2. Winter 1937–Spring 1938
People
We are at the Sverdrups—almost all the scientific staff is at the Sverdrups. The steep-roofed, brown, two-story house is set by itself at the north end of our cottage row.
The living room is fairly large, and though panelled in redwood it has been painted white, and the fireplace is cheerily ablaze. On the inner wall are many small oval photographs; I gather, by inspecting them—Dr. Sverdrup's family. Dr. Sverdrup talks easily with his guests. Mrs. Sverdrup is attractive and pleasant.
Now I begin to put families together: bearded Dr. Sumner with Mrs. Sumner; Dr. Moberg with his rosy-cheeked Marian; fair haired Gene LaFond and his friendly Kitty, Black-haired, sulky looking John Lyman with vivacious Jeanette.
The young bachelors who live at the Community House, out on the point, include Marston's good CalTech friend, Dave Michener, who got us into Scripps in the first place. Dave has an open, innocent air, a curly mop of hair, a quick mind coupled with a slow manner of speech.
Another lab assistant is Syd Rittenberg. He's not very tall, and his voice is so quiet, it's almost a monotone. But his eyes are striking—large, brown, intelligent. He has a humorous way with words that sparks off Marston, and soon the two of them are
Another group is clustered around blond, handsome Dick Fleming and his lively wife Alice, gaily chattering. We are soon told of his early PhD in Oceanography at Scripps and his shipboard experience. Louise Redwine is there with her tall young husband; Louise is dressed in black chiffon. (On the way home I say to Marston, “I don't like black on Louise quite so well.” Marston says “Well, I do” with appreciative male sounds. Now I recall the chiffon is sheer in places and shows off her cute figure. Fashion lesson for Peter).
Probably also present (I think, looking back) are the Allens, the Chambers, the ZoBells, the McEwens, the Martin Johnsons—older staff members who live up on the Hill.
My one vivid memory of Mrs. Allen, is at a garden party on the Hill our first summer. Someone introduces us, and she says, “Mercy, I can't keep track of all you newcomers—there are so many of you.” Crestfallen, a little annoyed, I move away. When I got my Masters in Zoology at Berkeley, in 1932, there were some 20,000 students—and here she has six or eight new faces to deplore. I make a vow—I'll never be like that—no I won't.
The same thing happens with Mrs. Vaughan, the wife of the earlier director. When she comes, once or twice, to visit Scripps during these years, she lets the word be known that she does not wish to meet any new people. So never do Marston or I meet her, although many stories about the Vaughans are often repeated legend.
Several other families are living on the campus: big florid Jim Ross, superintendent of buildings and grounds. Jim's wife and Dr. McEwen's wife are sisters. Jim's numerous relatives and friends swirl in and out of no. 24, the largest house on the Hill. Many a rumor we hear about the goings on.
Also on campus are Carl Johnson, head mechanic and highly skilled technician, and his family; Claude Palmer, aquarium assistant, wife and two pretty daughters, Norma and Arlene.
Mrs. Barnhart, living in one of the ocean front cottages, soon
At Mrs. Barnhart's, I also meet Mrs. Bostwick, who lives next door. Her husband is working on the culture of pearls in abalones. I study with attention, his pale pink pearls, in carefully graded sizes, on exhibit in Barney's little museum. Also on exhibit are rather dilapidated stuffed gulls and other birds, and one enormous fat fish, hanging on a wall. (Many years later, this same fish is used as a comic gift for Dr. Carl Hubbs, famous biologist, on occasion of his 70th birthday. Also many years later, I learn that Percy S. Barnhart had at this time a newly published book on marine fishes of Southern California.)
One other well known member of our little community is Obie Mahler. When do I first talk with Obie, as he bangs up to the rear of our yard, in the battered Scripps truck, to collect the garbage and trash? Probably fairly soon. Obie likes to pause and jaw awhile with any wives who happen to be standing around. Affable Obie, with his ready grin, is also a carrier of news—arrivals, departures, you name it. I soon learn that he and his wife like to ride horseback, in fact own their horses, keeping them up on the empty mesa, near the pig farm. He is usually accompanied by whatever dog is living at the Sverdrups—a German shepherd, later a black female bull terrier named Butch. One time, Obie tells me a story about his Doberman Pinscher, which, the first time it saw Obie on horseback, instantly leaped for the horse's throat, causing it to rear and plunge in terror.
