Marijuana in the City: A Closer Look

by Woody LaBounty

Fifty years ago this week four members of the Grateful Dead appeared at the San Francisco Hall of Justice to face sentencing from Judge Neubarth in Superior Court on marijuana charges. From the news photographs we have in the OpenSFHistory collection, the band was pretty sanguine about their fate.

Grateful Dead and friends in the hallway of the Hall of Justice, 850 Bryant, after sentencing for their marijuana bust. Ron ‘Pigpen’ McKernan, attorney Brian Rohan, Robert Matthews, manager Rock Scully, and Bob Weir, June 24, 1968. (wnp28.2450.jpg; courtesy of a private collector.)

The previous October, San Francisco police had raided 710 Ashbury Street, the 13-room Haight Ashbury mansion that the Dead made home, and discovered, no doubt to their shock and surprise, that marijuana was being used by occupants. Today, young professionals line up on Friday evenings to buy cannabis-infused lemon tea cakes from dispensaries that share design aesthetics with boutique olive oil stores and high-end hair stylists. But in 1968 just being in a house where someone smoked pot was a crime.

Rock Scully, the band’s manager, and Robert “Knobs” Matthews, the audio engineer, pleaded guilty to charges of maintaining a residence where marijuana was used. Ron “Pigpen” McKernan (singer and organist) and guitarist Bob Weir pleaded guilty for being present. Fines of $100-$200 were given and all were placed on probation for one year.

Skully, described by the San Francisco Chronicle as “the long-haired group’s long-haired business manager,” very wisely leaned in to the publicity the sentencing offered. He revealed to the assembled press in the hallway that the Grateful Dead (called a “hard-rock band” by the Chronicle) would release its second album the following month, and were looking into taking over the Carousel Ballroom for a Fourth of July concert with Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and Steve Miller.1

‘Pigpen’ McKernan, Rock Scully, Veronica Grant, Robert Matthews, and Sue Swanson enjoy a joke from Bob Weir, June 24, 1968. (wnp28.2452.jpg; courtesy of a private collector.)

Other news photos in the OpenSFHistory collection reveal how long the journey to decriminalize marijuana has been. On September 6, 1964, a handful of demonstrators met in Union Square to continue a series of Sunday marches advocating for legalization.

Union Square used to be the place to get attention for anything: stop nuclear testing, bring the Beatles to San Francisco, elect Richard Nixon president… The parade in these photos is a small affair with young people carrying a few signs and handing out flyers to pensioners sitting on benches.

Chet Helms passing out flyers at Union Square marijuana rally, September 6, 1964. (wnp14.4334.jpg; photograph by Fran Ortiz, courtesy of a private collector.)

One of the leaders is a photogenic 22-year-old poet named Chet Helms, who would go on to fame as a music promoter and counter-culture organizer in the Haight Ashbury. Here Helms is before his owlish eyeglasses and big beard of the hippie days. He wears a rakish mustache and goatee over a skinny tie. A suit coat hangs loosely on his thin frame.

Photographer Fran Ortiz captures Helms politely handing out flyers and engaged in a public debate with the Rev. Mrs. Naomi Annette. The 68-year-old woman, bible in hand, hectored the marijuana advocates every Sunday, perhaps less irked by their cause than their treading on her turf as a Union Square “freelance evangelist.”2

Naomi Annette lecturing Chet Helms at Union Square marijuana rally, September 6, 1964. (wnp14.4341.jpg; photograph by Fran Ortiz, courtesy of a private collector.)

Chet Helms debating with Naomi Annette at Union Square marijuana rally, September 6, 1964. (wnp14.4359.jpg; photograph by Fran Ortiz, courtesy of a private collector.)

Annette’s frequent complaint that the nation was corrupt with sin switched to a pun about the country “going to pot.” She warned the group: “Your children will be outlaws and idiots.”

“We’re already outlaws,” a bearded young man retorted.3

Notes:

1. “The Very Grateful Dead,” San Francisco Chronicle, June 25, 1968, pg. 3. The album was “Anthem of the Sun.”

2. Dick Hallgren, “S.F. Pickets March for Marijuana,” San Francisco Chronicle, August 24, 1964, pg. 1; “Marijuana March,” San Francisco Chronicle, September 7, 1964, pg. 3.

