire time – no one else seemed to notice.

I teased her about it for days…