Pleading the Fourth has loudly changed

ROBERT GARDNER

The Fourth of July approaches, and with it, the city’s efforts to see

that the celebration is a decorous affair. Not only do we have signs

announcing no fireworks; the signs say there is no alcohol in public

places. I gather this is to keep private parties from spilling out

into the streets and getting too loud. This was not always the case.

Loud parties were a way of life in Balboa during the 1920s and ‘30s.

Of course, we didn’t have amplified music, which drives even the

deaf to distraction. Nevertheless, when you jam 20 or 30 people into

a single room and they all try to talk or yell at the same time, the

neighbors do tend to get a tad testy.

This was particularly true in the old days, because most of the

houses were single-frame beach cottages. Sound carried. Without

intending to, you could eavesdrop on most of your neighbors’

conversations, and you knew the condition of that neighbor’s health

by the number of times he flushed his toilet. A party next door might

as well have been a party in your own living room.

Then, as now, indignant neighbors called the police. I don’t know

what the response time is today, but in those days, it wasn’t very

prompt. This was before police radios. You called the police

department in Newport and the officer answering pushed a button, and

a red light on a long pole over the Balboa fire station lighted up.

Assuming an officer in the Balboa area happened to look up and see

the light, he would go find a telephone and call the police station.

Then, if he wasn’t busy arresting drunks or breaking up a mini-riot

on Main Street, he would go to the offending house. By that time, the

party was probably over. If not, he took action.

My personal favorite loud-party-busting cop was George Callihan.

Cal would rap on the front door with his nightstick (in those days a

baton was something you waved vigorously when leading a philharmonic

orchestra) and yell, “Police!” Then he’d run around to the back door,

and as we loud partyers streamed out, he would whack us on our rumps

as we passed. This was a reminder not to do it again. Of course, if

he did it today, the city would face millions of dollars in lawsuits,

but in those days, instead of looking in the Yellow Pages for your

favorite advertising lawyer, you went home, undressed in front of a

mirror, gazed proudly at the welt on your fanny, and thought, “Some

party!” If you didn’t accumulate at least a few of those welts every

summer, you were a social failure.

The party tradition carried over after the war to Bal Week. It

seemed like every student in Southern California came down here over

spring break. I don’t know if it ever got to be as out-of-control as

in Florida, but I do know there were complaints. The police began to

crack down on even the most minor misdemeanor, and finally the

discouraged students took themselves off to Palm Springs and the

Colorado River.

And then, just as everyone was thinking, “Peace at last,” Newport

became a magnet for a multitude of young patriots wanting to

celebrate the Fourth of July. We don’t see much action in Corona del

Mar, so it’s a little hard for us to understand what all the fuss is

about, but I guess if you live in West Newport it’s 24 hours of

chaos. As residents gear up for the invasion, it’s probably hard for

them to think of this as an extension, albeit an unwelcome one, of

our city’s history, so I would advise them to get out the ear plugs,

put the police department number on speed dial, and give thanks for

police radios.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.