3. Robert Graham, “Growing Like a Weed,” San Francisco Chronicle, August 31, 1964, pg. 1.

The Buick Bug: A Closer Look

by Woody LaBounty

Here is a line of odd little automobiles lined up for a photo on Franklin Street in 1920, back before the road became a three-lane, one-way expressway to the Marina District. They are posed before the red brick Bransten house at 1735 Franklin Street, now City of San Francisco landmark #126, with its side yard and gate pillars still intact today. A strange, intriguing photograph, it seems that there has to be a story here, a bit more explanation needed. And, as it turns out, there is.

Charles S. Howard in Buick ‘Bug,” with his sons in Howard Specials, April 1920. (wnp4.1893.jpg; courtesy of a private collector.)

The larger vehicle on the left, a fraction of the size of most automobiles on the road today, is a Buick 60 Special, an aerodynamic bullet-nosed record-setter from the early days of motoring and one of only two built. Nicknamed the “Buick Bug,” able to reach speeds of 100 mph, the racer was about a decade old at the time of this photograph. The Los Angeles Herald remembered it as the “go-fast sensation to the world.”1

The Age of the Automobile had arrived, but was barely removed from its dawn of wealthy hobbyists and daredevil inventors. When the Buick Bug made history with its unique design in 1909-11, Louis Chevrolet was one of its drivers. Yes, that Chevrolet.

Charles S. Howard, the man at the wheel of the Bug, bought the old racer as a collectible out of a warehouse in Kansas City. At the time, he owned the largest automobile distribution company in the world, a Buick dealership on the corner of Van Ness Avenue and California Street. Howard’s sons sit in the other two vehicles, “Howard Specials” custom-made especially for them to raise hell. The San Francisco Chronicle noted the minuscule machines, driven by the young men, “have shown a speed of 80 miles an hour.”2

Van Ness near Sacramento, circa 1920. Howard Automobile Company on right at corner of California Street. (wnp4.1402.jpg, detail of wnp4.1400; courtesy of a private collector.)

In 1924, Howard gave his Buick Bug to the de Young Museum, back when the San Francisco institution took just about anything, from spoons to Rembrandts to World War I tanks. The permanent addition to the collection was to be given a prominent place in the museum and predicted to “come before the eyes of countless thousands of visitors during the years to come.”3 It didn’t quite work out that way. Soon after, Howard borrowed it back from the museum to show off at his dealership, at local car conventions, and in a display at the 1939 Golden Gate International Exposition on Treasure Island.4

In 1984, a San Francisco Examiner reporter, investigating mismanagement of the city’s museum collections, found that the car was still on the de Young’s books as an active long-term loan. The Bug was estimated at the time to be worth $300,000-$400,000 ($700-$900k in modern dollars), and “museum officials simply lost track of it.”5

The reporter found it at the Sloan Auto Museum in Flint, Michigan. The director there said they had gotten it from the chief engineer of Buick in 1958. Whether the de Young ever received compensation for the loss of the Bug is unknown, but the old racer, now with a cherry-red paint job, is still on display in Michigan.

Despite the interesting journey of the Buick Bug, Charles S. Howard is better known for owning a different kind of racer. In August 1936, he bought an underachieving and undersized thoroughbred no one wanted. Knobby-kneed Seabiscuit dominated horseracing in the late 1930s, became the hero of numerous books and films, and sired 108 foals before his death in 1947.

Notes:

1. “Buick ‘Bug’ History Maker in Early Racing Days,” Los Angeles Herald, April 17, 1920, pg. A7.

2. “Famous ‘Buick Bug’ Located,” San Francisco Chronicle, April 11, 1920, pg. 12A.

3. “Museum Given Auto Holding Many Records,” San Francisco Chronicle, November 9, 1924, pg. A9.

4. “Buick ‘Bug,’” San Francisco Chronicle, June 4, 1939, pg. A3.

5. Tim Reiterman, “Museums lose a fortune in art,” San Francisco Examiner, July 15, 1984, pg. A1.

Ten Views from 1973-74: A Closer Look

by Woody LaBounty

We recently processed a run of images in the OpenSFHistory collection taken by local photographer Greg Gaar in 1973-74. Looking back forty-five years makes for a strange mix of familiarity and disorientation, as there are views and buildings in the city that look the same today, while others are wholly changed.

The prospect north from 1st and Harrison is definitely different. In 1973, Greg captured the sleek vertical lines of new skyscrapers downtown, including the tallest of them all, the Bank of America building and the Transamerica Pyramid.

View north from 1st and Harrison Streets, 1973. (wnp28.2610.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

The recent craze of building South of Market has produced a new king, as the Salesforce Tower obliterates any view of the Transamerica, while the Bank of America building is barely visible behind a crane. The humble Unical 76 gas station held on until very recently, and the Sailors Union building on the right remains:

View north at 1st and Harrison, December 2017.

