And then there were the things we did together that weren’t about life lessons or had anything to do with other people—they were just wonderful mother-daughter times we had together. There are so many good times I had with her that had nothing to do with her Beat life, which so many people now want to hear about. For one thing, she loved to cook—maybe because early on she didn’t know how, and she had had to teach herself. So it became a hobby and also a way for her to relax, to experiment and be creative. She would never go by recipes. She would start cooking at seven or eight o’clock at night; and by the time she got done, we’d have a six-course meal waiting for us—it might be roast beef, mashed potatoes, salad, all the trimmings—at eleven o’clock at night! Sometimes it would be pasta or a fancy stew. By the time it was ready, if it was a school night, I’d grab a few mouthfuls and then have to go to bed. And I’d end up eating roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy for breakfast. Lu Anne just loved cooking those big dinners, and she also loved inviting people over for big dinner parties. She was known as a very, very good cook.
The love of fine clothing was another thing she shared with me. She’d always loved fine clothing. When she was pregnant with me, one of her jobs was modeling at one of the bigger department stores downtown—it might have been Emporium Capwell. In those days, the stores had ladies who would walk the runways to show their clothing lines. Lu Anne did this till she was eight months pregnant, because she was so thin—incredibly, nobody noticed that she was carrying me! She was five foot seven and a half inches tall, and with heels she was easily five foot nine, and she weighed only 112 pounds. She could wear clothes beautifully; she had that long, lean, elegant look. She had a closet full of Lilli Ann suits—she knew all the names of the lines. She’d take me to a famous women’s tailor in San Francisco—I think her name was Olga Galgano—and have outfits tailor-made for both of us. Lu Anne had fur stoles, a hundred pairs of shoes—most of them high heels—and purses that matched every outfit. She had charge accounts at all the good stores. One of her favorites was I. Magnin, but we’d go to all of them, including City of Paris. She kept all her clothes for decades, took immaculate care of them—until a big fire in our house in 1960 destroyed just about everything we had.
There was one other benefit of having Lu Anne as a mom. She knew all the cops in San Francisco. I remember once when I was about 16, getting pulled over in a car full of kids, and the cops started to take our names. When they got to me, and I said, “Anne Catechi,” the cop lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Are you Lu Anne’s daughter?” When I said yes, he let us go!
Eventually, of course, the Beat world intruded into our cozy domesticity—as it was bound to do. I think my mother kept it away from our household as long as she could partly because of her not wanting any more drama in her life, and her feeling that we already had enough drama with Joe, his clubs, and all the characters who kept wandering through our home—not to mention her frequent medical emergencies and everything else. She knew that the Beats were high drama, and she didn’t want to be drawn back into it, didn’t want it to come into our everyday life. It was certainly not her best day when Neal Cassady showed up at our house.
It was 1966, and I was already enjoying the Bay Area counterculture. Despite my mother’s warnings to “stay away from Bill Graham and that crowd he hangs around with,” I’d already been to the Fillmore Auditorium many times—to see Janis Joplin and Big Brother, Steppenwolf, the Grateful Dead, and so many other great countercultural bands. Of course, my mother was right—people were doing every kind of drug that you could imagine at those concerts. I wasn’t doing the drugs, but I liked the music. We lived in Daly City, but I went to all the free concerts in Golden Gate Park, and to the Haight-Ashbury to buy earrings and peasant skirts. I grew up in the era of the hippies, so I must admit that Beats, beatniks, and the Beat Generation were as far from my world as the flappers of the 1920s.
Lu Anne, Sonoma, between 2000 and 2003. (Photo courtesy of Anne Marie Santos.)
I was 16 years old when I met Neal Cassady, and I was absolutely baffled when he showed up at our house. My boyfriend Gene and I were home one afternoon when I opened the door to a man asking for my mother. Nothing special struck me about him, except he looked a little wild-eyed, like he was on speed. It was his introduction that left a lasting impression on me, and not in a positive way. He said, “I’m Neal, and I was your mother’s first husband. And you are not nearly as pretty as Al Hinkle said you are.” I don’t even remember what was said after that! You don’t tell a 16-year-old girl she’s not pretty. The husband part was just an afterthought. He let me know that he and his friends needed a place to sleep, but I wasn’t about to ask them in. Of course, by the time my mother arrived home, I was pacing. The DayGlo-painted bus “Furthur” was still parked in front of our house.