The Glendoran – July/Aug 1992

Every Town Needs a Castle

“Skipper’s Always Right, You Know”
Part III – By Dwayne Hunn

I had lived at the pharm for less than two weeks when we first met. He was pleasant, smiled with a twinkle in his eyes and asked the normal, get-acquainted type questions. He seemed to like asking questions about you. They were proper questions. Skipper was "proper." They were also smart questions -- smart as in they were intended to tell Skipper how smart you were and to remind you that Skipper was smart.

In the proper sense, Frank Landon Jr. was raised "right." His dad was a successful businessman and his mother was a swell lady. Skipper was taught to get and value a good education and discipline. He did.

Skipper, however, never looked proper on his noisy 175CC Kawasaki motorbike. Pushing 6', Skipper seemed too big for that toy bike. Michael had his giant Harley, Scott had his souped up tear drop and Glen and I had our Honda 350s. Why didn't Skipper have a real bike?

One day, when Glen and I were washing our bikes and Skipper rode onto the Pharm with his, I circuitously probed for the answer with, "Your smaller bike's a lot noisier than ours. How come?"

"Well, mine's a four banger and yours are two cycle bikes. So my four pistons are pounding up and down a lot more than yours. There are advantages and disadvantages to that which are..." With that opening, Skipper launched into one of his engineering educational treatises, which he delivered as often as allowed.

Figure 1 Glen Speer, Suzanne Carpenter (Baum) and Frank "Skipper" Landon in 1986 at Glenn's wedding at the castle

Ever since they were kids, Michael and he had been friends. They romped through the orchards, roamed the hills, played pranks and built forts together. Somewhere between kidhood and formal schooling, Michael came to respect Skipper's engineering acumen. Soon after that, Michael added a couple more levels of regard to the lofty plateaus of respect on which he held whatever Skipper had to say about engineering, government or business.

One needed only to sit and listen to see how much Michael respected what Skipper had to say and how closely their thoughts coincided. Through the late 60's there was plenty of opportunity to sit and listen to their thoughts.

About once a week one could mosey up to the Tin Palace, slide back the 10 foot door, walk by the wine cellar elevator, with cuckoos popping out from their clock doors and art work covering the walls and floor, step through the open 6" thick wooden refrigerator door, and take a place on the rugged floor of Michael's bedroom; a converted citrus refrigerator, big enough for a bed, couple chairs and desks, bank vault and various memorabilia. Three to 10 people from 15 to 65 years in age might be there on any given night. The Pharm's proverbial gallon of cheap wine would be passed, filling the Pharm's recycled large jelly jars or smaller shrimp cocktail wine glasses. The Vietnam War, race relations, work ethic, drugs, hippies, poverty, economic development, education, students, Glendora High School, politics, Republicans, Democrats, Black Panthers, girls, love, marriage, experiences, adventures -- especially Michael's, Pharm events and more were open on any night's agenda.

Michael's room was not like most rooms. The riveting "click-clack" of the pendulum on the 1872 Seth Thomas mechanical clock, the steely stare of the Wells Fargo vault with large cloth on top, the blinking on-and-off red and green lights popping out from the conduit lining the wall near the ceiling, the little lights connected to the phone and coded black box on the wall against his bed not far from his pillow, the loaded rifles across from the Marine Corps memorabilia, the two Waldenesque solitary sitting chairs, the oriental rugs on the oak floor - filled a wooden refrigerator room bolted close by a steel handle on the 6" door.

Like most rooms it had four corners. The captivating spirit of the room came not from all its stuff. It came from the electricity that flowed on those ringside nights when spots on the oriental rugs or oak floor were at a premium.

Would people pay big dollars to sit ringside if someone zinging his ideas didn't come out from each corner? Would people have continued sprawled on the floor of that old freezer room each week for years if people didn't provide their own electricity? Believe me, Michael's cheap gallon jug wine wasn't the draw.

For those who like to see things clearly in pictures, Michael and the likes of Skipper and John McCann guarded the right corner with most of the crowd cheering them on. Glen and I danced to the left with a sparser cheering section, if any, offering support. And on any given night, some unexpected outside Pharm hands would come with points to make and stories to tell.

