Tom Pearson, Del Mar's only 5-time mayor, has compiled interesting and exciting stories he has written through the years that were published in newspapers. Included in the book are stories contributed by friends of Tom that add to the interesting eye witness accounts of the history of Del Mar as it unfolds during its 50 years of being a city. Tom Pearson takes you on an up close and personal journey through his childhood days in Maine, sharing both his high and low points. These include Tom contracting polio in young adulthood, going on to graduate from Harvard and MIT, marrying his love Christine, moving to Del Mar, raising a family, 50 years of Del Mar City politics, people of Del Mar, and much more!

Exceptional Fortitude

The Life Of Tom B. PearsonBy Tom B. Pearson

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Tom B. Pearson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-2533-9

Contents

Dedication..................................................vPreface.....................................................xiWho Am I In Del Mar???......................................xixChapter 1 Life Before Del Mar..............................1Chapter 2 Del Mar 60s......................................17Chapter 3 Del Mar 70s......................................48Chapter 4 Del Mar 80s......................................117Chapter 5 Del Mar 90s......................................241Chapter 6 Del Mar 2000.....................................311Chapter 7 Remembering Maine and Family.....................421

Chapter One

Life Before Del Mar

When I Was a Little Boy

My parents bought a summer house in Kittery Point, Maine many years ago. I was a summer baby, born in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where the hospital was across the Piscataqua River from Kittery Point. My brother, Drew still lives in that house, looking out towards the Isles of Shoals where the submarine, Squalus, sank on a trial dive in 1939.

Our summers in Maine were spent right by the water with our own cove, beach and picnic point at the mouth of the cove. As a result, we were boat oriented. My father bought a 12' skiff from the lighthouse keeper, a man named Maynard Farnsworth who was part Indian. He built the boat in his spare time. No plans, just by eye.

Paul and I learned to row in that boat. Rowing built up our bodies and taught us the mysteries of the ocean currents and waves. One of the grand summer events was to row out the Whalesback Light to visit all of who tended the lighthouse in shifts, Skipper White, Ally and Maynard Farnsworth. Sometimes we'd go when there was a light fog, not enough to keep us ashore, but enough to cause the fog horn to be turned on.

The horn was driven by a diesel engine that ran a big air compressor, which blew the horn. It was deafening when the horn went off right over your head. But the keepers were so used to it that they would just stop talking for the five seconds of the blast and then pick up the conversation, as if nothing had happened.

They loved our visits for the company-it gets lonesome out there in a cylindrical home on the top of a rock pile. Our visits always ended with a trip inside the tower, up through the kitchen and living quarters to the very top where the light was housed. The prisms of the light were always sparkling clean. The weights and gears were well oiled. You see, the light was fuelled by kerosene, but the power to turn the prism was derived from weights which were cranked up by hand, just like an old grandfather's clock.

A few years later, Paul and I wanted to learn to sail. Mr. Farnsworth, when he didn't have to tend the light came over in his power boat on weekends to add a centreboard, a mast step, and a rudder to our skiff. We went out into the woods to look for suitable spruce trees for the mast and boom. Mr. Farnsworth was very particular, but when he found the right tree, there was no uncertainty. We cut it down, trimmed the branches, and hauled it back to the house where we planed off the bark.

Mother and Aunt Ellen made the sail, carefully stitching the mast hoops to the eyes. And Aunt Ellen taught us to sail. By golly, it was a lot better than rowing, even though the boat was slow and poor going to windward.

One Sunday, we sailed into the harbour to watch the sailboat races. These were big boats, all of 18 to 20 feet long, compared to our little 12 footer. Their masts towered 28 feet in the air, and they had a mainsail and a jib. We made the mistake of crossing their course, and one skipper shouted rudely at us, "Get out of the way, we're racing!" I can still hear him today!

We dreamed about getting a bigger boat, and perused boat building books and Mechanics Illustrated magazine. The summer before my freshman year in high school, Dad sent me a clipping from the Washington Post announcing the need for carriers. By that time Paul was approaching his second year at Exeter, but I was returning to Washington, D.C. to continue at Sidwell Friends. I called the phone number in the ad when I got back to Washington, D.C. and landed a job as carrier for a route in my neighbourhood.

You would not have recognised me in those days. I was a very shy boy, having grown up in the shadow of a smarter, more athletic and all-around more capable older brother. So, it took a lot of courage to start this job. But once the phone call was made, it was more difficult to back down than it was to go ahead; and I wanted to make some money so that we could buy the materials to build a boat the next summer.

The route manager called for me the first morning, took me down to the corner where my papers had been delivered, and introduced me to the boy who I was replacing. I was to get two days of training before being turned loose on my own.

They gave me a canvas bag with Washinton Post emblazoned on the side and a shoulder strap. I was just barely able to stuff the 70 papers that constituted the first half of my route into the bag.

