Manson in His Own Words

by Nuel Emmons

  My association with Universal eventually ended with nothing accomplished. My second recording session never materialized, nor did the Second Coming of Christ flick get off the ground. The writers and potential producer came up with the idea of having Christ, in his Second Coming, be a black man. I couldn’t buy that concept, so my juice at the studios went the way of the flick—shit canned.

  There was a time or two while working with the writers at Universal when I envisioned myself as a talent capable of handing out enough material to make a first-class movie, one so successful it might give me some recognition and enough dollars that I didn’t have to be constantly on the hustle. When our disagreement severed the relationship, I had a taste of disappointment. To console myself I reasoned, “Fuck ’em, who needs them? I’m not into all that material bullshit anyway.” So we uprooted and hit the road for a while.

  As far back as 1955, when I was driving the stolen 1951 Mercury along Route 66 and passed through the Mojave Desert for the first time, the spacious, sparsely populated land there had moved me. On recent trips with the girls, I had felt the urge to see more of the desert than could be seen from the main highways, but so far I had only seen it as everyone else does, from the most traveled route. In the spring of 1968, I began making trips to areas of the desert seldom seen by tourists, little towns like Shoshone, Tecopa, Panamint Springs and others so small they don’t rate an acknowledgment on most maps. The smaller the town, the more earthy and likable were the people who lived there. Even more to my liking, we could get so far off the beaten path that we were seeing places only visited by property owners, prospectors or some recluse seeking escape from people, laws and protocol. I was a long way from being a recluse, for certain parts of my make up demand I have someone around me, but I did want to escape the laws and protocol. I thought the desert was the place to start establishing some permanent roots. If more of those who shared the bus with me had appreciated the desert as much as I did, we would have moved there long before we did. However, at that time, most of the kids saw the desert as being too desolate, and too far from some of the pleasures they still enjoyed. So instead of immediately settling anywhere, we continued to roam around, calling the bus our home. For a break from the constant travel, we would sometimes spend a week or two in a friend’s home. On some occasions we simply moved into an unoccupied house without the consent of the owner. Surprisingly, some of those stays would last several weeks before we were told by owner or police to get our asses out of there.

  On April 1, 1968, Mary gave birth to our son Valentine Michael Manson. Her hospital bed was a mattress on the floor of a shack we were staying at in Topanga Canyon. I played doctor in delivery, cutting and tying the umbilical cord. The girls, now fifteen in number, were her nurses. I was proud of “Pooh Bear,” as we called him, being the product of my loins, and he was the center of attraction and joy of our group. We thought he should be raised without the traditional mother-father set-up. We would all share responsibility for him. He would be spared the hang-ups usually handed down from parent to child, allowing him to grow without being subjected to narrow, one-sided opinions. He could achieve manhood with love and understanding. His head would not be full of doubt, nor would his nature be warped by complexes instilled by selfish, dominating parents. He would know love of heart and freedom of mind denied most living humans. And we in turn would learn from our child who did not know hate, jealousy, greed or ego.

  Having a newborn baby in our midst did not alter our lifestyle. If there was a change, it was that Pooh Bear gave us all the opportunity to express and practice the opposite of the flaws the kids saw in their parents. As a group, the kids felt parents and society smothered them, used them and denied them. They felt parents and society in general sometimes meant well, but were too caught up in their own lives to inspire their children properly. Pooh Bear and other infants in our circle would have it better. We all felt we were contributing to a personality who would eventually make for a better world.

  Pooh Bear traveled everywhere the black bus went, with fifteen or twenty people looking out for him. On one occasion he was the cause of an arrest in Ventura County. We had parked the bus and set up camp in a wooded area. Sheriff’s officers came by and hassled us. They booked me and a couple of the girls for having false identification cards. Mary was booked for breastfeeding her twenty-day-old child in public. The traveling and partying we did had accustomed us to being hassled by the police, but normally a few smiles from the girls would have the cops telling us to play it cool and travel on down the road. That day, the girls weren’t into smiling and the word “pig” was tossed around, so when one of the cops saw Mary’s bare boob in Pooh Bear’s mouth, he came up with some law that prohibits such a thing and Máry was booked along with the rest of us.

  Our numbers were growing so fast that the bus became too crowded for comfort. When people aren’t comfortable, dispositions turn sour and trivial incidents become cause for major arguments—especially with a bunch of headstrong young females. Truth is, there were times when I wanted to revert back to the good old comfortable days when it was just Mary, Lyn, Pat and I, but every time I thought about who should go, I’d find a reason for having that person around. The answer was to get a place large enough for all of us, one that was off the beaten path so that city people and the law weren’t in our faces all the time. The desert still looked good to me. It was looking better to some of those who didn’t care for it in the beginning, but there were still those among us who didn’t like the thought of desert living.

  Sandra Good provided the answer. Sandy was one of the latest additions to our group, the picture of what most poor kids dream of, a pretty college coed who at twenty-three had the world by the ass. In San Francisco, she was part of the social set. Wealthy, divorced parents gave her everything she asked for—that is, everything but genuine love and companionship. Despite the material things she could have for the asking, she was searching for a chance to belong. She had flown down from Frisco just for a night of excitement and some friends brought her to our house.