Oh yes—Ruth Ragan, Tillie Genter. Two quiet, unassuming, unmarried gals at Scripps we grow to know very well, to trust, to depend on. Tillie is Dr. Sverdrup's secretary. Ruth is the Scripps librarian, keeps all general records. Both gals live in La Jolla; we know nothing of their personal lives. Although they are rumored
Fiddle, Mouse House, Cat
After the first winter rains, suddenly the brown hills are turning brilliant green. One morning, sunlight on the little path up the hill in back of our cottage, beckons me to blue sky —
Up I go, and Fiddle with me —
Ah, Fiddle! Our dog for 15 years—how many memories — Mother gave her to us in Pasadena the first year we were married. “A toy collie” says Mother, plumping the fuzzy pup in my arms. “A colloid dog” says Marston, in private, his blue eyes teasing. Fiddlesticks, he named her, and it stuck. But when we went off on conferences and trips, the folks kept her and grew fond of her, and Mother had her spayed. When I protested, Mother said tartly, “I've taken care of too many puppies” and it was true. All through my childhood, we had slathers of miscellaneous pups, all dearly loved.
So Fiddle was not with us when we came to Scripps, but a pup I acquired in Carmel. Poor unlucky little Jet—she tangled with a wasp nest; caught mange, distemper, finally the fatal chorea. Lonely without a dog. So Mother relented, and Fiddle was free at last to chase seagulls on the beach to her heart's content. The gulls screamed insults, flapping lazily along, just out of her reach, above the surf.
Now, climbing the grassy hill, she happily chases ground squirrels that dart into their holes with indignant, sassy “keecha, keecha”. Golden meadowlarks with black crescents on their breasts sing sweetly in the soft air.
On top of the hill, the ground levels off—with that delightful seaward view of La Jolla, and many small canyons nearby. A couple of dilapidated old wooden buildings stand empty and deserted. They rouse my curiosity —
Back at number 7, one day soon after, Fiddle discovers a large cat, in our yard. Oops—there she goes, in full cry, at top speed.
Out on the porch bursts a young woman with a mass of wavy hair, and a broom. Bam—Fiddle gets that broom, and herself retreats with a yelp. I have followed Fiddle on the run, and say panting, grabbing her by the collar. “Sorry my dog chased your cat. My name is Peter Sargent, in number 7.”
But my wavy-haired neighbor is in no mood for amenities. She stares coldly, grabs her cat and goes inside, slamming the door.
Some time in here self-assured young instructor, Dick Fleming, comes up to the cottage, talking to Marston about research. He pats Fiddle, wagging her tail against his knee.
I remember something …“What about those old wooden buildings up on top of the hill?”
“Oh those were Dr. Sumner's Mouse House … you haven't heard about the Mouse House? He launches with relish into his story. “Of course, Scripps wasn't Oceanography to begin with—it was called the Biological Station, when Dr. Ritter was director. And the road in back of us was called the Biological Grade.” He laughs. “You haven't heard the stories about townspeople calling Scripps “The Booby Hatch” and chortling over hundreds of Sumner's mice—up there in cages in the Mouse House? When I came as a graduate student under Dr. Vaughan, none of us had cars, and there wasn't any way at all to get into La Jolla, except the mail truck that went once a day, at noon. These cottages are ratty, all right. They were only meant to be temporary. Before, visitors camped in tents.”
What did Dr. Sumner keep the mice for?” I ask.
“He was studying genetic strains from different geographic localities. Travelled all over—mountains and desert, catching mice. Trying to find out if a different environment altered the color patterns.”
“Hey” I say, with lively curiosity, “Heredity versus environment” Now we're talking about my field—zoology. “What did he find?”
Our young instructor shakes his head. “Sumner didn't ever get a chance to finish. Dr. Vaughan decided that Scripps should change from Biology to Oceanography. Said the mice would have to go. Too bad—Sumner's experiments with raising many generations were attracting a lot of attention from other scientists who read his papers. He was elected to the National Academy of Science for his genetic work.”