Papers were thrown in that neighbourhood, because the houses were set well back from the sidewalk. I had to learn to roll them, and lock the roll, so the paper would hold together in flight. I had a route book which fit into my hip pocket. It gave me the addresses of all the customers. But in the darkness of 5:30 A.M. it was often hard to find the numbers. The first few days, there were a lot of complaints about missed papers. The special delivery for each missed paper cost me 25 cents. I made only one dollar covering the whole route. The first week I lost a lot of money!!

The first Sunday, I arrived at the corner to find a stack of papers higher than my waist. I couldn't possibly carry them all. No one had warned me! So, I loaded up, delivered as many as I had, and then came back to the starting corner to load up again. That was a slow Sunday, but by the next Sunday, I had a new wagon, only it put me deeper in the hole financially. No one had told me about the capital investment that would be required for this business!

Every day, rain or shine or ice storms when I could hardly stay on my feet or snow storms where I could have used snow shoes, I got up at 5:30 every morning, except Sundays when I could sleep until 6:00. I often did my homework after returning to the house or went back to sleep on the couch in the living room. I was always in bed by eight, so there wasn't much partying.

Saturday evening, I would walk the route and collect. Some people paid promptly, others were slow. Nobody took care of me if a subscriber moved without paying his bill. It was my loss.

But by the end of the year, I had saved up $200 and that was enough to buy a kit to build a Lightning Class sailboat. That job also built up the strength in my chest and shoulders. I hadn't thought of it until just now, but it was delivering those thousands of papers that prepared my body for using crutches only six years later.

Paul and I worked hard that summer of 1941 building the boat. Pop had bet us that we couldn't finish it before the summer was over. He had presented us a wartime motivational banner, TIME IS SHORT, which we nailed to the garage wall. But, we did finish it before Labor Day, launched it, and sailed it.

Teenage Years

I went to Exeter in the fall of 1941. Mother had told me that she didn't think I would want to leave home, but I thought I was supposed to go to Exeter. My father and Uncle Drew went there, my brother was there and I had always followed my brother. I also followed him onto the soccer field, where I played on the varsity for two years. (I still have my varsity sweater!)

Running along the rocks in Maine had prepared us for soccer. We were both superb dribblers, fast on our feet, as well as quick to stop and reverse direction. We used to chase each other, when we were younger, jumping from one boulder to another at low tide, always looking ahead to the next step, while being sure of the landing on the rock in front of us. I don't recall ever slipping or falling.

The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor that year. The school program changed overnight. Some teachers left immediately and enlisted in the military. They were replaced with teachers who had recently retired and were called back to the classroom. Rationing began. Gasoline and butter were in short supply. When we traveled back to Washington, D.C. from vacation, the trains were often "standing room only." There was always a rush to get across Boston on the subway, to make the connection from North Station to South Station. We always made it, because we could run and dodge, having grown up running over the rocks in Maine.

The farm labor was in short supply, so some of us volunteered to help with the fall harvest of apples and potatoes. The farmer would sign up with the school and provide transportation out to the farms in the country. We were excused from physical education in the afternoons to work on the farms. I learned how to dig potatoes. Dig is probably the wrong word; a machine actually dug them up and left them on the surface of the soil. I had to load them into bushel boxes while trying to keep the rocks from showing up as potatoes. If I worked fast, shoving the box ahead of me down the row, I could load 20 bushels an hour. At a nickel a bushel, I earned $1.00 per hour.

I didn't do as well with apples. The ladder technique was really quite difficult. Potatoes didn't require a ladder. I could make more money.

In the winter I helped shovel out the switchyards of the Boston & Maine Railroad. That wasn't as much fun as potatoes, either.

Education was accelerated. Those boys who were a few months older, and would be eligible for the draft before graduation, joined the AP (accelerated placement) program and studied through the summer. The war was on everyone's mind. Recruiters visited the campus to pick those who would be officer candidates. The Navy was offering an aviation training program, designated V-5. I enlisted to be a flyer.

I traveled to Boston for the physical exam, and was proud to finish with a perfect score. So I knew that I was headed for the Navy as soon as I graduated from Exeter. I didn't turn eighteen until August after graduation, by which time I had already received my orders.

But I didn't really feel like I was in the Navy, even though I wore a sailor's uniform. I was back in school at a college the Navy had taken over in Emmitsburg, Maryland. I'd never heard of Mt. St. Mary's college before. I learned firsthand the difference between a good education and mediocre schooling. At Mt. St. Mary's I simply repeated much of the work I had already completed at Exeter. But I was getting closer to an airplane!

At the end of the term, in June, I learned how much closer I was really going to get. We were sent for interim duty to the Patuxent River Naval Air Station in Virginia. We were still Apprentice Seamen, the lowest of the low, earning $50 per month. It retrospect, I think the Navy's purpose was to teach us humility as one of the qualities of an officer. Our first job was to work for Naval Air Transport Squadron VR-1. No not flying, polishing the skin of the airplane. The twin-engine transports were pretty big, but the four engine planes had a lot more surface. You could fall asleep on top of the wing and never be missed.

