Richard chamberlain now 2021 zip#

Television scenes are limited by the varying skills of the actors, and especially by limited production budgets-you get only what the producers can afford. I loved listening to radio dramas and fairy tales and mysteries. And it was the golden age of radio-soap operas and music, dramas and news, on weekdays, and an extravaganza of comedy and variety shows on the weekends: Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Fred Allen, Red Skelton. Who needed TV? We had the movies, at ten cents a double bill. The Good Humor man drove by too, ringing real bells. We kids used to clamor after the truck, begging for chunks to lick on hot summer days. Some of our neighbors still had iceboxes instead of the newfangled fridges, so the ice truck trundled down our street every other day, delivering big blocks of ice.

Richard chamberlain now 2021 zip#

There were no freeways, no tall buildings in L.A., no jet planes, no zip codes, no smog, no TV-and consequently no video games, no computers or cell phones, no drugs or guns at school. There were five of us: Chuck and Elsa, my father and mother Bill, my brother and soon Nonnie, my wonderful maternal grandmother. My folks took out a thirty-five-year mortgage and bought a three-bedroom, one-and-a-quarter-bathroom house for a hefty seven thousand dollars. In short, the wrong side of the now-vanished streetcar tracks. Alas, it was to the normal, pre-90210 part of that glittering town, the wrong side of Wilshire Boulevard-and, even worse, the wrong side of Beverly Drive. I was born in Los Angeles during the Great Depression and was quickly whisked off to Beverly Hills. That is, it didn’t come again in quite that way until a few days ago, over sixty years later. Several times after this magical day I climbed up and sat in the same place on the wall hoping to repeat the mysterious experience. But I did very much want it, whatever it was, to come back. I had no urge to talk about this experience with my parents or friends. I simply felt a vibrant, alert peace, and I loved the feeling. At seven I had no context, no knowledge that would have allowed me to name and understand what was happening. Of course I couldn’t have described any of this at the time. I experienced absolute simplicity and peace. I only know that my thinking went silent, and my sense of self disappeared. I don’t know how long this lasted-probably not more than half an hour, possibly less.

There seemed to be observation, but no observer. And in this stillness I was observing everything around me with complete neutrality, with no thought at all.

It was almost as if I wasn’t even breathing, almost as if I’d become part of the wall, part of the tree. I gazed up at the overhanging branches and hoped some of our local feathered friends-mockingbirds, blue jays, and doves-would come to visit me.Īs I sat there motionless, something absolutely new happened to me. A light summer breeze ruffled the leaves as I watched the occasional car or pedestrian pass on the street. For want of a better idea I climbed the walnut tree and sat on the wall, leaning back against the restful curve. None of my pals seemed to be around, and I was bored. One hot afternoon, during summer vacation from grammar school, I wandered in the yard looking for something to do. Inside this corner an old ornamental walnut tree spread its branches over the terra-cotta tile roof, keeping the dining room cool.Īs kids, we often climbed this nonproducing tree and charged around the patio walls and roof like demented monkeys, terrifying my mother, who would run out and urge us down to safer ground. The outside wall met the house in an upward curve that formed a comfortable backrest for little kids like me who liked to sit on walls. I grew up in a single-story house, somewhat Mediterranean in style, fronted by a patio with high, thick walls.