“Why didn't he just pick up and go somewhere else?” I ask indignantly.
“Guess he considered it … guess he didn't want to move. He's raised his family here, bought land cheap from old E. W. Scripps, built his own house up there on the side of the cliff … He got a nervous breakdown over parting with his mice, developed a “tic”, a painful kind of facial neuralgia. A sick man, but now he's over it.”
Marston says cheerfully “Now Dr. Sumner is working on color variations in fish. He and Dr. Fox are both interested in pigments.”
Quickly they are into technical talk again…
Grunion
It is midnight. We are in one of the dank ground floor laboratories of the main Scripps building—a gang of us.
We're excited, wet, hilarious. For hours we've been catching grunion on the beach, running madly after each receding wave to grab the silvery, slippery fish as they come in to spawn, throw them into buckets. A big catch—a fabulous catch!
Now we are cleaning them. Soon we'll be eating them. The big frying pan is waiting at number seven. Already we are ravenous after all that exercise.
“Too bad to waste all this good fish roe” someone says, gutting busily. Suddenly I notice Fiddle, sitting with ears cocked, watching the proceedings. She has joyously partaken in the chase, now she's
“Here, Fiddle” I say, and toss her a plump fish roe. Snap it's swallowed. Bright-eyed, she waits for more.
The others quickly cooperate—roe after raw roe go with the speed of light down Fiddle's gullet…
But suddenly there is a change. Instead of going down—the roe is coming back up—Fiddle's stomach works equally rapidly in reverse direction.
Ah well—no harm. Presently—2 A. M. or so, we are all at number 7—with heaps of slender brown grunion disappearing from our paper plates. Crisp, delicious—what a fish fry!
A Job?
Marston looks up from his lunch one day, says casually “I've been offered a job.”
“What?” I yelp. His one year appointment will run out all too soon. Oh, this uncertain future!
Marston hesitates. He still doesn't look a bit excited. “Our next door neighbor, Harold Smith (not his real name). He says he needs an assistant. Would pay well, too …” His voice trails off…
Excitedly, I mull this over. This Harold Smith is not on the staff; he's at Scripps temporarily, doing some Navy research. We've both talked to him, occasionally. He is tall, somewhat thin, with black hair and eyes, but a strangely white skin. Something cadaverous about him, but he is still an impressively good looking guy. He talks a lot. His wife Emily is small, quiet, sort of scared-looking. I've talked with her over the back fence. They have a cute little boy Jimmy, pale and big-eyed. Also two yappy little chihuahuas.
But a job is a job. “Gosh, when does it start? How much?” I'm bubbling over with joy.
Marston looks me in the eye. He says slowly “I'm not going to take it.”
“Why not?” I ask incredulously.
Marston shrugs. “Don't know, exactly. Job sounds O. K. But I don't like the guy much. Don't think I could work with him.”
“Oh dear.” I groan. We need so many things. Like the old Chevy touring car has lost its fabric top. “The Topless Towers of Ilium” Marston calls it. He did slap a coat of paint on the body—battleship gray.
And only yesterday, lean, pale Harold Smith called us out in front of his house to see his gorgeous new Chrysler sedan. Yikes, what a creation—a mile long, bright yellow, dripping with chrome. Quiet little Emily has also shown me their brand new furniture, including a big shiny Victor phonograph.
And me, still stuck with that squeaky iron cot in the living room. At least I've put a cotton cover over it.
I think rebelliously—Marston doesn't even have a reason for not liking Smith. But I say nothing more.
Accident
In the middle of the night, sound asleep in bed—a terrifying crash of splintering glass jolts us upright.
A horrid silence follows. Hastily we scramble into jeans, Marston grabs his big flashlight, we rush out into blackness. Horrors! Just across the road from us, in low weeds, a small coupe lies rolled over, wheels up, the fresh skid marks in the dirt showing its path from the road.
What of its occupants? In dread, we approach, peer in.
Two live faces peer back at us, out of a welter of jagged glass. Gingerly, we help them clamber out, miraculously uncut, but seeming in a state of shock. We bring them back to our cottage. Marston goes to phone a garage; I make coffee, they regain their composure. “What happened?” I ask.
