"My Father Wolo"
By E. G. von Trutzschler

My perspective of Wolo, as his son, might bring a more personal dimension to my father. Although my memory isn't the best, I do remember interesting things about my father and his lifestyle gained from the times I was with him.

My sister, Jeannie, and I were raised mostly by our mother, Mildred von Trutzschler. She was radically different from our father, San Francisco's "Wolo." They say opposites attract and evidently this was the case with my father and mother. Both were good-looking but you couldn't find a more diverse couple in their upbringing and philosophy. Unfortunately, for Jeannie and me, these two opposites were a little too extreme and our parents' marriage didn't last long.

Soon, my sister and I and our mother were on our way down to Los Angeles, where we moved around for years before eventually settling in San Diego. Wolo bounced between Hollywood and the city he loved, San Francisco. My mother never re-married and my father re-married later in life. Both have passed away.

On occasion, my sister and I visited our father. When I was very young, I remember staying with him in his small studio on famous Olvera Street in Los Angeles. He drew caricatures while living there. Colorful Olvera Street, where at night I'd listen to the trains coming and going at Los Angeles' central train station. It was a fun time, although my father was struggling financially.

As we got older we visited our father in his studio in San Francisco. As I recall Wolo always lived in a studio. His homes were always small but orderly and neat. He'd build shelves to store stuff, covering the shelves with fabric drapes. He was handy with his hands and enjoyed working with wood.

Several things stand out in remembering Wolo's domestic lifestyle. He was a night owl and occasionally would work all night through, writing a book on his small flat European typewriter. His large type was as unique as his thick pen and brown ink. His penmanship was large and open. It was Wolo! Some mornings I remember waking up to find what looked like a blizzard of white on the floor. Page after page would be started, then pulled from the typewriter, wadded up and thrown on the floor.

I never knew my father to have a temper, be grouchy or act rudely. He had the gift of self-control. He was indeed gentle.

In Wolo's little studios you could count on some simple basics. There was always color! Flowers, drapes, and brightly colored drinking glasses. Usually classical music played in the background and one or two independent cats had the run of the place. In the summer heat, Wolo lived in shorts while in his studio. He was a good cook and made especially delicious salads. He knew good food and good wine. Even though he enjoyed wine and beer I never saw him inebriated. He was always the gentleman! Always honest. Always true to his word. . . and as he used to tell me, "That is the mark of a gentleman. "

Wolo didn't have much jewelry but what he wore was always silver and noticeably masculine. I remember his large silver chain, big silver ring, and shirts that closed with silver buttons at the neck, held by a silver chain. Oddly enough, he didn't wear a watch. He was Bohemian, and Bohemians didn't concern themselves with time. Come to think of it I never saw him use a calendar, either. More than once he was late to his gig.

His appearance was as unique as he was. With a strong physique, dark, thick wavy hair and an unmistakable accent, Wolo was both handsome and charming. He often wore a blue turtle neck shirt with sleeves pulled halfway up to his forearms. On occasions calling for dress-up attire, he'd wear gray wool trousers. Not being particularly fond of shoes, he always wore leather sandals that were made especially for him. . . . . with dark blue socks. Even during my teen years I was never ashamed of being with him. Yes, my father was a unique individual and remained a most unusual person throughout his long life.

Vehicles were personal to Wolo which over the decades included a three-wheeled motorcycle and two or three old cars. He wasn't a mechanic and maintenance wasn't high on his list but he gave each vehicle its own name, aptly fitting its distinct personality. He liked small. . . such as his little Morris Minor, which was almost nearly a car! Driving up and down the steep hills of San Francisco was thrilling to a kid like me. It was a once in a lifetime experience each time I rode with him! More than once we'd find ourselves walking around the city trying to locate where he'd parked his car.

In San Francisco Wolo gave puppet shows for children. Frequently he was the star attraction at birthday parties for children from wealthy homes. The possibility he might have to entertain a group of spoiled, bored rich kids was always present. To be honest, in many ways, Wolo himself was still a kid. Although my father was a talented entertainer he really didn't understand children and couldn't relate to them in a personal way. But without a doubt he could sketch and act his way into their hearts. Being a gifted artist in every sense of the word, children loved him and his amazing little puppets.

The very essence of Wolo was his puppet shows! He himself created each of the puppets and stages he used. Early on I learned the difference between puppets and marionettes. Marionettes are little figures animated by strings but puppets are figures animated by hands.

Wolo's puppet shows were a unique cross between a ventriloquist act and a puppet show. He'd quickly set up his colorful portable stage and stand to one side as a small puppet on his left hand appeared from behind the curtains. Of course, only Wolo was able to hear the little puppet's soft whisper and he'd translate the dialog to the audience. Refreshingly unscripted, every performance my father gave was simple, colorful and woven with a happy spin of fantasy. With Wolo, what you saw is what you got!

One summer while working with my father in San Francisco (see the photo above) I got to know him from a teen's perspective. He took the time to teach me a lot about puppets and people. He taught me manners and what it means to be a gentleman. One of the wonderful things he gave me was the knowledge of how to be a real man. He'd often remind me of how privileged I was to be able to travel and see the world because he'd always dreamed of doing this.

In spite of his charisma Wolo disappointed me as a father; for he wasn't really a father to me. So many times he apologized for that, though I never held it against him. How could he have been be a father to me when his own father had abandoned him at a young age? As he failed me, I also failed him by not marrying and carrying on the family name; for I am the last of the von Trutzschler lineage. Yes, this disappointed Wolo and he'd kid me by saying, "the von Trutzschlers began as "robber Barons" and ended with a "Christian pastor. "

My father Wolo loved me of this I was sure. You can sense his love in this sketch he made of me sleeping in his studio when I was about seven years old.