From 1975 until March of this year, a McDonalds restaurant and parking lot occupied Stanyan Street between Haight and Waller Streets across from Golden Gate Park. An animated conversation is now underway about the size of a city-planned affordable housing development for the site. Will it be five stories or seven? Here is that parcel just before the fast food giant moved in, occupied by a drive-in and gas station. In the background is the building that currently holds the Stanyan Park Hotel, covered in fake-brick siding with a bike rental place on the ground floor:

Haight and Stanyan, view south past Alec’s Drive-In to Sutro Tower. (wnp28.2562.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

Greg used a night view of the Ferry Building to give the Embarcadero freeway an elegance it never had in day light.

Embarcadero freeway and Ferry Building at night, 1973. (wnp28.2568.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

Some views can be re-created in our Instagram age, but Greg’s artistry as a photographer might be hard to match. The balconies of the Hyatt Regency Hotel at the Embarcadero here combine to make an M. C. Escher woodcut:

Terraced balconies of Hyatt Regency Embarcadero hotel, 1973. (wnp28.2646.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

Diamond Heights homes stand sentinel at Glen Canyon, while their master, the Sutro Tower lords over them:

Looking north in Glen Canyon to Sutro Tower. Houses on right on Turquoise Way, 1973. (wnp28.2628.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

The Mount Davidson cross tries to do as well, but is almost overcome by a eucalyptus forest:

View northeast from Sherwood Forest. Dalewood Way in foreground and Mount Davidson Cross above, 1973. (wnp28.2583.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

And to finish the theme, the defeated Dutch Windmill (pre-renovation) at the northwestern edge of Golden Gate Park is mocked on the Great Highway sea wall:

“Loss of Face” graffiti on seawall at Ocean Beach. Dutch Windmill without sails, 1973. (wnp25.4765.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

Fashion can be relied upon to change. This Golden Gate Park meadow view with the Sharon Building and carousel behind looks the same. The artfully posed trio, however, could only be living in the early 1970s.

Three very stylishly dressed individuals on Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park. Fire damage to Sharon Building in background, 1974. (wnp28.2673.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

Then again, one has to have a keen eye to date this shot. For all I know, these men are still huddled around their xiangqi game at Portsmouth Square:

Men playing xiangqi in Portsmouth Square, 1974. (wnp28.2728.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

Greg had such a keen eye for characters and composition that stories wrote themselves in viewing his photographs of people. In our final shot, this Union Square quartet is no doubt cooling their heels between takes of a caper or heist movie. “One last job, Morty, and then I’m quitting the business.”

Four men on bench in Union Square. I. Magnin department store behind, October 1973. (wnp28.2685.jpg; Greg Gaar photograph, courtesy of a private collector.)

The San Franciscans: Heywood Family

by Nicole Meldahl

One thing we love to do here at Western Neighborhoods Project is connect people with places. When we saw this lonely mansion in the OpenSFHistory collection, we wanted to know more about it, and boy-oh-boy did we find an intriguing story. The house at 1490 Hayes Street was built by Franklin B. Heywood – a successful man whose complicated family life ended in scandal.

Constructed in 1888, the home was designed by a prominent turn-of-the-century architect named Charles I. Havens. He would later be San Francisco’s City Architect for twelve years, designing many of the city’s early schools (none of which survive) in addition to other private residences and commercial structures. Many of his buildings still exist but, sadly, 1490 Hayes is not one of them. By 1986, this beautiful Havens original had been demolished and a large apartment complex built in its place, reoriented, and newly-designated as 400 Baker Street.

The home of lumber capitalist Franklin B. Heywood, designed by Charles I. Havens and built in 1888, at 1490 Hayes at Baker Street. (wnp27.4097.jpg; Pope Collection, Courtesy of a private collector.)

Baker and Fell 2018 — The northeast corner of Baker and Fell, site of Heywood House, 2018

Franklin Heywood was the son of Zimiri Brewer Heywood, who was born in Maine but came to San Francisco with his family sometime in the 1850s. Zimiri founded a successful lumber business with another native of Maine, and continued to expand his business interests over the next two decades–investing in real estate in the East Bay and bringing his sons into the family trade. In 1872, he acquired an interest in a sawmill in Gualala, Mendocino County, and incorporated the venture as the Gualala Mill Company. Franklin, who started working for his father as a clerk around 1860, became president of the company after Zimiri’s death in 1879.