The young man says sheepishly “Coming from La Jolla, didn't know the road narrows, bends, right here…”
In a couple of hours, the car has been towed away, the couple
Dr. Coe
One day, out on the pier, I see approaching me, a sprucely dressed, elderly gentleman. “Hello” I say with a grin.
He look surprised, but answers “Good day”.
I ask Marston who he is. “That's Dr. Wesley Coe, a retired Yale professor. Lives in La Jolla, and has some laboratory space for research.”
Later Dr. Coe tells Marston “I can't get over it. In California, people speak to you when they meet you on the street. That never happens in New England.”
My Bostonian husband nods “He's right.”
We have Dr. Coe to dinner one night in number 7. He tells us he is looking for a special, rare mollusk, about as big as a half dollar. With a double shell, sort of like a small clam.
He says “There are lots of small ones and big ones—its this intermediate size I want. I'll give a dollar bill to any one who'll find me a live one.”
I love to walk on the beach. I'll watch out—I have sharp eyes. I'm far sighted.
The beach is full of fascinating critters, anyway. North of the pier are the rocks and the tide pools. They are always scuttling with all sizes of crabs, and waving with the flower-like sea anemones. Marston alerts us to the specially low tides. Then the eel grass is exposed, and under the slippery green strands are the deep-hidden cracks with eels, lobsters and abalones. But already it is forbidden to eat these lobsters and abalones. The Scripps property is a preserve.
But even the smooth sandy stretches of beach south toward La Jolla have pretty sand dollars, and many tiny shells. One day I observe a group of shorebirds digging industriously with long bills. Godwits, with cinnamon feathers and curved bills, black-and-white winged Willets—what are they after? Curiously I approach, reluctantly they fly. In the moist grey sand are a wriggling of tiny
But I am looking for live, double-shelled mollusks. So one day, in the wet sand as a wave recedes, I find Dr. Coe a healthy live specimen of his half-dollar mollusk.
Triumphantly I race back to the lab with it. Goodie, with that dollar I can buy myself an hour's horseback ride—a treat I haven't had yet this year.
But our retired Yale professor can't bring himself to give a lady a crass dollar bill. Nossir. What I get is a beautiful box of candy. Drat! Sure—I like chocolates—love 'em in fact. But I love horses more.
Those wretched cottages
“Gee—the water tastes terrible” I mutter one morning, shaking the glass I'm drinking from. The solution seems equal parts of diluted mud, chlorine and rust.
Marston says “Been talking to Obie Mahler. He took me up on the hill, showed me some of the pipes where they've rusted away. Says even some of the old wooden pipes are still being used. The water drips out into little pools. Then sometimes the water gets sucked back into the lower pipe again. Great!”
“The aquarium sure is having trouble with leaky pipes, too.” I observe.
“Yes—a lot of things need fixing. Ours isn't the only cottage with troubles.” He goes in and jiggles the long chain in the bathoom to make the high flush tank on the old toilet stop running.
One evening, some weeks later, all of us who live on campus, husbands and wives, upper and lower cottages, are sitting in the second story library reading room. We are listening intently.
Dr. Sverdrup is speaking. “Some money and labor will be available from the WPA (Works Progress Administration) for improvement of the cottages. The Regents of the University have approved this use of the funds. Now, what improvements are most
What a gasp goes up! Oh the peeling paint. The cracks in the walls. The rough splintery floors. The outdated plumbing. The dampness because of no foundations. In the winter, the only heat those wood-burning iron stoves in the front room, with their rusty stovepipes.
“Will it raise the rents?” asks someone cautiously.
“Perhaps three or four dollars a month.” Dr. Sverdrup guesses. “Depending on the improvements made.”
We sigh with relief. YES—we want improvements. But oh—we younger ones—we're strapped for dough.
Dr. Sverdrup says, “I suggest you set another meeting for next week, at which time you can elect an official chairman and committee to study the situation and propose needed repairs and improvements.”
The evening arrives. “I nominate for chairman_____” says someone. The nominee is a young, assistant professor. A reasonable choice.
Syd Rittenberg stands up quietly. He says in his gentle voice “I nominate Marston Sargent.”
