A Valley legend (at least to many of us), Dick Creighton, showed up last week. Was wife Donna’s birthday and the kids had given her a mud bath in Calistoga.

He was going down to visit his old shortstop and QB’s vineyard to taste some Lewelling wine for old time’s sake.

When he left St. Helena High he moved just down the road to Drake. He’s been teaching and coaching for almost 50 years.

He was Superintendent Roche’s first hire back in the golden days of California public education. Who could turn down a 23 year old, wearing a tie, sporting a crew cut with a pregnant wife, in tow? The fact he didn’t have a teaching credential didn’t come up until later, but who was counting.

Coach Creighton taught Spanish and coached baseball, basketball and JV football. He also pitched and managed the Blue Sox on those warm Sunday nights at Carpy field.

Mostly he cracked jokes and kept up a constant palaver.

Like barn storming baseball teams of yore, we would all climb in the Green Bomb (a rickety old van with no seatbelts) and crisscross the north coast from Lake County to Willits. Yuks were our daily nourishment-- car sickness our constant companion. It was truly the yuk and chuck truck.

Sports were different then. It wasn’t about me. It was about mastering the game. Thanks to Mr. Carpy, as little kids, we were taught old school Ty Cobb Honus Wagner ball. Each one of us knows more about baseball than most major leaguers today. We don’t have their athletic ability, but Mr. Carpy taught us how to do it right.

Bench jockeying was part of the game and Creighton was a master.

“So what’s different about teaching kids these days,” Dave asked between sips of Doug and Dave's 2004 to which Robert Parker gave a 96.

“You guys were fun. We laughed. Today, (with political correctness) you can’t say anything. Kids give you the eye. There’s no humor anymore.”

We were funny—but brutal.


It carried over to the field of play. After taking third on a sacrifice bunt, and later scoring, Coach Creighton said, "Good heads up play." I beamed with pride. "Next time you might take the ankle weights off, though." I may not have been the swiftest on the team.

But as I was the youngest (only a Freshman) his ribbing made me feel a part of the gang.

Creighton often gave us nicknames. “El Nariz Grande” (the big nose) might not play today.

“Senior Chancho” was Mr. Creighton’s name. Calling your teacher “Mr. Pig” probably wouldn’t play well today, either.

And heaven forbid you should ask a girl out on a date. That was fair game for all coaches and teachers—-not that it stopped anyone. Still. Woe betide the athlete who ate a bag lunch with a chick out on the front (lovers') lawn.

Halloween is another reminder that the world has gotten too serious. Here’s a Halloween back in Creighton’s day.

It was 1964. The sophomores challenged the seniors to an egg and tomato fight, to be held in the Gravel pits. It was a tradition. (The year before a similar battle had been waged in Bettinelli’s cow pasture, featuring raw eggs, tomatoes, and cow dung in plastic bags). No homes were hurt. No property damaged. No booze drunk.

For two weeks before, both classes fortified their arsenals. Then the mean old administration decided that anyone over 18 would be arrested and sent to Napa. That left us sophomores with crates of eggs and tomatoes—and no one to war with.

Chief Ghiringhelli had deputized 16 auxiliary officers to patrol that night. No hanky panky would be tolerated. Fortunately, the “deputies” were ex-high schoolers who were either known to us or relatives.

There were eight of us (5 boys and 3 girls) hiding on top of mound in the gravel pits. What to do? Finally, Ward and Julie came below us in a pick up truck. Big mistake.

They stopped and we let fly with a barrage of eggs and tomatoes. The truck sped off and didn’t return for 45 minutes.

It came back, driving very slowly, followed by two police cars. We laid low. The police cars stopped at the bottom of the mound. Flashlights beaming, St. Helena’s finest got out and started up the hill towards our bunker.

It was “Nariz’s” fault. Honest.

He stood up. Before we knew what was happening, we were all flinging eggs and tomatoes down the hill. The officers beat a hasty retreat into the cars.

The gravel pits lit up like a football field. All 16 “deputies” had surrounded us and turned their headlights on.

We scattered. We ran through the vineyards, the deputies’ flashlight beams bouncing around us like a light show at the Fillmore.

The gals managed to escape and hide out at Ron’s. The rest of us were eventually rounded up and hauled into the hoosegow.

Chief Ghiringhelli made a show of writing down each of our names. Were we going to Juvie (Juvenile Hall)? He was mad his car had been egged--it wasn’t till later we learned that it was his own “deputies” who’d egged it (fess up Freddie).

Were they gonna tell our parents? They tossed us in a cell.

Then they came. The verdict? We had to wash their cars.

Was the Chief merciful because he knew his own “troops” had egged his car? Or because Ron’s dad, Guy, called him up and reminded him what they’d done on Halloween, 25 years earlier?

It was gentler time. A simpler time. A time when things were in proper perspective. No lawyers. No lawsuits. No police brutality. No resisting arrest. No aggravated assaults.

No. I’m not advocating breaking the law. And we can’t go back. It’s just that Creighton triggered a switch back to a time when St. Helena was a farm town. Cattle was king. And farm boys, as they’d done for 60 years, threw tomatoes and eggs at each other on Halloween. No biggie.

We may never be able to go back--but we should never forget. It’s an indelible part of our culture. Thanks Senior Chancho.







Jeffrey Earl Warren
James Warren & Son
1414 Main St.
St. Helena, Ca.
94574
707-963-2748