James Tomlin

Our classmates, Nathaniel “Nat” Hummell passed away on March 16, 2020. I didn’t know Nat Hummel very well in high school but we did proudly share membership in the Class of 1961. We lived on different sides of our small town of South Pasadena and participated in different activities. In addition, Nat was in the top classes. In the last ten years we got to know each other much better thanks to Face Book and the South Pasadena High School Alumni Association.

For our 55 year reunion in 2016  I had talked Nat into taking the train from his home in Oceanside to our house to then drive up to South Pasadena from Irvine. But Nat called me the day before and said, “Send me some photos, I don’t travel well anymore.” I had told a few people he was coming and they were disappointed, Nat was well liked. We shared a love of family and he spoke several times about his late wife Rita who passed away in 2016.

“My wife passed away in April of this year. Had she lived just 3 months longer we would have been married 40 years.”

He always asked about my family and had some wry comments about some short reminiscences I posted on Face Book from time to time.

I’d like to share few notes from his SPHSAA page. Nat wrote,

“I worked as an indentured servant in my father's auto parts store until I was 25. When I snuck out the unlocked door of my cage :-), I then joined New York Life Insurance. Later I became an independent financial advisor. In 1971 I started my studies to become both (each a 5-yr course of study) a Chartered Life Underwriter (CLU) and a Chartered Financial Consultant (ChFC). I then focused on helping both individuals and business owners make smarter choices with their money.”

I loved his charming memory of South Pasadena from a well-remembered past.

“My parents purchased a home (up in the hills) in the early 1940's on Oak Crest Ave. around the time my older sister, Elizabeth, was born in 1941. At that time a lot of the "land" was undeveloped and I grew up hearing the sound of saws and hammers as people were buying lots and building houses. One of my favorite memories was hiking over to "Elephant Hill" which was undeveloped until the 1960's. Every year a shepherd would bring a herd of sheep to graze on the grass (which helped keeping fires down when the grass would otherwise turn brown...). It was nice to see all the "white" of the sheep on the Monterrey Hills at that time of year. Once my older sister (Elizabeth '59) and I hiked up to visit the shepherd. He was a Basque with his herd dogs. We brought him a sandwich, which he gratefully accepted. He pointed out that when we walked up the hill that we had walked through the herd and separated it into 2 herds and next time we should walk around the herd…. but he was very polite about it. We enjoyed our visit and hiked back down the hill, then up some streets to go back home. For some reason... that memory still sticks in my brain and I can recall his face and voice and the sheep and all.

Then, in the early 60's or so the whole "Elephant Hill" was developed into the "Altos de Monterrey" if I recall the name, and large (for that time) homes were built... and no more sheep and no more shepherd.”

“Funny the type of stuff you remember, and the stuff you forget, over the years, n'est-ce pas?, like this from one year of French in my senior year while I was studying 4th year Spanish What was I thinking!!... (Posible, no estuve pensando...)

We were often told that our South Pasadena school system was special and that we were privileged to study here. I have fond memories of Lincoln Elementary School, and also of both junior high and high school.

I don't think you can separate our school memories from our memories of living in South Pasadena... I believe they are inexorably linked. I think that South Pasadena, when we lived there in the 50's and beyond, had that small town atmosphere of small stores, e.g. The Toggery for clothes, Les Balk Hardware, and many others with names I have forgotten. All, in all, I can't think of a better town in which we could have grown up. Not poor, yet not rich. Not too intellectual, yet "smart enough." Perhaps analogous to Goldilocks's "not too hot, not too cold observation."

From classmate Felix Gutierrez, “Nat helped me learn Spanish and we exchanged bilingual messages over the years.
Hasta la vista Nat, mi amigo para siempre.
iVaya Con Dios!”

I remember walking up the hill to Kindergarten with Patsy, Steve Rice, Frankie Schaefer, Ann Forsha and Steve Ware. A sweet girl.

I remember Miss Burr as the best teacher. I only realize later that she was hard on us because she really cared. Her strategies demanded your best efforts. The taxpayers had charged her with teaching us Spanish and she wasn't going to cheat them of even a nickel.