I spent the summer polishing airplanes and cleaning bathrooms for a comprehensive course in humility. Then I was shipped out to another St. Mary's, this one being Pre-Flight School in Walnut Creek, California. It seemed like six months of rain, but I'm sure the sun shone part of the time. At least I received a promotion to Aviation Cadet! The promotion made me feel closer to an airplane, and at the end of six months, I was on my way to Glenview Naval Air Station for my first flight. The Primary Trainer was a bi-plane covered in yellow fabric and two cockpits. There were affectionately known as Yellow Perils.

But by then the war was over and the government didn't really need my flying skills. I opted to be discharged, as opposed to a new four-year hitch. Another major decision in my life redirected me to Europe.

My family was living in Sevres, just outside of Paris, where my father was Bureau Chief for the International News Service, a Hearst organization. As soon as I got out of the Navy, I took a boat to Europe.

Paul, who had been there for several months before I arrived, had planned a bicycle trip through the Pyrannees for the two of us. That summer of 1946, Paul and I bought a six-speed (there were no 10-speeds in those days) tandem bicycle and took the train from Paris to Bordeaux on the west coast of France. From there we set out by bicycle through Biarritz, the Atlantic vacation resort, heading for Italy.

A note from my diary says "Arose 0700, patched all leaks in rear tire, breakfast of our own coffee and French bread, got out the door and rear tire flat again, much swearing."

Another note says, "Headed for Pau, 80 kilometres to go, hope we make it. We didn't make it. Shortly after Mauleon, heard scraping noise, took front wheel off, axle fell apart - Paul borrowed bike from fellow eating lunch on bridge and took wheel to nearest town."

It was hard to get parts right after the war. New tires and tubes were practically nonexistent. We patched and repaired our way across southern France.

The big challenge of the trip was the ride up the Col du Tourmalet. With the gears set for low-low, we pumped, sweated, and stopped every kilometre for a minute or two to rest.

A friend in Paris had said that we couldn't ride the Tourmalet - we would have to walk part way. So our motto was "Pass un pas a pied." And we made it!

From the top of Le Tourmalet at 2114 meters, a rocky road led another seven kilometres to the weather station at the Pic du Midi de Bigorre. I couldn't help but wonder what fate had brought me to this high place in this strange country.

We ferried down the Gorge du Tarne, a miniature Grand Canyon.

We visited Carcassonne, an old Roman town. We rode a bus fuelled by wood and helped push it up the steeper grades. We danced on the Pont D'Avignon; we fought the lions in the old Roman amphitheatre at Nimes; we tasted the grapes from the vineyards; we sailed on the Mediterranean; we heard Edith Piaf and Les Companions de la Chanson at Monte Carlo; we visited a perfume factory in Grasse; we rode the Grande Corniche high above the sea on the Cote d'Azur; and we finally arrived at Manton on the border between France and Italy, having traversed the country of France from the western coast to the eastern border.

As I thumb through my diary and glance again at the bundle of old photographs, a thousand memories float back to make me smile. It was truly an experience of lifetime.

We finally ended up in Monte Carlo, then took a short ride to Menton on the Italian border so that we could say we'd covered France from coast to coast.

I worked for a while after we got back to Paris and earned a little money. I took French lessons and chased girls, including a beautiful Russian ballet dancer named Irina Vinogradova. She was a friend of the girl Paul was dating, who eventually became his wife, and then his ex-wife. We went skiing in the winter with a group from the Racing Club de Paris. Then I went to Switzerland alone to visit a girl, Betty Hamnett, I had met on the boat from New York. Finally, we skied some more at Crans-Sur-Sierre.

My life changed drastically and dramatically one day in September 1947. That was not only the year that the State of Maine nearly burned down; it was also the year that I came down with polio.

I had been attending Harvard College that summer, after returning from a year in Paris with my family. I spent every weekend in Kittery Point, where I had grown up. Every year, from the time I was born, my parents took their children to a summer cottage on Gerrish Island. And for that reason, every weekend I went back to my summer home, even though my parents were still in Europe.

I sailed my Lightning Class sailboat that my brother, Paul, and I had built during the summer of 1941. I ran on the beach; I chased girls; we went to Bald Head Cliffs in Ogunquit to watch the moon come up. We climbed Mt. Agamenticus in the early morning to watch the sun come up from the same ocean. We had beer and lobster picnics at the beach, sang songs, and went for moonlight sails on Portsmouth Harbor.

It was the kind of summer that has been celebrated in books and movies.

One Sunday in early September, I sailed my boat in the Portsmouth Yacht Club race. The wind was very strong, shifting, and puffy. It was a tough afternoon of sailing, fighting to keep the boat from capsizing, while trying to get the most speed. I handled the main sheet and the tiller, with my butt hooked over the coaming on the windward side.

Every time a gust of wind came out of the west, straight off the shipyard, I had to let the main sheet out, and luff the mainsail until the puff abated. And then I hauled the sheet in again, veered off to take the luff out of the sails and restored the speed of the boat.

It was hard work.

I don't remember whether we won or lost. I do remember that when the race was over and we came ashore, my legs were so tired that they trembled when I walked away from the boat.

But the day wasn't over yet; there was a lot of daylight and a whole evening ahead for playing. (Continues...)

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