  The night she visited us, I remember her as being more than a little stuck on herself. She was dressed in slacks and a blouse that came out of the most recent fashion magazine, and her earrings and jewelry went with the make-up on her face. She was a beauty more suited to some plush restaurant than the floor of the shack we occupied.

  The surroundings weren’t the most comfortable for her. Without her knowing, I spent a great deal of the night watching her and observing her reaction to what went on. The rest of the girls were in jeans, body shirts, or loose fitting blouses, no make-up and only a ring or two for jewelry. As I played the guitar and sang I watched her attempt to remove her earrings and make-up without attracting attention. She looked at the other girls to see how they wore their hair, and inconspicuously ran her hands through her own hair so that it would fall naturally, like the rest of the girls. I thought to myself, “She may be stuck on herself, but she isn’t above wanting to be like those she is with.”

  We whiled away the hours playing music and smoking dope and others would occasionally leave the room to go to the bathroom. Sandy did not move, but as more time passed, I watched with amusement as she squirmed, held her breath and did everything else that might relieve bladder stress. Finally, I handed my guitar to Bruce and let him play while I took Sandy by the hand and walked her to the bathroom. “Here, honey,” I told her, “it’s flattering you like my music, but no one should sit it out so long as to wet their pants.” I got one of the most relieved and grateful looks I’ve ever seen. When she came out of the bathroom, we didn’t return to the room where the music was being played but went for a walk. The walk resulted in some conversation, a lot of sex and our getting to know each other. Sandy dropped out of all her social circles and became one of us. One of the strongest! And through an acquaintance of hers staying at the Spahn Ranch, we found an open door that eventually allowed us to locate there.

  Spahn Movie Ranch is loca
ted just above Chatsworth, California in the Simi Hills. Though only a thirty-minute drive from the heart of Hollywood, you leave the hustle and bustle of city living far behind when you drop off the freeway onto the ranch property. In addition to two main ranch buildings and miles of land where movie-land cowboys, outlaws and Indians played out dramas of the Old West, there was a mock-up of an old western town. Along a boardwalk were buildings designed to be the saloons, cafés, hotels and jails of the horse-riding, gun-slinging days of the wild and woolly west. Over the rise from the make-believe town were some old outlaw shacks where rustlers and black-garbed villains fought losing battles against the sheriff’s posse or the hero of the film. Seeing the place for the first time, and realizing its potential for accommodating our needs, I thought, “This is it, this is where we belong.”

  The place was owned by George Spahn, a worldly man in his eighties who could sit for days spinning yarns about his association with those western movie legends of the past: Will Rogers, Tom Mix, Hopalong Cassidy (William Boyd), Roy Rogers and Gene Autrey fell from his tongue so easily that you had to believe George’s friendships with them were as strong and real as life itself. I’m sure that during the era George spoke of, his ranch was in great demand by the movie industry, but like George himself, age and time had created a lot of changes. He now owned fifty or sixty riding horses and all the tack needed for customers who came for a day in the saddle. The ranch and the make-believe western town were nothing more than background and conversation pieces for those renting the horses and were badly in need of repair. To maintain the corral and stables and care for the horses, there were six or seven guys around who listed their place of employment as the Spahn Movie Ranch, including Shorty Shea, Juan Flynn, John Swartz and Steve Grogan.

  Near-blindness kept George from moving around very far from the front porch of his ranch house, so he wasn’t always on top of what went on any distance from the house. But despite his blindness and lack of mobility, old George was a long way from being anybody’s fool. And he wasn’t senile. He was still a pretty shrewd horse trader, and knew and understood people better than a lot of those who make their living analyzing others.

  My original visit to Spahn Ranch had two purposes, to check the place out, and to find Sandy’s friend who lived there working as a mechanic. Because the bus needed some repairs, I went out to see what he could do in the way of fixing it. The guy spent a couple of days working on the bus and I had plenty of time to wander around the ranch and meet some of the people who lived there. The more I saw of the place, the more it appealed to me. Though close to a freeway, it was secluded and private, and near enough to the city that we could still bounce in and out for any music connections I might come up with, or if some of the kids just wanted to be around the bright lights.

  The particular dwelling that was most suited to our numbers was the main ranch house; not the one George lived in, but one some distance from George’s place and the western movie set. At the time some hippie guy named Kaplan, his family and several others were living in the place. Kaplan seemed to be pretty well established around the ranch and was in the good graces of old George, so maneuvering him and his group away from the place I desired was out of the question. At least temporarily.

  Sandy’s friend finally got the bus in running condition and I left Spahn’s without approaching George about letting us move in—I knew I’d be back. Several days later I was on George’s front porch giving him my best pitch on why he should let us locate on his ranch. I had two of the girls with me, primed to play friendly but innocent roles. When I drove into the ranch yard (not in the bus but a borrowed car), George was sitting on the front porch. About four stairs led up to the porch level, at the bottom of which I stopped and said, “Mr. Spahn, I’m Charles Manson and I’d like to talk to you about renting some space on your property.” Old George replied, “Well, son, we can talk about it, but you’ll have to come closer, I’m as blind as a bat. Can’t see a damned thing, but that don’t stop my talking or thinking. Step right up here and let’s hear what you got in mind.”

