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     The 1950's and early ‘60's were good to my father.  He started his own company – 

MAC Drilling – and became a speculator and promoter selling interests in oil leases. 

     You are no doubt familiar with the successful TV series “Beverly Hills, 90210 ,” 

dear reader; the teenaged-angst soap opera at the fictitious “West Beverly Hills High 

School.” 

      Only, did you know at the real Beverly Hills High School there’s a soundproofed, 

all electric oil well on that property? 

      Originally it was a drab grey – but some kids in a  cancer ward dressed it up.

     It was newly developed and drilled by my father in 1956, and through the method 

of “whip-stock” (slant-drilling) it continues to produce oil to this very day. Except, 

due to the murky lawsuits that followed, we wouldn’t see one penny of the royalties.  

Still, not bad for a guy with only an 8^th grade education; all thanks to the Great 

Depression.

     In order to procure suckers (oops...I mean investors) who would purchase 

interests in these oil leases Dad had obtained to drill; what better place to locate 

such “gamblers” than in Las Vegas. 

     By this time I’m in my late teens – my parents have separated - and I’m living with 

Mom and Grandma in a rented bungalow in the San Fernando Valley, California. 

     Pop, on the other hand, has an apartment in Hollywood and a house in Palm 

Springs he shares with his girlfriend.  The good life in the States has evolved us into 

a typical, mid-life crisis, fragmented American family.

     You have to also appreciate, dear reader, that by this period I had been raised on 

stories of India and Burma; along with Mom whipping up “curry-feeds” of Indian and 

Burmese delights on special occasions - using Tony the cook’s old 

recipes. Additionally, I’d occasionally rummage through the battered teak trunk that 

had survived the trip home – ornately carved with battling elephants – and 

reacquaint myself with treasures from India, Tibet, China and Burma; including Tulah-

Rhum’s Gurkha Kukri.  Little realizing that a desire for Asia was seeping into my 

blood.  While handling these items, often I’d wonder what our lives might have been 

like had my parents remained in India – no doubt we’d still be together as a family.  

But I have digressed, dear reader, please forgive me.

     Upon occasion, during the spring of ‘62, Dad would call me up at night, on a 

moment’s notice, and tell me to get the company plane rolled out.  He was short on 

cash for the payrolls that week; requiring an expedition to Vegas to “prospect” for 

investors. 

     Previously, Father had learned to fly in 1954, and had leased Cessna 170s and 

180s for his business.  I had soloed in my dad’s 180, on my 19^th birthday, in 1961. 

       Afterward, in 1962, Dad had acquired a war surplus C-45 Beechcraft, which he 

kept at the Van Nuys Airport in California. It had of late been refurbished, could hold 

eight people, and its twin Pratt & Whitney radial engines could take it up to 26,000 

feet and cruise at 160 mph.  The “Twin-Beech” flew similar to a miniature DC-3 and, 

when I wasn’t rough-necking on one of my dad’s rigs, I’d be found washing and

waxing the company plane; getting it ready for its next flight. I also acted as co-pilot 

for my pop on these trips.

          So here I am - age 19 - at the Van Nuys Airport, barely after 9:P.M., running a 

pre-flight on the Twin-Beech with a flashlight: removing wheel chocks, gear pins and 

tie-downs; checking fuel and oil quantities; exploring its flawless surfaces for

damage; removing and stowing the oil drip pans that prevent engine oil from 

dripping onto the main wheels; then finishing up by pulling the propellers through a

couple of turns, to “limber up” the oil in the cylinders for starting.

     Earlier, I had checked the weather and filed a VFR flight plan by telephone.

     Upon entering the cockpit, I lay out the charts and set up the radio frequencies. 

After this I fire up both engines.  When their temperatures and pressures check out, I 

shut them down; listening to the heated metal tick away as it cools, while I wait in

the darkened cockpit for my father.  Everything is ready for flight.

     Eventually his ’62 Cadillac, pulls up off the left wingtip.  He’s alone and quickly

joins me in the cockpit.

          We depart Van Nuys; heading out over the California Desert.

     Because it’s night, and clear as a bell, the cool sea of air we penetrate gives us a 

ride as smooth as glass.   

     We climb to 9,500 feet.  After an hour and fifteen minutes, we become aware of an 

incredible glow, emanating from the other side of the Spring Mountains in the

Nevada Desert.  It always reminds me of that elusive “pot of gold” at the end of the 

rainbow.

     Upon clearing the mountain range a fistful of brilliantly lighted jewels – dumped 

on  the desert floor – comes into view. Las Vegas wasn’t that big in 1962; appearing 

from the air more as a large village than a city.

