When she was little, my dear sweetie pie daughter and I were strolling down the ancient wooden sidewalks of Melody Ranch a few days before the Cowboy Music & Poetry Fest. Amen, boy howdy. Was that a ways ago. We stepped into a saloon and, against her better judgment, climbed up on the stage to belt out a Willie Nelson duet.
My little girl is 22 now, in her final days of a snooty and expensive East Coast college. To this day, she can be a shy thing. Back then? After her song? She asked me if there was a way for her to be famous without anyone actually seeing her.
“Radio?” I smirked. It wouldn’t do to have two novelists in the same family.
Her shoulders rounded, the automatic response daughters offer dads. She slowly shook her head, that giant brain of hers calculating that people recognizing you is the main drawback of glory.
My pal and Cowboy Hall of Fame stuntman, rodeo star and possessor of the best smile on planet Earth, Placerita Canyon’s own Andy Jauregui, was famous. He handled it well. That dear, sweet man could balance a tea tray on his hat, climb aboard a bucking bronco, open the chute and not spill a drop of English Breakfast. That Andy was tough as nails, sweet as cherry pie. One of his four daughters, Noureen, informed me that I was her son and there was nothing I could do about it. Looking at weathered photo albums? Those Jauregui girls were heartbreaking, stunning movie star gorgeous. Andy was just plain rugged handsome. I’d sit with him in his last days, holding a muscular, weathered hand that, as God’s miracle, had effortlessly accomplished so much hard work. He was good friends with William S. Hart. And John Wayne. And Roy Rogers and a who’s who of Hollywood. Noureen shared a story.
During World War II, Andy let the Navy (ours) put up a radar station on a hilltop on their Placerita Canyon ranch. His neighbor back then? Walt Disney. Three sailors and an ensign were toiling to put up a tower and Andy came riding up, dismounting as his horse was still skidding to a stop at 1,000 mph. In one fluid move, he was still running from the dismount. His index finger was a half-inch from the young naval officer’s nose and Andy barked that he didn’t care WHO the United States of America was fighting. But, if he caught ANY of the sailors glancing at ANY of his hubba-hubba teenage daughters let alone make a pass at them, Andy gestured toward the gloomy Angeles National Forest and assured no amount of corpse-sniffing dogs would ever find the bodies. The sailors did everything except salute Andy. Noureen laughed, noting it odd there was nothing she nor her sisters could do to attract any naval attention.
I’ll never forget that old cowpuncher (his Basque family of 12 siblings were first shepherds in Santa Paula) laughing so hard years later about a couple of movie stars visiting his ranch. He was giving cowboy lessons to a handsome leading man. The actor’s love and equal at the box office was sitting high atop the corral. This was in the 1930s. Back then? There were maybe a thousand souls in the Santa Clarita.
Growing up and into the 21st century, the only time I locked my doors was when I went on vacation. There was the old SCV farming joke that the only time ANYONE in town locked their doors was during harvest because you’d come home to find a neighbor had piled a few hundred pounds of fruits and vegetables on your dining room table.
Andy recalled that he and his bride, Camille, were at first, mildly surprised, as a few cars starting winding down the dirt road to their ranch as the cowboy lessons were progressing. Then, it went from What The Heck? to Science Fiction Weird as dozens, followed by several hundred, old Model T’s and the newer big, cartoonish 1930s models rolled up to the corral. Some even rode in on horseback. Unlike Santa Clarita’s condominium collections, the Jauregui Ranch had mucho room for visitors’ parking.
Car doors slammed. Smiles as wide as the American prairie spread. Friends, neighbors and locals hardly qualifying as acquaintances held freshly baked pies and bread loaves, bags of fruits, nuts and even a hastily put-together casserole. Grinning sheepishly, almost everyone in that parking lot offered the same giant surprised smile and lie.
“Gee, Andy. Didn’t know you had company. Sorry. In the neighborhood and just came by to drop off a little food. Who’s your friends?”
You see, the lanky, muscular handsome actor with the trademark moustache and boyish grin in the arena with Andy trying to figure out which end of the rope you were supposed to throw was Clark Gable. Hair tied back in a simple bandana, no evening gown or make-up, Clark’s girlfriend was the beautiful and ill-fated Gene Harlow.
Today I’d bet that if superstar Brad Pitt was at North Oaks Park, playing catch, word would get out. In a blink, you’d have a bona fide traffic jam of people trying to get a close-up glimpse. But? I don’t think it would make it to six-figure numbers of Santa Claritans.
What is that gene within us that makes us crazy abuzz at the thought of seeing someone famous? What kicks in that brings a goofy smile, melts our skeletons and turns us to an unabashed state of worship at seeing dictator, thespian or lute player, all filled with their own personal plusses and minuses, as if they were gods?
Funny story about Noureen. A handsome working cowboy/stuntman stayed with the Jauregui’s. As a lovestruck teen, my pretend mom Noureen swore someday she’d marry him. Never did. That Ben Johnson. He’d go on to make something of himself, including winning an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in “The Last Picture Show” …
John Boston is a local writer.
