Mother David and the Mandorla Gallery

Although I had made a couple of visits to the Stein Club with John, a gateway to actually knowing people there was the Mandorla Art Gallery at 14th Street and Peachtree, opened in 1966 by David Braden, lovingly known to the burgeoning hippie community as Mother David. There were not many men at that time who dared to embrace being gay. But David carried his distinct lisp and delicious swish with a fine sense of humor. Combined with his sweet nature, people were naturally drawn to him. The few times I met him, he was surrounded by an entourage, and it was obvious Mother David was a star.

The main level of the Mandorla sold custom-designed jewelry and artwork. Also the Gallery Illien, owned by Anna Belle Illien, was there [More about Anna Belle Illien]. Although I met Anna Belle a couple of times, Yves Illien, her husband, was a Stein Club regular. Yves was French, and like many men at that time, he had a beard. Unlike a lot of the others, his looked good, always trimmed and groomed.

In 1967, I was 18 and John was 27. A lot of the people I met were older than John. My mind simply could not comprehend being that old. Yves will be the first, but not the last, about whose age I can only say he was a lot older than John.

In the basement of the Mandorla was a coffee shop and also a printing press where the first few editions of The Great Speckled Bird were printed. A few years later the basement became a bar called the Catacombs, a very successful hangout for hippies. I remember sitting there one day during some sort of angst playing A Whiter Shade of Pale on the jukebox over and over. It was kind of like catacombs, dark and dank, made of stone . . . perfect for angst.

On the top floor was a shop John and Ben Douglas rented to make jewelry. Ben was older than John, but not a lot older . During this time a strange social mixing was taking place: wealthy, upper-class, Buckhead ladies were slumming in the 14th Street art district. And, boy, did they love that custom jewelry . . . and sometimes the jewelers. They also loved makers of leather goods, painters, potters and, well, you name it. These men who smelled slightly of sweat, wearing nothing under those bell-bottom jeans, rough and ready, were something different for the ladies who lunch.

If memory serves, Ben Douglas was a Leo. If not, he should have been. He was tall, had wide shoulders and a large head. Blond hair down to his shoulders just emphasized his leonine appearance. Raised in a small town outside Atlanta, he had been married and had several grown children. Had he stuck to the straight and narrow path, he could have taken over the family business and his income and inheritance would have been sizable. Instead, he made jewelry and rented a basement apartment on Clairmont Road near Emory University, with John and another roommate. That apartment and the Catacombs had a lot in common.

It always seemed to me that different groups of friends in the Stein Club formed circles. These circles could intersect, with a member of one circle being friends with a member of another, but the basic circle remained intact. Ben stood at the center of one of the largest circles. It even outlasted the Stein Club. Ben was a person of power.

It was the sexual revolution, and John and I were doing our part. On the large Mandorla staircase, things were getting hot and heavy when John led me to the second floor, past the jewelry shop to a room I hadn't seen before. The only thing I remember seeing is this lovely pallette, perfectly made up, with a makeshift night table, and lighted lamp. It just looked so cozy and inviting. Who could resist? Well, probably anybody with any sense of privacy and decorum, but that left us out.

I can't remember exactly how long it was -- except that it wasn't long enough -- when this very gruff voice said, "WHO'S IN MY BED?" It's been 40 years and I don't remember what we said, but I'll just about bet "Hey, man, we're cool," came in there somewhere. The bed owner turned out to be David Frye. Lucky for us, he was one of the calmest, best-natured people ever, and became one of our favorite Stein Club friends.

A sad note to this story is what happened to Mother David. For the first few years, the hippie movement was made up of college dropouts, who were antiwar activists, or just dropping out and turning on. Lots of them came from middle and upper-middle class families. Parents were upset. Business people were upset. The religious community was livid. Something had to be done.

The scapegoat was David Braden and the Mandorla. First, pressure was put on Sam Massell, owner of the building and later mayor of Atlanta, to throw David out. I remember Mr. Massell saying that they were good tenants who took care of his property and paid their lease on time. He refused to be bullied.

Mother David was set up, according to those close to him, and arrested on March 12th, 1968, for selling marijuana. He was placed in solitary confinement under $25,000 bond until his trial on April 22nd. The details of this trial can be found in a contemperaneous article at this link: David Braden Trial. And, once again, I thank TheStripProject.com for the good information and pictures I have found there. Briefly, he pled guilty to possession of marijuana and was sentenced to seven years in state prison. It seems hard to believe now, doesn't it?

I don't know how long he served, but I remember when he got out, and it seemed like a long, long time since the days at the Mandorla. Whether this was covered in a newspaper or on TV, I can't remember, but I do know that he was not well. Who would think such a Wildean story could happen in the 60's? John says his memory is that after his release, David moved to Alaska.