I gasp. Marston has only a temporary job. What chance has Marston? But when the votes are counted, Marston has won! We learn afterward, Syd has quietly contacted all the other students, who gladly vote for Marston. Syd is a born organizer. (Syd later becomes the successful Director of the Bacteriology Department at the University of California at Los Angeles).
Representatives from both the Hill and the lower cottages make up the Tenant's Committee. Marston and the others spend odd hours for months, tramping around from cottage to cottage, making lists, estimating priorities.
At the same time, money is also happily available for the needed repairs on the little aquarium; and the Community House, which forms a sort of flop house for bachelor students, will once again become a social meeting place. And all the old water pipes are replaced.
What do I want most for “little old number seven”? Oh what a lovely prospect to think about!
Let's see. In addition to the new toilet—paint for the living room. The rough boards are dark brown, picking up cobwebs, giving off splinters. The Sverdrup's big living room is light. Let ours be light! Ditto the bedroom. No, just cream-colored trim for that dreary straight blue.
As for that dark, cubby-hole bathroom on the east side—a wild, delightful idea! Cut a window right through the wooden wall. It is done. How the sun pours in. Mornings, I throw casement window wide—looking happily up the path to the top of the eucalyptus covered hill.
But if I want to take a bath, or a car should wander down that lonesome road, disturbing my perfect privacy—I can always close the window again.
Red Tide
After supper one evening, Marston says mysteriously “Come down to the beach.” We walk south of the Scripps grounds, and I gasp in amazement.
The tide is very low. Every time a long curl of wave breaks, it explodes like fire, shimmering and gleaming. Then the glow dies down until the next wave bursts with light.
“What's happening?”
“It's a phosphorescent bloom of microscopic dinoflagellates.” says Marston. “Doesn't happen often.”
Watching this extraordinary show, we almost run into a car, stuck in the sand, way out. A man and two small children stand helplessly.
Marston and I help him push, but already the tide is turning, sinking it deeper. “Going to be a record high” says Marston, going to phone for a tow truck. The man and I stand waiting, his kids tumbled sleepily on the sand; two cars on the bluff above us shine their headlights blindingly on us, drive away.
The tow truck arrives; block and tackle pull mightily. Only a few feet gained, when a great wave hits with a roar, breaks in fiery splendor—completely over the car, burying the truck to its mudguards.
“I'm getting out of here” says the truck driver hastily. “I'll come back at dawn, get your car out then—what's left of it.” It's already midnight. Man, kids, driver take off in the truck for La Jolla.
Next morning, the car is gone, the beach empty.
But a couple of days later—a strange woman stops Marston on a La Jolla street. “Aren't you Dr. Sargent of Scripps?”
“Yes.” he says, puzzled. She smiles “You helped my husband on the beach … the paint on the car was a total loss, but the motor was O. K., thank goodness.” She gives a little laugh. “Funny thing about La Jolla, such a small town and rumors going round. Seems someone saw our car on the beach, and I got an anonymous phone call “Your husband was on the beach last night—with a blonde.”
Marston laughs, telling me this. I laugh too. “Lucky the light wasn't good—they couldn't see it was only a dishwater blonde.”
Easter eggs
Well, there's a new lawn in by the tennis courts! How pretty it looks! No longer will gardener Bill Simmons tether his cow here. No longer will John Lyman follow the cow around with a shovel and pail, collecting manure for his flourishing front garden.
Someone gets a lovely idea. “Let's give an Easter Egg Hunt for the small fry. “Let's” says Jeanette, bright-eyed. The other gals join us. It's a gay affair—a number of children of assorted ages show up. Perhaps I first meet here, sweet-faced Margaret ZoBell, and her two handsome little boys, Karl and Dean. I remember little golden-haired Betsy Fleming, and her lively mother, Alice Fleming—fun to get acquainted.