Those were wonderful, challenging, free-for-alls with raised voices, gestures, emotions, fact, figures and experiences intertwined with physical, philosophical, moral, physical and scientific theories. No matter how heated or involved the topic or crowd became, bellowing laughter and guffaws always resounded from each and every of Michael's bedroom debate nights. No matter how noisy the night's discussion had been, there were usually so many with so much to be said that your mind always had time to be quiet, listen and digest. Somewhere, late into the night, with Michael's rifles, family, Pharm and Marine Corps memorabilia adorning the walls beneath the little red and green lights of the Pharm's ever-vigilant radar system, we'd also hear the click-clack of the mechanical clock. When those metallic heart beats filled larger gaps between thoughtful words, we knew it was time to go home, rest our heads and let the talk sink in.

Figure 2 On a Saturday afternoon, Skipper and his wife, Phyllis, along with 86 other of Michael Rubel's Clock Tower Reunion party guests, roamed downtown Glendora looking for Michael's lost charter bus to take them to dinner.

It didn't take much sinking in time for one to discover the profound respect with which Michael held Skipper. How Skipper gained this respect might be evident from a few examples.

For example, Skipper had a lot to do with preparing the fortifications for Michael's 40' high childhood tower. Yes, pre-teenage Michael with friends like Skipper built a four story fort. In looking at its picture in the Castles by Mike book you immediately realize that this thing is built with junk and with dangerous childish lack of planning. (Today's Rubelia may not be much different.) All the more reason, I guess, that it needed a good defense system. Skipper, knowing even as a kid that he was masterful tactician and strategist, assumed an instrumental role in defending this bastion of freedom for kids like he and Michael from other not-so-nice kids. Trenches were laid around the fort and lined with broken glass and other sharp objects. Barbed wire lay just beyond that. Next were fences behind which working canons filled with large carbide rocks charged by the gas from an old Hudson sprayer laid ready. Held in defensive reserve were BB guns, catapults, dogs, water hoses, and firecrackers. (Amazing how little in style and substance today's defense system for Rubelia has changed.)

Skipper's defense system was wonderful and Michael loved it. You may remember, however, your parents warning you that there "will always be someone tougher than you, so don't go looking for a fight." Well, their fortress and defense system advertisement brought someone tougher out of the bushes. Michael's father. Like any grown-up he immediately saw how dangerous that fort could be to any neighborhood kids, so father's bulldozer plowed Skipper's defenses and the fort into a field of dreams.

I guess even the passage of years didn't erase the thought of designing a defense system for a castle from Skipper's mind. While Michael was in the Marine Corps, dispatching heavy military equipment fell into one of his areas of responsibility. Such access made these two grown kids realize how the Rubelian Castle's safety could be enhanced by a ----- TANK.

Now let me stress that Camp Pendleton is not today missing a tank from years ago. But should God's video play back some days from back then, it might show that for a few days there was a tank camouflaged in bushes a lot closer to the Rubelia than to Camp Pendleton.

Maturity refined Skipper's skills and turned his engineering skills to more peaceful pursuits. Guess you might even suggest it turned from harboring tanks to cleansing doves.

When Michael was trying to cement enough old junk together so that not even the bank would dare dismantle or plow under his grown up castle, Klaus Schilling, Ted Folley, Skipper, Glen and Michael went riding out into the hinterlands in search of a large, ugly, out-dated engine. Miles from the Pharm, in the middle of a field on the outskirts of an unnamed city, as usual they found just what the Pharm needed. Unfortunately, this engine was ensconced in a slab of concrete that measured 10'x12' and 8" deep.

"No problem," said Skipper. "I'll just blast it out."

After speeding away for about 5 minutes, these scared young men heard a blast. A THUNDERING BLAST! Their concern with a blast much more horrendous than they had expected was reflected by the 2 weeks they waited before returning to the outskirts of this unnamed city.

"See, I told you. 'No problem.'" Skipper said as he kicked back to "advise" Michael and gang on how to load the unensconced 8 ton steam engine onto a truck and take it back to the Pharm.

