Sam Elliott, A Favorite

Sam Elliott is one of my favorite actors. Although he has done outstanding work in Western films, I first became a fan after watching the 1976 Lifeguard. Elliott had the lead role in this coming-of-age film. He dominated the screen, but I really liked his character because I identified with his beach bum mindset.

I grew up in what is called the South Bay area of metropolitan Los Angeles. The South Bay was an odd collection of beach cities south of the upscale Malibu and Santa Monica. It was a perfect time to grow up in a perfect place. Surfing, friends, bikini-clad girls, and a little school on the side. I spent more time at the Second Street street-end in Hermosa Beach than I did at school ... sometimes at my principle’s invitation.

Lifeguard was filmed in the South Bay, so I had an immediate connection. Elliott plays a lifeguard who is constantly harangued about getting a real job. It is a nicely crafted script, and great performances by Sam Elliott, Anne Archer, and Kathleen Quinlan lifted a low-budget film above the commonplace. This was shrewd casting, since they all went on to become stars.

What brought all this to mind was an interview with Sam Elliott at A.V. Club. The interview is comprehensive, with film clips, lots of Hollywood insider stuff, and it ranges all over his remarkable career, including his Westerns. (Warning: It’s also sprinkled with F-bombs.) 

I had forgotten about Lifeguard until he mentioned the film, and the reference brought up a host of pleasant memories. It also reminded me that I once owned a tee-shirt that read, “There is no life east of Pacific Coast Highway.”

If you have never seen the film, pick it up and take a gander at a unique moment in time when Southern California beaches were uncrowded and life was truly simple. It’s also a great story.

Yesteryear

In a bygone era, milk was delivered fresh to the door in reusable bottles, ice cream trucks plied neighborhoods, Helms brought bakery goods to the curbside, and whether you wanted anything or not, you got a visit from an annoying Fuller Brush man. Another door-to-door phenomenon was a photographer with a pony in tow. Now, my mother would never pay for my picture sitting astride a guzzied up pony, but I followed this dude around the neighborhood to see which of my friends' parents were worthy of children.

Yours truly

These were highly professional photographers. You can tell from these artfully framed portraits. The hat and chaps came with, but it was supply your own cap pistol. I had one of those, but a stingy mom. She tried to make up for her miserly ways by snapping my picture on the stoop with her Brownie. I loved her anyway.

Neighborhoods seemed a lot more important back then. I knew every kid within a couple years of my age. If mom wasn't home, I knew she was sipping coffee over gossip with one of her neighbors. We played in the street with no fear of a reckless driver, and went to the park unafraid of being bothered by strangers. All the parents walked together to the PTA meetings at our school, and to my knowledge, they never discovered we played marbles for keeps.

I thought those were the best of times until I learned to surf as a freshman in high school. Then my neighborhood became a street end in Hermosa Beach. Now those were the days, my friend.

Mountain Sanctuary

Yesterday, I visited a high school friend I had not seen for at least thirty years. Before diverting north, the trip started through the Carson Pass in the Sierras. It was a beautiful drive and I thought anyone should feel privileged to view these magnificent mountains. Then I remembered Genoa, a way station for 49ers. I was cruising at 60 MPH in climate controlled comfort, while the early pioneers were lucky to eke out 10 miles in a long, determined day. The view probably wasn't uppermost on their minds.

My friend owns an isolated forty acres next to national forest. Getting there required him to come down the mountain to lead me through trails that would challenge a city-bred sedan. Although he had owned the land since the early seventies, he didn't move there until semi-retirement in the nineties.  Now his wife descends the mountain every day to work, while he struggles to make his home self-sufficient. He may want to be independent, but he’s a distant cousin from the long-gone, mountain men who lived off the land. PG&E provides electricity to supplement his solar panels, propane is delivered to his door, a tractor can carve out roads and plow snow, and cell phones keep civilization a touch screen away. Technology is a wonderful way to make a rustic existence comfortable. I even noticed a Verizon Hot Spot winking away on a book shelf to bring the entire World Wide Web directly to his mountain top. The pioneers could only wish they were so lucky.

We had a great afternoon wallowing in nostalgia for our younger days. We have lived very different lives since high school, but reconnected easily. We had been neighbors in high school and had peddled bikes towing surfboards to the beach nearly every day. We learned to surf with a couple of other friends and spent untold hours lazing about the beach; sunning, talking, playing volleyball, and flirting with girls. Growing up at the beach in the sixties was a singular experience and a great way to meander our way to adulthood.