The Beginning

Around 1963 or 1964, Jim Calloway, Jim McRae, and Roger Reedus bought a garage near 8th and Peachtree. Their serious renovation of the building included a long bar stretching almost the length of the long, narrow room, tables, chairs and banquettes. With a jaunty, red-and-white striped awning and a waist-high brick planter outside, and a personal stein for each patron decorating the shelves behind the bar, the Stein Club opened for business.

By the time I got there, in 1967, the steins were still there, but just for decoration. There were far too many patrons for everybody to have his own. If I had to use one word to describe the regular Stein Clubbers, it would be beatnik, although that really doesn’t completely cover it either. There were regionally renowned painters and sculptors drinking side by side with college professors and politicians, the unemployed, and a few hippies wandering up from 14th Street. Lots of waiters and bartenders, came in for what I called the night shift. One of the true regulars was the vice-president of a national bank, another was an engineer and another the producer of a national PBS show. It was the great leveler. There were those who made very good money and those who barely got by. But money didn’t matter. If you were smart and entertaining, funny and well-read, you could drink your fill there any night .

There will be lots to talk about in this blog. For example, the annual spelling bee, which brought in spellers from far and wide and was covered nationally at least once. Dick Price was there at its inception. He has told me the story of how this came about, but it’s been many years since I’ve heard it. Maybe he can fill us in.

I’m pretty sure Dan Connolly was an instigator of the limerick contest. There were a couple of years there where he just about drove me crazy waking me up at seven o’clock in the morning to read me his latest overnight creations. Out of all the wonderful limericks that were written, the only one I remember was for the topic: Lester Maddox and Coretta Scott King - Politics Makes Strange Bedfellows. Bob White wrote, “Ring-a-ding-ding, Coretta Scott King.” All those hundreds of lines of poetry, and that’s it.

There was a rugby team, a dart club, a men’s softball team, the greatly admired women’s softball team and an annual party for the Metropolitan Opera chorus. Surprisingly, the Stein Club was always well represented in the Peachtree Road Race. Harold Moore ran the race for years when you thought he’d have trouble even getting up from the table. Of course, one my great creations was the Annual Christmas Pageant, which never actually happened. The planning was great, though. I remember George Caberas [spelling?] was going to be Round John Virgin and Beverly Couch claimed Heavenly Piece. By all means if anybody remembers other Christmas Pageant names, I would love for you to post them.

And, of course, there was the Stein Club’s answer to the Dogwood Festival. Dare I mention the name? Oh, all right, the Dogshit Festival. Now is probably not the time to go into great detail, but I can say, though he denied it to the grave, that Bob Hatcher was involved in thinking this up. It was not all my idea. And, no, I never planned to be the only Queen.

There were probably well over 200 people who came there at least three times a week, and if you could include all the people who were brought there by a friend, the total is in the thousands. Some people could walk in, have a beer, and never come back. For others like me, entering the Stein Club was like coming home, finally finding my real family. It was seductive. College seemed boring. Actually, everything else was boring. And at the center of this wonderful community was beer. And, Lord, how I loved beer, and so did we all.

Lost in Atlanta 2008

Nothing is simple anymore. Shoulder problems make driving to Atlanta impossible, so going to give a deposition at Peachtree Center requires relying on the kindness, not of strangers, but of old friends, all connected to my life through the Stein Club.

John Rupert brought me as far as the Mall of Georgia, driving like we were at LeMans, making me wonder if turning a steering wheel would have hurt my shoulders any more than the clenching of my muscles through 45 miles of road rage. However, safely dropped off at the Mall of Georgia, Rick Smith’s girlfriend Mary Maxwell met me for lunch and took me to Peachtree Center for a meeting with my lawyer. An hour later, when I came out of his building onto the Peachtree Center mall, my first thought was to just jump on a No. 10 bus and head down to 8th Street, go to the Stein Club and fill everybody in on my case. There for a moment, that world still existed. Then I was back in the present, and there was such a feeling of loss.

Sometimes when John Rupert and I reminisce about the Stein Club, people will say, "The reason that time seems so great is because you were young. We all feel that way." And, admittedly, there is truth to that: no aches and pains, lots of energy, a huge sex drive, and being attractive enough to do something about it. But Rick Smith and I were talking Tuesday night and he agreed that there was more to it than that. Anytime day or night that the club was open, you could find conversations that were fast-paced and hilarious or discussions that were deep and informed or gossip that was simply outrageous. Everybody was at their best and tried a little harder than they did at home or at the Waffle House (a/k/a Awful House).

The only place the Stein Club exists today is in our memories, and in this blog I intend to share some of mine. My hope is that in the comments sections some of my old friends, and perhaps some of the Stein Clubbers who came later, will share their stories, too, or just their thoughts.