A Visit Back to Father Serra’s Time

Picture a small band of missionaries, camped under the cathedral of the stars on the site of what would become the first church in Upper California.

Since California Chardonnay had yet to be invented, perhaps a jug of non-vintage Spanish red would be passed from hand to hand while a flute picked out a simple Castilian melody chosen from the era’s Top 40. Mosquitoes swarming from the nearby river would glide invisibly above the campfire and then, silently choosing their targets, dart at ankles not protected by the thick, brown Franciscan robes. In the general absence of pizza parlors, the smell of simmering black beans seasoned with salt pork and wild oregano perhaps would drift through the surrounding brush and draw other creatures nearer the circle of light.

The scene is easily enough imagined. A more difficult trick would be to guess if Father Junipero Serra and his companions, at that moment laying plans to found what would become Mission Basilica San Diego de Alcala, envisioned that a lonely patch of ground 100 miles from nowhere would, one day, host a brilliantly dressed crowd of notables drawn from a great surrounding city ruled by a mayor who favors Pepsi Cola above all other beverages.

Linda Alessio, chairman of Friday’s annual dinner-dance at the Mission, said that her goal was to recreate the kind of party Father Serra might have given, had he been given to giving parties. Since Serra was Spanish, the mood had to be Iberian (the Mission’s annual bash usually has had a Mexican fiesta theme), and, since the Franciscan priest founded his church 219 years ago, Alessio decided to go for Baroque. (Frank Alessio, who shared the chairmanship with his wife, said that Baroque was fine by him. Thus he couldn’t complain when he discovered boxes containing 2,000 handmade Mexican wine glasses stacked in his garage. A local hotel has expressed interest in acquiring them, but for the moment, should you need to borrow a few. . . . )

About 510 old and new pals of the church and its pastor, Msgr. I. Brent Eagen, turned out to commemorate the mission’s 219th anniversary, to benefit its restoration fund and to check out the Alessios’ Baroque handiwork. The scene was, all in all, undisputably nifty, if the word suits something modeled after formal Spain’s most mannered period. Following the charming custom of mission parties, the Alessios, Eagen and other greeters lined the route leading from the mission’s front door, through the church and out into the spacious courtyard. Near the head of the receiving line were Eileen and Everett Gee Jackson, long-time mission patrons (Everett’s classic drawing of the church graced the invitations and programs) who were themselves feted that evening, since the party followed by one night their 62nd anniversary. Drama accompanied the receiving line in the form of the San Diego Mission Choir, which thundered magnificently from the loft as guests glanced about to see whence the music issued.

The Baroque inspiration was carried out in banners (sewn in the Alessio garage) of dusty rose, claret and cream, the same colors borne by Serra and his company. The mission’s fountain, usually the focal point but that night the startling backdrop to the dining area, glowed with massed, fat white candles and an exuberance of flowers. Prim, stylized topiaries of lilies and grape ivy rose from glazed clay pots (shaped much like those in which a trail-weary Franciscan might have soaked his aching feet) at the center of each table. A church kitten, decidedly not a Baroque feline but possibly a descendant of a gato brought from Spain, romped among the cautious feet of the Rinaldi Strings trio, which played during the cocktail hour and preceded the Bill Green Orchestra’s more upbeat presence on stage.

Other things were much the same as in Serra’s time. Mosquitoes dove at shoulders bared by plunging necklines, the menu (catered by Remington’s) included black beans along with a garlicky steak and caramel-drenched cakes, and the stars were the same as those that serenaded Serra; they winked on by cue when Linda Alessio threw the switch that shut off the sunset and propelled the party toward moonlit magic.

Msgr. Eagen emphasized the ecumenical composition of the crowd, a fact which he said pleased him greatly and which is, in fact, a regular feature of this long-running summer celebration. History as much as religion was served by the post-dinner showing of a new videotape of the life of San Diego de Alcala, the Spanish saint for whom the mission is named. This year marks the 400th anniversary of his canonization.