Cliffs
An item in the San Diego Union, as well as the La Jolla paper: Herbert Sumner, about 19, has rescued a careless hiker off of that dangerous cliff close to the Sumner house. Threw him a rope where he clung to a narrow ledge, hauled him up. Every so often someone tries to climb up or down—it really looks almost possible—sometimes he's saved; sometimes not…
Jeepers—look at the Los Angeles Times for April 10, 1938:
EXPLORING WONDERS OF THE DEEP AT THE SCRIPPS INSTITUTION OF OCEANOGRAPHY
A whole page of handsome photographs, and there's Marston, big as life, right in the center. He's holding an enormous glass flask, above a laboratory table full of smaller flasks, the mouth of each stuffed with cotton. He's wearing a white lab coat, and his straight black pipe is clutched firmly in his teeth. The caption reads:
“GROWING MARINE PLANTS IN THE LABORATORY. Dr. Marston Sargent is shown with flasks containing millions of microscopic plants which are the pasturage of the sea. These plants are called diatoms and are so small that they cannot be seen by the naked eye. Diatoms are growing in the large flask, as well as in those on the bench.”
Another paragraph reads:
“In the great pasturage of the sea, tiny plants called diatoms, individually invisible to the naked eye, are grazed on by tiny animals, distant relatives of the shrimps and crabs, whereas larger animals eat these and these in turn are eaten by the fish, and even by the largest of all animals, whales. Also in the sea are bacteria, which play the same roles as those on land; some cause diseases of the ocean plants and animals,
― 98 ―others destroy the waste materials and dead things. To find out how many of these there are, what they eat and what eats them, scientists of the Scripps Institution of Oceanography at La Jolla are engaged in exploring the ocean depths off Southern California. Also, as an aid to navigation, they are charting ocean currents, as well as studying the climate over the ocean.”
Well! Certainly nice to find out all that. Familiar faces of other members of the staff show Dick Fleming kneeling on the pier with a “CURRENT METER used to measure the velocity and direction of the ocean currents.”
Gene LaFond is pointing with a pencil to the plaster-of-paris model of the “the great deep”—the astonishingly steep-walled underwater canyon located off the Institution. Caption: SEA HAS CANYONS OF ITS OWN “This model represents the most detailed survey of the sea bottom ever made.”
Dr. George F. McEwen, “CHARTING CONDITIONS IN THE SEA” shown with “A mechanical computer which eliminates many hours of ordinary calculation based on winds, currents and other factors.”
Dr. Martin Johnson “SCIENTIST COLLECTS SEA LIFE” One view of Dr. Johnson with a pole and net, in a long surf line of tide. The other wading in hip boots below the Scripps pier. “The mussels and other animals shown on the piling live most of their lives out of the water, as they are exposed by the fall of the tide. This is most uncommon, as few marine animals can survive out of water.”
I'm bursting with pride. Not only that Marston, the newest guy on the staff, should have his work with diatoms featured—but that Scripps itself should be explained so well.
Scripps, under Dr. Sverdrup is going places!
And Marston is a member of the team.
Something else good happens for him. A formal invitation to join Sigma Xi. This is the “PhD society”—that is a PhD is the
May, 1938
Now comes the big day—that makes such a change in our lives. Marston comes home beaming, gives me a big hug.
“Hey—did I ever get a break! Guess what—Denis Fox has just heard, he has been granted a fellowship to Cambridge, England for a year.”
“That's good?” I ask.
“You bet—for both of us. His family came from England—he's delighted to go. He'll take Miriam and the boys. He's leaving this summer. And me … What a grin lights his face!
“Dr. Sverdrup just told me, I'm to be an instructor—with a one year appointment, and fifty dollars more a month.”
“What will you do?”
“Carry on the research we've been doing, while Denis is gone. Research on pigments, chlorophyll, run the lab…”
Never mind details. He's got the job—no more worry about jobs for a whole year…
We do a crazy dance of joy.
Hitler
How far away from our peaceful Pacific Coast seems the ugly Civil War in Spain, and the rise of the new dictator, Franco. Hitler has just invaded and taken over Austria, disturbing news indeed. And on the other side of the Pacific, Japan has conquered China, even taking over Shanghai. An ominous note, we'd rather not think about.
It's more fun to laugh about “Wrong Way Corrigan” flying to
Exit Topless Towers
Ah how marvellous—our old gray battleship has vanished from our scene. No more its erratic puffing up hills, its wet chilly depths in winter. We are now the proud owners of a sedan (well anyway I wanted a sedan), A Chevy sedan, glass enclosed, shiny, softly purring. O.K. so it's not new, several years old in fact, it's one heck of a lot better than we had before, and the monthly payments we can handle—$25.83 a month.