     To the south, well outside this cluster of lights, we pick up the green and white 

rotating beacon at McCarran Field. Far from being the great international airport of 

today, it was a sleepy little field with a control tower and a solitary, crappy motel 

servicing transient parking.  Although, on the plus side, it was hassle-free; allowing 

one to get their private sport or business aircraft in and out quickly.  There being no 

locked, chainlink fences topped with barbed wire, and not much in the way of 

security.

   

  

     Ah yes, dear reader, the good old days when life was a bit simpler and safer.  

Originally this airfield had been founded by a descendant of the frontiersman Davy

Crockett, and was called the “Alamo Airport” in 1942. Later in ‘48 it was renamed

after a Nevada Senator. 

     By 11:30 P.M. we’d usually roll into the Sands Hotel; Dad heading for one of the 

back “high roller’s” rooms to track down “investors,” while I camp out in the lounge 

and “stand by.”  My father wore a suit and tie, whilst I had a sports coat, tie and 

slacks. This was the required uniform for our modest expedition, since at this point 

in history Vegas continued to have class. Nobody wore jeans – unlike today – 

especially if you wanted to be taken seriously.

     For the past ten years Pop had made the Sands Hotel his HQ when visiting Vegas, 

and had gotten to know the owners, entertainers and movie people that frequented 

the Sands.

   Originally the Sands was the vision of Jakie Freedman – here he is (in white suit) losing $10,000 at the Sahara. Jake was a good pal of my dad’s.

     In point of fact, dear reader, should you ever watch that classic film “Meet Me In 

Las Vegas,” circa 1956, keep your eyes peeled for a scene between Dan Daily and

Oskar Karlweis (the blackjack dealer in the movie).

     Why? Because that scene was shot in the Sands Casino around 3:A.M., when my 

father just happened to be at a craps table.  Directly between, and behind, Mr. Daily 

and Mr. Karlweis, you’ll note a robust man in a brown suit, with his back to the 

camera, rolling dice in the background.  That’s my old man losing my college fund.

           Louis Prima and Keely Smith, backed up by Sam Butera and The Witnesses, 

finish their act in the lounge (the lounge acts in this era were phenomenal) and I 

decide to off-load some of the ginger ale I’ve been knocking back. No alcohol for me 

– somebody has to be sober for the flight back. 

     Upon entering the men’s room, I head for an amazing urinal that extends across 

one entire wall. Stepping up to the ultra-long trough, that extends from my chest to 

the floor, I pull out my jettison device and begin to “off-load.” As usual I spot the 

admonition, in expensive Italian tiles, which stretches across the wall above the 

urinal: “Stand Closer - It’s Shorter Than You Think.”  Being very true in my case, I 

move in a bit and chuckle.

     Coming out of the men’s room, I literally bump into Frank Sinatra, 

Sammy Davis Jr. and Dean Martin, which reminds me the “Rat Pack” is in town this 

week and billed at the Copa Room. 

    

     (Oops...I should have said “The Summit” – Sinatra hated the press’s term: “Rat Pack.”) 

     I also spot Shirley MacLaine on Frank’s arm; she’s an honorary member.

     

    “Ring-a-ding-ding,” dear reader.

    Sinatra performing at the Copa Room in the ‘50s – he was also a part owner of the Sands.

   

     At 5:A.M. Dad pulls me out of the lounge and we have Chinese for breakfast at 

one of the Sands’ fine restaurants, while a wandering string quartet serenades us; 

playing our favorites.  Pop’s all smiles – he’s holding several fat checks from new 

investors – the payrolls will be met this week.

     Life with my father, dear reader, was always one big crap-shoot.  We lived the 

American dream – always on credit – stalling the creditors as long as possible.

    

     Buzzing Lake Mead on our way out of Vegas.

     By 6:40 A.M. we’re back in the air as the sun begins to rise.  The desert is 

breathtaking at this time of the morning. 

     We touch down at Van Nuys a little after 8:A.M.

     This was the usual drill during this period of my life, dear reader, and, thanks to 

my dad, I count myself damned fortunate to have experienced it.  For this 

particular, glamorous, chapter of Las Vegas history no longer exists. Now it’s 

plastic Disneyland, with crappy lounge acts, and fields upon fields of slots.  Until 

you’ve experienced the electricity of a beautiful, petite Jane Powell belting out a 

song in the Copa Room, backed by a “live” 50-piece orchestra – you’ll have 

absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.  

        

  Petite Jane Powell backstage with Liberace.

         
     Sadly the unique, exciting, entertainment-soul of Vegas withered and died 

decades ago.   

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