JUNE, 1947 TOMMY AND THE FISH FRY
Ah, joy! An addition to the Sargent family! Two months old, Tommy is when we first see him—a bit on the skinny side, with enormous blue eyes and a voice box that wobbles a bit in his lean throat.
“Don't worry, as soon as he puts on weight, he'll be just fine.” says Mrs. White, our old friend at the Children's Home Society. I vow privately, he's going right back on a midnight feeding, get some flesh on his bones.
Harry Tompkins Sargent we name him, after my Dad. But what he reminds me most of, the first few weeks, is the lovely little lemurs at the San Diego Zoo, small faces with round, lustrous eyes.
But what is startling—his arrival is on the very day of the big SCRIPPS FISH FRY. Marston says later, this astonishing social event, first of its kind, was connected with a scientific conference (AAAS, Pacific Division) to entertain guests. I'm sure I was in on the planning of it—probably also furnished a big salad.
Such a lot of exciting new people on campus these days. Some young scientists who originally came to UCDWR or MPL at Point Loma during 1941-1945, have now transferred over to Scripps; some ex navy officers have returned to obtain delayed PhD's. Among the lively crowd—Jeff and Fran Frautschy, Fred and Mary Sisler, Bob and Virginia Arthur, Bill and Mary Hutton; the Sheldon Cranes. Ted Walker is a new instructor.
Marston is now Assistant Professor of Oceanography. What a fine title! Walter Munk is now Assistant Professor of Geophysics. Dr. Francis Shepard, Associate in Marine Geology, and his accomplished wife Elizabeth and two sons have a lovely home on the side of Mt. Soledad, and often entertain.
The Foxes are now living in the biggest house on campus, the one once occupied by the Revelles, then Jim Ross and family. Jim has now retired, and Carl Johnson is supervisor of Buildings and Grounds. The Flemings have left now for Washington D.C.,
But best of all, we are living back on the Hill, in #27, and the Hintons are living next door in #26. Sam is now Curator of the little old museum and aquarium—which everyone hopes will soon be replaced with a wonderful new building (finally built in 1951). Percy Barnhart is Curator, Emeritus; he and Mrs. Barnhart, their daughter and grandaughter about Jeanie's age are still living on the lower campus.
Sam and Leslie are muy sympatico—they love animals and have a horde of pets. Leannie is a few months younger than Jeanie; they are great pals. Mattie is a year older than our Tommy. How many amusing memories of these friendly-neighbor years!
Take the Hinton two shepherd-type dogs (one is named Dog-Tommy, after our Tom's arrival). These two shepherds work as a team, hunting down rabbits; astonish me by never failing with a quick kill, and fresh meat. And then there's the handsome pet racoon, kept in a cage, who can't be counted on not to nip an unwary finger.
But my sharpest memory is of their beautiful Siamese cat and her kittens. It happens that I'd been hand-raising an orphaned young mourning dove; had just released it, with a survey band, when the Hintons were leaving for a couple of days. I agreed to keep their animal population fed and watered during their absence—they've done the same for us, once or twice.
So I enter the back porch of their house—empty except for mother Siamese and tumbling kittens. But what's this—dove feathers, and one leg with band still intact. My dove has been special dinner for Hinton kittens. Ah well—the Siamese is only “doing what comes natcherly”!
When I occasionally take care of Mattie, of an evening—he is easy to soothe to sleep. Just sing for him, not musically like his folks, but their familiar songs. Like:
Old Bosun is dead and laid in his grave mmmhmm, laid in his grave.
They planted an apple tree over his head
The apples were ripe and ready to fall
There came an old woman a-picking them up
Old Bosun got up and gave her a thump
It made the old woman go hippity hop
If you want any more you can sing it yourself.