Bishop Leo T. Maher headed a guest list that included Jay and Anthony Ghio, Karon and Gordon Luce, Tina and Joe Cutri, Evit and Buzzie Bavasi, Irish and Jim Kiely, Marilyn and Frank Pavel, Betty and Bob Sheeran, Elaine and Walter Steidle, Mary Jo and Leo White, Rita and George Zorn, Helen Ann Bunn, Anne and Abe Ratner, Rita and Joe Neeper, Donna and Donald Guttman, Lynn and Doug Mooney, and Virginia and Jack Monday. Sister Virginia McMonagle, the University of San Diego administrator who earlier this year left San Diego to work in Haiti at hospices for children dying of AIDS, took time from a brief vacation to appear as a surprise and heartily welcomed special guest.

GUATAY--The notorious tortilla toss had its usual deleterious effect upon the crowd of 410 that sashayed out to the mountains for Saturday’s “Foot Stompin’ Madness.”

This desperate game of chance had normally sedate Patrons of Worthy Causes lined up near the Samataguma Ranch’s duck pond to try their hands at sailing stale tortillas towards targets or over the boundary line. Those who hit targets won miniature bottles of tequila; those who propelled these edible flying saucers over the line won toy rattlesnakes, which the more imaginative twisted around their Stetsons as fancy hat bands.

The Voices for Children Auxiliary hosted the fund-raiser as a benefit for its parent organization, which supplies in-court advocates to speak out for abused and abandoned children who have become dependants of the courts. Auxiliary president Betty Mabee, who founded the group a year ago and has already seen its membership climb to 800, was present to cheer as guests clomped up the trail to the massive Samataguma ranch house.

“This is a little slice of heaven,” said Mabee, as she gestured in the direction of the estancia’s 2,400 acres. The forest-studded spread in the far suburbs of greater metropolitan Descanso could, indeed, be said to be West of Yuma and East of Eden.

“Foot Stompin’ Madness” was the incontrovertibly correct name to give to this country-Western extravaganza, because it was madness to stomp one’s foot without first looking at the ground. Samataguma is very much a gen-u-wine working ranch, and not only do real buffalo roam here, but cows, goats, sheep, ducks, pigs and peacocks. Old MacDonald was a piker compared to ranchers Charlene and Terry Brown, who donated both the use of their estate and a country-style dinner prepared by their Atlas Hotels.

The committee of 100, headed by chairmen Pam Allison and Claudia Munak, put together a scene that a daring commentator such aL. Mencken might have been tempted to term “Rube Valhalla.” If it was country or corny, this party had it, beginning with signs that read “This Way” and pointed to the tortilla-toss arena, and continuing with an endless buffet of tamales, carnitas, corn on the cob and iced watermelon; two-stepping to the KSON Flatbed Band and gambling for chances at prizes in the Golden Eagle Casino. Those with an urge to explore the ranch could board a horse-drawn hay wagon, or climb aboard a crazy sort of go-cart contraption that hauled groups of riders like waggling ducks in a row.

Ducks in a row were one of the party’s few glitches, as a matter of fact. Munak said that the webbed family that lived near the pond had refused to take its daily swim, and thus deprived the party of some natural decor. Farm critters provided additional excitement the previous evening, when Allison and Munak, taking a momentary break from setup chores, were startled by a nearby bellow in the dark. It turned out not to be a grizzly or anything so grisly as that, but just a companionable cow and her frolicsome calf who had dropped by to chat about the weather and the advantages of vegetarianism.

Nature more or less grabbed the city slickers by the throats and pummeled them with fresh air, a sultry sunset and the din of nighttime insect noises. Most came prepared for the experience by donning boots (certainly useful here) and jeans and other duds that identified them as cowpokes one and all. Some committee members worked up outfits that could best be described as “cowpunk;” Betty DeBakcsy, as proof that she’s the real Tabasco, wore miniature bottles of the same as earrings. Showoffs in the crowd ambled over to the “High-striker,” the sledgehammer-driven device that measures one’s strength by sending a weight rocketing (or not) up a pole. Jack Metcalf’s swing sent the weight up so fast that it broke the bell at the top of the pole.