Coming up in the world!
(Note: 1972 Memory plays strange tricks. I find in my early Scripps files a well-thumbed gray booklet:
AMERICAN ASSOCIATION for the ADVANCEMENT of SCIENCE
Program of the Twenty-Second Annual Meeting of the Pacific Division A.A.A.S. and Associated Societies
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
June 20–25, 1938
I carry the booklet in to show Marston, saying, “I don't remember this at all!”
“Me, either.” says Marston. We leaf through it together.
On page 22, under AMERICAN PHYSICAL SOCIETY is a listing:
Thursday, June 23, 1:30 p.m.
Scripps Institution of Oceanography, La Jolla
Joint Session with the Oceanography Society of the Pacific Symposium PHYSICAL PROBLEMS OF THE OCEAN
Introductory Remarks H. U. Sverdrup
Problems of Sand Movement in Coastal Regions of California
Problems Relating to the Distribution of Sedimentary Material in the Sea. Roger Revelle.
The Behavior of Small Particles in Sea Water W.E. Allen
Problems Suggested by Turbulence. H.U. Sverdrup and G.F. McEwen
Thermodynamical Theory of Temperature Gradients in the Sea at Great Depths. R.D. Gordon.
On page 33, under WESTERN SOCIETY OF NATURALISTS
Thursday, June 23, 2 p.m.
Library, Zoo Hospital
Do Marine Bacteria Require Accessory Growth Substances? H. David Michener, Scripps Inst. of Oceanography
Induced Biochemical and Physiological Changes in the Brine Flagellate, Dunaliella saline. Denis L. Fox and Marston C. Sargent Scripps Inst. of Oceanography
I say to Marston, “But there are no check marks by either of these meetings. How come?”
Marston says “Denis was giving our joint paper.” We find a yellow sheet tucked into the A.A.A.S. booklet, showing what meetings he did attend. On Tuesday and Wednesday, meetings of the Western Section, AMERICAN SOCIETY OF PLANT PHYSIOLOGISTS. Special symposiums on SALT Tolerance of Plants and Related Problems; and Plant Invasion on the Pacific Coast.
But on Thursday, June 23 at 2 P.M. Marston is at a joint session of the Plant Physiologists with the Pacific Section of the Botanical Society of America—a Symposium: A RESUME OF PROGRESS IN PLANT SCIENCE.
Besides Marston's old friend F.W. Went of CalTech, speaking on Plant Hormones, none other than my brother-in-law “W.
”I don't remember seeing Bill at all” I say to Marston in 1972. I presume my sister did not come down from Pacific Grove; her baby Elizabeth was only about a year old at the time. On the phone, my sister confirms this.
One other note of historical perspective on this 1938 A.A.A.S. booklet: on the same page 22 with the Scripps speakers, is listed a Joint Session of the American Physical Society with the Astronomical of the Pacific for a Symposium: NUCLEAR TRANSFORMATIONS AND THEIR ASTROPHYSICAL SIGNIFICANCE. W.A. Fowler, “Nuclear Reactions as a Source of Energy”. And another speaker, “The Physical Problem of Stellar Energy”. Name of J.R. Oppenheimer.
A postscript to this unremembered conference is a vivid memory indeed.
It is September 1938. Marston and I are in a big strange harbor (at San Pedro). We are seeing Bill Arnold, and his wife, my sister Jean, and little Elizabeth off on the Danish Freighter Berganger.
The baby is now an eager toddler. They fasten a leather harness on her so she won't fall overboard.
I hug my dear tall sister. They will be gone a whole year, while Bill works with the renowned Danish physicist Dr. Niels Bohr, at his laboratory in Copenhagen. What an experience for them!
There's an odd air of mystery about this whole trip. Exactly what is Bill working on? He doesn't say. Marston is also uncommunicative. Not for years will I understand the full significance of this year with Niels Bohr…
But what was I doing this summer of 1938?
Of course, of course—I was up to my ears in my own exciting scientific project—SEA GULLS…