  The girls and I stepped up on the porch, and George raised himself out of his chair and offered his hand in greeting. Behind his thick, tinted glasses, I could see eyes that were open and moved like normal eyes, but instead of moving his hand toward mine for a customary handshake, he just lifted his hand in the general direction of my voice. I moved my hand to his for the introduction, and as I introduced each of the girls, he faced their voices and waited for their hands to locate his. I thought he wasn’t as blind as he pretended when he placed his left hand on their shoulders, giving each girl an intimate squeeze as he shook with his right. I thought that this cagey old bastard used his bad eyesight as an excuse to cop feels, among other things. But later incidents proved George was almost as blind as he said he was. After a few words of conversation with each of the girls, George got back to me. “Okay, son, what can this old cowboy do for you?” “Well, sir,” I said in my friendliest voice, “I’m a musician and for the moment me and four or five others in my group are living in a bus that has been converted into a traveling home. We need a place, a permanent place we can call home. Thing is, right now we haven’t much money, but all of us are willing to do some work around your ranch to balance out for a place to stay. The girls could clean your house and cook for you and us guys could do whatever needs being done around your property.” “Well now,” he said, “I got a cook. Pearl comes around and does my vittles and cleans the house. But maybe she’d like to take a breather once in a while. I got some hired hands that look after my horses, but maybe they could use some help in keeping the place up. Where did you have in mind staying?” “Well, the big ranch house is more to our needs, but I notice someone is living in it. If they should happen to move on, I’d like to work something out with you on that house.” “Now, son, Kap and his people have been here a while, so if I was you, I wouldn’t be counting on that house. Got two old rustlers’ shacks over the hill, but they ain’t got conveniences. A body would have to rough it livin’ in them.” “Hey, Mr. Spahn, we’re use to roughing it. For now those places would be fine, and we’ll sure please you with our work,” I replied. “Call me George, son. We’ll talk about the chores after you get situated.”

  I hadn’t been honest with George about our numbers, but I figured we’d be out of sight of the ranch house and he wouldn’t realize how many of us were around. The old shacks gave us privacy and a foot in the door. With a little time, old George’s obvious interest in the girls could be catered to sufficiently so that by the time the full number of people were brought to his attention, he’d be appreciating us too much to want to send us down the road. And if we played our cards right, it wouldn’t be too long before we would be living in the main ranch house.

  The next day, with Pooh Bear and eighteen others—four guys and fourteen girls—a dozen of whom lay out of sight on the floor of the bus, I quietly drove past the main ranch house and parked the bus next to one of the old rustler shacks. The girls, enthusiastic about a place to spread out, quickly got to work with soap, water and scrub brushes. By evening the shacks were spick and span and very livable. A nearby spring, candles, lanterns, a wood stove and an outdoor john gave us all the conveniences needed.

  Not wanting to overplay my hand with George and his hospitality immediately, I explained to the kids George wasn’t aware that our group was as large as it was, so for a while, everyone was to stay close to our area and not be exploring or making our numbers obvious.

  My deceit lasted about three days. The first ranch hand that got over our way saw all the young girls and quickly spread the word to his partners that there was “a whole canyon full of young pretty girls over by the outlaw shacks.” By day four, the outlaw shacks were the most popular area around the ranch. But it was just for looking; no touching. I’d made it clear to the girls to play it tight instead of loose, but that didn’t stop the cowboys from looking and wanting. As far as old George being upset, Lyn and San
dy had already spent some time cleaning his house and giving him plenty of attention, so when I told him that there were a few kids around who were just passing through and wouldn’t be staying too long he didn’t object. With the deceit bared, I felt a lot more comfortable, actually more comfortable than I had felt in several weeks. The surroundings and atmosphere were relaxing. We had a place where everyone could do their own thing, with or without the group. We not only had space to live, but a place to grow—and grow we did! At one count, more than thirty-five people who were later called part of the Manson Family lived there at Spahn Ranch, and many times that number passed through. Those first months at the ranch held some kind of magic. Love, togetherness and fulfilling each other’s needs bonded us as one. True, our lives were everything parents and society preached against, but that was the reason those kids were there in the first place. The dope, the sex and all the avenues we traveled were nothing more than rebellion against a world that preached one thing but failed to provide an example of it. The whole trip in the 60s—all the protests, the drop-outs, the runaways, the flower children, the hippies, the drug addicts, and yes, the murdering outlaws—was the product of a society that spoke lies and denied their children something or someone to respect. And unfortunately, society remains the same.

  There was a time, along with the hate I felt for a world that had shit on me, I hated myself for not being able to live by the rules of society. But the deeper I became involved with those kids, the more I hated the world they came from. And the more I hated the world that had driven them from their homes—the world I had come from—the more I began to like myself. I started believing I had some of the right answers in my head. But believe me, none of the answers that filled my head included murder!