Twice in my life I have re­ally needed to be able to speak Spanish, and when I reached back for it, there it was. I once asked her if there were just some people that couldn't learn Span­ish. She replied "Fortunately, none of them are born in Spain." They were lucky they never had, to pay her by the hour.

Emi was an outstanding student in every subject. She was born in a Japanese "Relocation" camp in 1943 during world war II. When Las Flores school closed in the eary 1950s, about half of us were sent to Marengo. Emi was one of my first friends, she showed me how to hang upside down on the monkey bars, and illustrated how to get off the injury free. I know I was insensitive to he position in post war America, and I don't recall anyone ever being mean to her, but her journey couldn't have been easy, just look at this photo.  She was a wonderful person. RIP

Don sat in front of me in study hall. My two favorite memories are

I asked him how we were going to beat San Marino. They had a quarterback named O'Keiff who had thrown for a lot of yards, and they were 4-0 in lague as were the eventual CIF Champion Tigers.

"He's going to have a hard time throwing the ball on his back." SP 40 SM 0

The last week of Don's senior year, he said to me. Don't ever get discouraged, discouraement is defeat." I didn't think he even knew me well, but at that time his words, and obvious concern, touched me and I carried the memory and the advice many times over the years. RIP

Todd was just an outstanding guy in every way. I miss him.

A sweet and beautiful girl who had it all but never was conceited, never felt entitled, never denigrated anyone. She never felt she was too cool to be nice to everyone at school. A beautiful family.

Donnie was such a good guy and so talented. Watching him run with the football was almost poetry, and watching him hit the ball beyond the lights once in Middle League was awe inspiring [even though I was the pitcher]. I never understood why we all lost track of him, and why he had been dead since 2009 and no one in our class knew. His teammates all loved the guy. 

I played on the American Legion team in the summer of 1960. In our next to last game we were ahead. On the very first pitch in the top of the ninth inning, Dave Dickson bounced a curve ball into the dirt that caromed off the plate and hit Donnie, on his unprotected right hand. It dislocated his thumb. After the coach [his Dad] looked at thumb, and then “relocated” it, he determined Donnie shouldn’t catch anymore. As the coaches looked over the field for a replacement, the following facts became apparent: the second best catcher had not come to the game. The third best catcher had been cut back in May. The only other player with any catching experience was the guy I had replaced in right field who now could not return to the game.

At the tryouts, I had offered to catch batting practice to show my versatility and willingness to do a dirty job no one else wanted. I had always wanted to catch, but my body type dictated against it. No coach thinks, “Hey, let’s put the little skinny guy at catcher.” Nevertheless, it appeared that although I had no actual game experience, I was unfortunately the only remaining option. This fact was highlighted by the difficulty I had just putting on the equipment. However, into the cumbersome gear, which was a perfect fit for Donnie, I went.

The first batter went okay. I called for fastballs, and Dave threw them like rockets. The base line for assessing opposing pitchers all summer had been “Almost as fast as Dickson,” who had been selected All CIF. The last one stung my hand so badly I actually cried out, “SHIT.” I managed to hold on to the third strike even though the batter barely tipped it, a stroke of pure luck. One out, and I was free of the jitters, but my left hand was numb. Then an amazing thing happened.

Out of the dugout came Donnie, a guy who would go on to play briefly in the major leagues for the Milwaukee Brewers. I had known him since we were nine, he was a quiet guy. His right hand was wrapped in ice inside a towel and he carried HIS catchers’ glove.

“This ought to work better,” he said as he handed me his glove and took the one I had from me. Inside his glove there was a huge kitchen sponge for additional padding.

“Are you wearing a cup,” he asked?

“What?”

“A cup to protect your jewels.”

“Ah....... No.” I replied, fear rising like a huge wave in my stomach.

Donnie thought about it. “You're doin good, just don’t get hit in the balls.” He slapped me on the catchers’ mask, turned around and returned to the dugout. For some reason, I felt a whole lot better.

A great friend in junior high, we went different ways in high school. We doubled on my first ever date. He gave a great speech as Valedictorian, and then went off to Stanford. RIP