Today the engine cleanses dove, makes the birds happy and neighbors leery.

The downstroke of its piston uses the neighborhood sewer line for decompression which raises the neighbors' decibel and toilet water levels. It also sometimes raises their ire. The birds, however, are ecstatic for whenever the engine belches toilet water to its ceramic lip level -- the bird bath squirts six inches of water heavenward...

By the late 60's Michael's “Pharm” goals had moved well beyond fixing and installing second hand tools, pumps, bird baths, riding Harleys and swiping tanks and filling the wine cellar with empty gallon jugs. Michael was more and more looking heavenward, wanting to fan heaven's skies. As usual, the “Pharm's” specially assigned Guardian Angel, provided the materials at the appropriate time and price.

Out of the smog, the phone rang. The phone company asked Michael if he would like their old telephone poles. Voila! Now Michael just needed the windmill. Guardian Angels, as you know, pay special attention to recyclers and idiots. Since Michael was supposedly one of those, God provided the windmill. . As was common in those days for zany, crazy projects, a crowd of in-and-out patient “Pharm” hands gathered together to help bring the windmill back from a pig farm abutting a California State Prison. About 40 fools, with nothing better to do than joust with windmills and eat pig, lined up early one weekend morning outside the Castle walls for the jaunt to Lompoc. With all the regular suspects gathered, the tools of their trade were piled in an old truck -- old wrenches, acetylene torches, come-alongs, ropes, cables, sledges, crowbars, hammers, pliers, shields and spears. After checking for old Mother Luck, the caravan of Quixotes went off again to test their pluck.

The Lompoc farmer would be glad to rid himself of the windmill if we would disassemble and leave for him the 60' tower. He was so happy that a handful of city slicking fools were willing to leave him this pile of scrap steel for free that he decided to host a barbecue for us. He even invited us out to watch him shoot the master of ceremonies, the barbecued pig to-be. There weren't many squeals of delight from us city slicking fools when we watched the farmer's rifle begin preparation of our juicy pork delight.

Michael wasn't as festive as the farmer or those looking forward to eating the Master Ceremony and partying through the night.

Squealing, though not as badly as the pig, Michael was heard to say, "How are we going to get that thing down in one-piece?" as he looked six stories up at the windmill, portraiting that concerned look that often arose on Michael's face during his castle building years.

"No problem." said Skipper. "Just go get me about a half dozen old mattresses."

The next day, while the grunts ran around for mattresses and started torching and unbolting whatever Skipper told them to, Skipper wandered and pondered while looking up at the windmill. Finally, as the torcher and cutters were running out of tower to torch and cut, Skipper said to the mattress bearers, "Put those there and there and there."

Yes, Skipper was good in the field. Perhaps it sounded like he used a little too much dynamite to get that bird-bath engine out, but he was close, and it got out. In Lompoc that day, as the ropes were pulled, the last torch cut made and the tower followed Newton's rule to earth, we knew again that Skipper was good. He was also close. The windmill was off the tower. It was now ensconced in the earth a "close" 5' from the cushioning mattresses.

So what if Michael had to rebuild the engine. Taking the job, coming close and getting it done is part of what brings respect. If you have never built castles out of junk and defended forts, dynamited an engine or removed a windmill, but you've worn cleats or been a sporting couch potato, you know the adage. "It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game."

Big pharm projects always became a wonderful game to play. Skipper played the game. And he played it well.

Of course, when you are new to the Pharm you don't know how much credence to put into the renowned reputation of a guy everyone calls "Skipper." So you just listen to the stories and watch.

After the summer forest fires of 1968, Skipper told Michael that the mountain was going to wash down the hill and destroy the Pharm. Michael listened. Then he went out to the Pharm entrance at the foot of Glencoe Heights Drive and buried and nailed 4"x 6" posts and 3"x8" planks until he had an eight foot high wall.