(Tommy soon loves this strange song too. As he loves my Dad, who soon comes down for happy visits with his namesake. But when Dad dies in 1949, at the age of 82, the song Old Bosun makes me weep…)
On the other side of us, are Professor George McEwen, his wife Mae, and pretty daughter Dora-Ellen; their son George is grown. Dr. McEwen is a shy and quiet man; Mrs. McEwen is an amiable neighbor, who luckily likes dogs too—between the three families we have half a dozen.
Beyond the McEwens live Martin and Lelia Johnson, and daughter Phyllis, whom we've enjoyed knowing. Phyllis babysits for Jeanie, sometimes. Then Claude and pretty Jean ZoBell, in the house close to the cliff; and the Dale Leippers in the highest and last house.
Carl and Laura Hubbs are living in the Community House, which we can see from our front windows. Marston is fond of telling of “A pink fairy in our cypress.” The optical illusion he gets one morning of a distant Laura, hanging out clothes—a sunlit, doll-like figure in a pink dress, reflected in our windows, as if poised in the dark cypress sprays…
Oh yes, Brian Boden, student from South Africa; and high-spirited Betty Kampa, student of Hubbs, who after a while marries Brian…
So here the Sargents are, on the day of the Fish Fry—with a lovely baby boy. The problem—children are welcome, all families will be there—but how to transport him?
Jeanie is quite mature, in second grade. When people ask her now “What's your name?” she replies “My name is Anne.” So now we're beginning to call her Anne too.
Suddenly she shrieks “I know—we can put him in my doll buggy!”
She's right. He's just fits. Off we go, Anne importantly wheeling her new baby brother down the hill. What a surprise for everyone! He stares up at all the friendly people with those great blue eyes, as interested as they are; has his bottle; drops off to peaceful sleep.
The Fry is held in the wide shallow canyon-mouth, just north of the pier. (Some years later, this whole area becomes the technical and workshop center for Scripps, that it is today.)
Sam, and Jack and others have caught a big netfull of fine fresh fish off the end of the pier; it's all cleaned, ready to go. Into the pot of hot fat go a few fish at a time; out brown and crisp onto paper plates; into eager mouths. After we wives have supervised serving of salad, rolls, coffee, dessert, we all sit down comfortably on the sandy ground, around a big campfire.
Sam, the hero of the day, gets out his guitar, and we sing and sing. Leslie has a high sweet soprano; sometimes she can be persuaded to accompany Sam's fine baritone, teach us a new song. All kinds—with rousing or haunting melodies:
“Love-oh love-oh careless love…”
“I had a bird, and the bird pleased me, and I fed my bird under yonder tree…
“I dreamt I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you or me.
Says I ‘But Joe you're ten years dead.’
‘I never died’ says he.
Old Man Atom “Hiroshima, Nagasakei, Alamagordo, Bikini … Now listen to my thesis
Peace in the world—or the world in pieces.”
A great day, with Sam and the fish fry—and Tommy. (But one family we miss—the Revelles. Roger is still in Washington, D.C., setting up the new ONR—the Office of Naval Research; he heads the Geophysics Branch. And when he does come back, in 1948, it is as Associate Professor of Oceanography, while Dr. Carl Eckart is Director of Scripps, replacing Dr.
In 1950, Dr. Eckart resigns to return to MPL. Roger becomes Acting Director, then Director of Scripps, until 1964.
In 1948, Roger and Walter Munk achieve a scientific triumph: the “SVERDRUP SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY” volume of the Journal of Marine Research. They have collected new oceanographic research articles from eminent scientists throughout the United States, with the Scripps staff fully represented. Marston is glad to be included:
“Marston C. Sargent and Theodore J. Walker: Diatom Populations Associated with Eddies off Southern California in 1941”
The data was collected on ten cruises of the E. W. Scripps in 1941, for Professor W. E. Allen, but he was unable to complete the study before his death, and only after the war could Marston and Ted do the job. Marston tells me in 1973—he thinks this is the best paper he ever wrote.
But he's proudest of the note on the flyleaf:
“To Marston C. Sargent—with warm thanks
for the contribution to this volume and
for years of friendship
from Harald U. Sverdrup”