The Heywood home at 1490 Hayes at Baker Street showing Lone Mountain and the McAllister Powerhouse in the background, 1890. (wnp27.4095.jpg; Courtesy of a private collector.)

Franklin’s brother, William, managed the mills and the company did well under their management; the home at 1490 Hayes was befitting a man of Heywood’s stature. It also had a clear view of Laurel Hill Cemetery, where his father was buried. When our OpenSFHistory photographs were taken around 1890, Franklin and his wife, Agnes B., had just adopted a daughter–Agnes Maud. Little Agnes was the daughter of a poor New York photographer named James Van der Zwiep (aka Vandersweep) who operated Van’s Photograph Gallery on 64 Third Street in San Francisco around the early 1880s. He allegedly died within a year of Agnes’s birth, and her mother died about 16 months later. Agnes Maud was taken in by “charitable people,” and the Heywoods adopted her after “their hearts were touched by the sad condition of the little stranger.”

However, the Heywoods separated not long after Agnes Maud came to live at 1490 Hayes. Agnes B. left the family home and Agnes Maud stayed with her adopted father, who sent his estranged wife a monthly allowance and continually wrote to her–“the words of which conveyed to her his spirit of kindness.” Stories differ on the reason for their separation, but it’s clear that the two Agneses had a complex relationship: Agnes B. intimated that their separation was on account of the child, whereas Agnes Maud recalled her father blaming his wife’s “extreme nervousness and temper.”

In late June and early July 1903, Heywood confided in friends that he was attempting to reconcile with his wife. It was going well, and he planned to bring her and Agnes Maud together “with a view to paving the way for a family reunion.” Another friendly confidence revealed that the two women did meet, and together went on a “pleasure trip” to Santa Cruz. Perhaps Franklin’s plan was coming to fruition? Nope. For whatever reason, seventeen-year-old daughter Agnes Maud would not consent to Agnes B.’s return to 1490 Hayes, leading one to wonder what the true nature of her relationship was with her adopted father. (Newspapers reported later that there was a “distinct resemblance” between the two, despite not being related by blood.)

Franklin was distraught, telling a friend: “I have been to blame in this matter, and I want to rectify the wrong I have done my wife.” On July 29, 1903, Franklin walked into the bathroom of his lovely home at 1490 Hayes Street, bit down on a rubber tube attached to an open gas jet, and committed suicide by asphyxiation while both Agneses were in Santa Cruz. Rumors connected the suicide to “certain financial transactions,” although those close to the family denied these allegations. Franklin was buried beside Agnes Maud’s hereditary parents, for whom he had purchased cemetery plots after adopting her.

Heywood’s will, dated 24 days prior to his death, was filed for probate on August 12, 1903. The whole of his estate, valued near $250,000, was left in trust to his brothers and attorney H. A. Powell, who were instructed to pay lifelong $150 monthly allowances to his estranged wife and adopted daughter. However, many (including his attorney) believed Franklin had drafted another will in the weeks prior to his death. News began to circulate that the women in his life intended to contest the will; a legal battle was brewing. Two months after Franklin’s death, the Gualala Mill Company and its holdings were sold. Agnes Maud petitioned the superior court to hasten the distribution of Franklin’s estate, and claimed her uncles, William and Walter, were neglecting her rights. A tawdry lawsuit airing the family’s dirty laundry dragged on with many excitements–much to the delight of local newspapers–through 1910, and left many questions unresolved.

The death and settlement of Franklin Heywood’s estate made for sensational newspaper fodder.

The sensational Heywood storyline emerged from two simple images of a stately home, proof that every image holds the story of a San Franciscan. Perhaps, if we look really close, we can see Agnes’s silhouette in the second floor window. That’s probably my imagination running wild, but every time I pass by 400 Baker now I think of Franklin and his Agneses, bringing the Heywoods out of the past and into the present. Which is exactly what we try to do, one image at a time, with the OpenSFHistory project. Mission accomplished.

Sources:

Daniella Thompson, Zimiri Brewer Heywood: Separating Fact from Myth, 2008.

“May Contest Heywood Will,” San Francisco Chronicle, August 6, 1903, pg. 7.

“Heywood’s Last Hours Fill with Sensational Incidents,” San Francisco Call, August 27, 1903, pg. 3.

“Faints While on the Stand,” San Francisco Call, May 4, 1905.

“Heywood’s Executors to Shut Out Daughter,” Oakland Tribune, February 8, 1910.