While others plotted their post-Thanksgiving pre-dawn assault on big-box stores touting flat-panel TV bargains, Kirk and I eschewed such banal pursuits in favor of more sensory pleasures!
The day after a thoroughly wonderful Thanksgiving hosted by long-time friend, Cathy Colbert, in her darling Redondo Beach condo, we rose leisurely to a lovely breakfast. Although I ignominiously shattered her glass coffee carafe—still trying to figure out how it happened—Cathy graciously forgave my klutziness and the morning remained unmarred.
Five of us carpooled along the gloriously empty LA freeways—405 to the 105 to the 110 to the 10. Can’t resist the litany of numbers, an immutable fact of life in Los Angeles! I’m reminded of my commuting days from Orange County to the downtown Bullock’s in my early 20s when I vowed never again.
First stop. The inimitable LA Flower Mart, the largest flower market in the U.S. By the time we arrived around 9:30, the vendors had already been plying their floral wares for over 7 hours. An hour later, they were already packing up their perishables for the cooler.
What a heady experience. Row upon row of stalls bursting with color and scent. Pine wreaths now augment the glorious floral aromas. Vendors swiftly wrap buyers’ items in newsprint—ours was in Chinese—take your money and decisively conclude the transaction. They’ve already dealt with their bread-and-butter clients hours earlier and merely humor the indecisive, somewhat overwhelmed public.
I love finding greenery I’ve never encountered and came away with a bundle of long-stemmed fir perfect for holiday décor. Paperwhites nestled in a handmade wooden box, a chartreuse Golden European tree (can grow to 30’ if you don’t kill it!), and miniature pots of moss and red cyclamens rounded out my finds. We happily hauled our stuff back to the car and parted ways with our co-travelers.
Kirk and I then roamed around an eerily quiet downtown LA, where I pointed out the grim 100-year-old building where I spent a miserable six months of my life working as a cosmetics buyer, along with other distinctive landmarks—Pershing Square, Civic Center, Music Center, and bustling Chinatown.
Next we head up the Golden State Freeway to famous Griffith Park, home of The Autry National Center of the American West, an oft-discussed destination and a venue I was finally going to cross off my to-see list.
Located directly across the street from the LA Zoo, Gene Autry’s compound is comprised of three institutions—the Museum of the American West, Southwest Museum of the American Indian, and an Institute for the Study of the American West. We concentrated on the American West.
It was a typical autumn day in Los Angeles so I was bare-armed mid-day. Because so many people were out feverishly shopping, we had the museum essentially to ourselves. You can see the dearth of activity in these plaza pics.
Known as 'America's Favorite Singing Cowboy', Gene Autry is the only entertainer to have five stars on Hollywood's Walk of Fame, one each for radio, records, film, television and live theatrical performance (including rodeo). His six-decade career also included stints as a broadcast executive and major league baseball owner. His wealth and preservationist instincts resulted in the magnificent collection now on display.
We started by checking out the temporary exhibits, which included photographic collages of the Grand Canyon, West-Coast Indian basketry, and Dreamers in a Dream State, a photographic homage to those who irrevocably shaped the Golden State, such as Raymond Chandler and Amelia Earhart.
The museum’s exhibits perfectly capture the unique scope of the American West, the expectations of Manifest Destiny colliding with the harsh reality of pioneer and cowboy life.
There’s a woodsy outdoor setting—very Disneyesque—depicting the trees and boulders of the Sierra Nevadas. Anyone can try his hand at panning for gold. Since gold prices are in the stratosphere, it’s fools gold winking up from the bottom of the metal pan.
An entire room of exhibits depicts the varying lifestyles of the many immigrant groups contributing to the west’s rapidfire expansion—Mormans, African Americans and Chinese (who did not have laundries in their native country and were victims of both anti-citizen and miscegenation laws). 
The vaunted chuckwagon—a staple on every cattledrive—refers to the chuck-box, or food-box, at the rear of the specially constructed wagon.
The depiction of the infamous 1881 Gunfight at the O.K. Corral in Tombstone, Arizona, uses lights and narration to animate the 9-man shoot-out starring the Earp brothers in which Doc Holliday is thought to have fired the most bullets. The diorama accurately replicates the inauspicious 15-foot lot in which the most famous gunfight in the history of the Old West actually started. After the hail of 30 bullets, only three men actually died.
I enjoyed the beautiful paintings adorning the side of this stagecoach which ferried passengers (9 squeezed inside), mail and gold in northern California in the mid 1800s. The Autry artisans painstakingly removed 150 year of grime and varnish to reveal the startlingly colorful murals hiding beneath the smoke-black veneer. Reminds me of the Sistine renovation.
Bison, which once numbered in the millions on the Great Plains, were almost exterminated within two decades by rapacious men wielding Winchester rifles and a populace desirous of buffalo robes. If not for Teddy Roosevelt's creation of Yellowstone National Park at the turn of the century, this magnificent beast would merely grace a museum diorama such as this. (That tidbit is courtesy of Ken Burn's recent series on the nation's national parks.)
The lower floor of the museum boasts an incredible 180° mural depicting the archetypes and personalities constituting the western story from prehistoric to contemporary times. 
Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly from 1952’s High Noon, one of my favorite films, framed by Tom Mix, Roy Rogers atop Trigger and Dale Evans. The moralistic tale was an allegory of the ‘50s anti-communist witch-hunt in Hollywood.
Lots of memorabilia devoted to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, which brought the fabled cowboys and Indians of an already-fading west to the urban easteners. Annie Oakley's golden pistol and Tiffany head-engraved gun are among the fascinating items devoted to Little Sure Shot, America's first female superstar.
From the very beginning, Hollywood and the movie-going public had a love affair with westerns. The Autry showcases a treasure trove of film riches and even includes a back-lot western town complete with megaphone-wielding director.
The onsite restaurant, Golden Spur Cafe, offered pleasing fare with another striking wall mural. I don't know if we inherited the exotic flower displays gracing every table from a Thanksgiving event or whether such touches are de rigeur for everyday dining but I appreciatively sniffed the blooms and thought of the morning's flower-mart adventure.
Elizabeth Custer's everyday dress. After her husband's death, she penned several books detailing the bad food, boredom and loneliness punctuating the lives of officers' wives on the wilderness outposts. Of course, laundresses, cooks, etc. had it much worse. It was she who created the compelling image of her husband as a family man, further burnishing George Custer's image after the vainglorious man's ascent into American lore following the disastrous Battle of the Little Bighorn.
Hanging next to a rich but somber Bierstadt of Yosemite was this glowing oil painted 140 years later by James Doolin, a recently deceased artist who specialized in urban landscapes. Entitled Primal Landscape, the mesmerizing picture offers visitors a striking comparision between contemporary and historic Western landscapes. I was thrilled to be introduced to a compelling artist new to me.
One section was devoted to turn-of-the-century life in a typical Chinese-American home in LA's Chinatown. Children can don period costumes and prtend play. I got into the act in the kitchen! Notice the huge condenser atop the frigerator.
After four full hours, we hit the freeway and headed home to La Quinta. Breezed along with light traffic long enough to be lulled into a false sense of optimism that the entire journey would be so charmed. Au contraire. After so many years traversing LA, I should know that there's always a hitch along the route. Home again and appreciating our calm desert oasis.
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