Although Michael spent much of that summer building what we Pharm hands were certain was a wall, smarter people than us, who drove much bigger and fancier cars than any of us, saw it as something else. Over and over again one of those fancy cars would stop, the silent electronic and tinted window would slide down and a Darth Vaderish voice from inside would ask, "Hey, Noah, how's your Ark goin? ...Hah, Hah." Usually Michael, in his stained and holey hat, floppy and creosoted pants, would turn to look again at the wall as the car accelerated away. Then he began asking us, "What do you think?" as he'd position us to look at his work.

"Looks plenty strong, Michael."

"Ah huh. And what do you think of it?" he'd repeat.

"What do you mean, Michael? What do we think of the wall?"

"Yeah. Well, you do think? It's a wall, huh?" he'd ask.

"Yeah. Well, isn't it."

"Yeah. Well, yeah it' supposed to be."

Well, Skipper's forecasting and Michael's work looked pretty silly and perhaps unbelievable until those few days in October 1969 when about 20 inches of rain flushed the mountain down. Noah's Ark didn't get up and float. It stood tall against tons of flowing mud. Sure a garage, station wagon, boat and tons of mud eventually broached the wall. Without Skipper's words and foolish Noah's wall, the other uncountable tons of mud wouldn't have turned "left" and the neighborhood and pharm would have needed only lots of drying sun to become California's largest sandbox.

A few years after the flood, Michael thought the septic tank for the Tin Palace's was filled. Skipper, of course, told Michael where and how to build a new one the old fashioned way, with stacked and spaced red bricks. Michael spent many an evening digging that 20' deep by about 7' wide hole and carefully laying the red brick mosaic. When the top was approaching, Skipper explained how you bring each successive layer of red bricks to the center of the hole to close it off. Well, standing over a 15' hole, on the red bricks one is laying, while laying each additional row of bricks a little bit in from the previous row didn't look inviting. No matter how structurally safe Skipper promised it would be, it took Skipper standing on top laying those last few rows to make this doubting Thomas' believe that he wouldn't fall into a toilet flushing hole.

A few months after National Geographic ran the Pharm as its October 1969 Mud Flood centerfold, Glen and I helped Michael unload an old Wells Fargo bank vault from the flat bed of one of the dilapidated Pharm trucks. This vault was so heavy, or the flat bed so worn, that we put 6 more holes into its bed just rolling it off and into Michael's bedroom in the Tin Palace.

One evening, after the vault had been cleaned and prominently displayed in Michael's bedroom, Scott Kerivan, another pharm hand, came upon Skipper sitting in Michael's room. "Listen," Skipper said, with his ear pinned to the vault as he was rolling the combinations, "I think I can pick the lock."

"You're crazy, Skipper. You can't do that."

With a couple turns, the tell tale unlocking sound of the outer vault could be heard.

"Holy shit!" said Scott.

"Ah. It's a double lock vault. I've got to pick the next one." Skipper said as he moved on to his next mechanical challenge.

"God, Skipper, you better not."

"Ah, what's the problem? It'll be great fun."

"Well, maybe, but just in case, I don't want to be here." said Scott, who paid little heed to collection agents or police officers but paid tribute to the Castle's Head Janitor.

With that Scott left and Skipper finished his fun. A few days later, Mrs. Freisner, the Pharm's good witch, keeper of the house and Editor of The Shriek pharm newsletter, informed us that Skipper had shed a lot of grown up tears in the Tin Palace after performing his tumbler routine. The gnashing of teeth and shedding of tears took place shortly after Michael discovered a suffocated white mouse in the inner sanctum of his Wells Fargo vault.

Luckily for all of us pharmhands, a good safecracker and a vault were not enough to lock out for long Michael and Skipper's friendship. As with fine wines, their fine memories of a crackling good youth spent together have forever locked them together as friends. That... plus Skipper paying a lock smith to reset the tumblers and vowing to never play Butch and Sundance again...

Post Script: Skipper is that top flight engineer he always thought he was as a kid. Flour Corporation keeps him working on many of their important assignments. His wonderful wife and children have tempered his whimsical play times, but he still spends time experimenting with his own engineering ideas as he develops a large tract of land near Bullhead City as a continuation of his Castle Building forays.