One piece of memorabilia found in the treasure box of memories from my mother's collection is a page from the ZooNooz magazine published by the San Diego Zoo with this photograph:
(Lyle and Betty Carringer on Elephant at San Diego Zoo in 1924,
image colorized by AI Google Gemini)
I asked Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 to write a story about Betty's ride on the elephant, and provided some detail of the photograph - here it is:
The Elephant Ride at the San Diego Zoo
Betty Virginia Carringer was four years old when her father took
her to ride an elephant on New Year’s Day, though she wouldn't
remember making the decision to go. What she would remember, in
fragments that grew sharper with each retelling over the years, was
the size of the creature—bigger than anything she'd ever imagined,
bigger than their Model T Ford, bigger than the house on Fern Street,
a mountain of gray wrinkled skin that moved and breathed and smelled
like dust and hay and something wild.
It was 1924, and the San Diego Zoo was still finding its identity.
What had begun as a ragtag collection of animals left over from the
1915-1916 Panama-California Exposition was slowly transforming into
something more ambitious. Dr. Harry Wegeforth, the zoo's founder, had
big dreams—he wanted to create not just a menagerie but a
world-class zoological park. The elephant rides were part of that
vision, a way to bring people close to these magnificent creatures,
to create memories that would bind San Diego families to their zoo.
On this particular morning, Lyle Carringer had announced at
breakfast that they were going to the zoo. Emily, Betty's mother, had
dressed her daughter in a white cotton dress with a sailor collar and
white shoes with little straps. Betty's light brown hair was cut in a bob,
the fashionable style for little girls, and Emily had put a white cap on her head to keep it from her face.
"We're going to ride an elephant, Betty-bug," Lyle had
said, using his pet name for his only child. "How does that
sound?"
Betty hadn't known what to say. She'd seen pictures of elephants
in her picture books, but pictures were flat and safe. They didn't
prepare you for the reality.
The Carringer family—Lyle, Emily, Betty, and Grandmother
Georgianna, who at fifty-four was still spry enough for an outing –
drove from their home on Fern Street through the neighborhood toward
the park. The day was pleasant but not cold, with the kind of
crystalline blue sky that made San Diego famous. They could hear the
carillon from the California Tower before they saw it, the bells
marking the hour with a cascade of notes that rolled across the
canyons.
Balboa Park was their backyard, their playground, their cultural
center. The park still bore the architectural legacy of the 1915
Exposition -- the ornate Spanish Colonial Revival buildings, the
grand plazas, the Cabrillo Bridge that seemed to float above the
canyon. And tucked into the northern reaches of the park, still
expanding year by year, was the zoo.
They paid their admission—a quarter for adults, nothing for
children -- and entered through the gates. The zoo in 1924 was a far
cry from what it would become. There were cages and enclosures,
pathways that were still being developed, areas that were little more
than dirt and hope. But there were also wonders: lions that roared at
dawn, monkeys that chattered and swung through real trees, birds in
colors Betty had never seen outside of her mother's garden.
And elephants.
The elephant ride was one of the zoo's main attractions, a way to
fund the growing menagerie while giving visitors an experience they'd
never forget. A circular track had been laid out near the elephants'
enclosure, and a large wooden carrier—called a howdah, though none
of the Carringers knew that word -- had been constructed to sit atop
the elephant's broad back.
When they reached the elephant ride area, Betty stopped walking.
Her small hand tightened around her father's larger one.
The elephant was massive. It stood near the track, swaying
slightly from side to side, its trunk swinging in a lazy pendulum.
The trainer, a lean man in khaki clothes and a wide-brimmed hat,
stood beside the creature holding a long pole with a hook at the end.
Other families were already gathering, excited children bouncing on
their toes, mothers fussing with cameras.
"That's Joy," the trainer announced to the growing
crowd. "She's an Asian elephant, about fifteen years old, and
she's gentle as a lamb. Who wants to ride?"
Hands shot up. Children shouted. Betty pressed herself against her
father's leg.
Lyle crouched down to her level, his face kind and patient.
"Scared, Betty-bug?"
Betty nodded, unable to take her eyes off the elephant. Joy's
ears—huge, floppy things—flicked back and forth, shooing away
flies. Her eyes, small relative to her massive head, seemed
impossibly knowing.
"Would you like to go with Papa?" Lyle asked. "I
won't let anything happen to you. And think what a story you'll have
to tell!"
Betty considered this. Her father had never let her down. When
she'd been afraid of the dark, he'd sat with her until she fell
asleep. When she'd fallen and skinned her knee, he'd kissed it
better. If Papa said it was safe, it probably was.
"Okay," she whispered.
The trainer was explaining how it would work. Eight people could
ride at once in the howdah—a wooden platform with high sides and a
bench that ran down the middle. There was a small ladder propped
against Joy's side, and riders would climb up one at a time.
"Children with their parents go first," the trainer
called. "Then we'll fill in the rest."
Lyle picked Betty up and carried her to the ladder. Up close, Joy
was even more enormous. Betty could smell her now—a thick, earthy
scent that was entirely alien. The elephant's skin was rough and
creased, like leather that had been crumpled and smoothed out a
thousand times. Betty could see individual hairs poking out from the
gray hide.
"Hello, Jo y," Lyle said cheerfully, as if greeting a
neighbor. "We're going to ride with you today. This is my
daughter, Betty. She's a little nervous, but I told her you're very
nice."
Joy's trunk snaked around toward them, the tip hovering near
Betty's face. Betty flinched, but Lyle held steady.
"She's just saying hello," Lyle explained. "See?
She's curious about you."
The trunk—thick as a man's thigh, covered in wrinkles and ending
in what looked almost like fingers—hovered for a moment, then
withdrew. Betty could feel the warm breath from Joy's trunk,
could see the moisture glistening at the tip.
The trainer positioned the ladder. "Up you go, sir. Watch
your step. That's it. Now climb right up and over the side into the
howdah. Take the front position—best seat in the house."
Lyle adjusted his grip on Betty and began climbing. The ladder
wobbled slightly with their combined weight, and Betty wrapped her
arms tightly around her father's neck. One step, two steps, three
steps—and suddenly they were level with the elephant's back, level
with the wooden carrier that rose another two feet above Joy's spine.
"Over we go," Lyle said, and then they were climbing
over the high edge of the howdah and into the interior.
The howdah was larger than it had looked from the ground, but it
was also crowded. The wooden sides rose to about waist-height on an
adult, higher than that on Betty. There was a low bench that ran down
the middle, padded with thin cushions. Lyle settled them at the very
front, facing sideways, and arranged Betty so she sat with her back
against his back, both of them facing opposite directions and
perpendicular to the direction the elephant would walk.
Other riders were climbing aboard now—a young couple who looked
like newlyweds, giggling and holding hands; a family with two older
boys who jostled for position; and several teenage boys. They filled
the howdah, taking positions along the benches, everyone talking at
once, excited and nervous and thrilled.
Betty tried to see over the edge of the howdah, but the wooden
sides were too high for her to see much. She could see the sky,
could see the trees and buildings in the distance, but she couldn't
see down to the elephant beneath them. It was like being in a tall
wooden box that swayed and moved.
Lyle, being taller, could lean sideways slightly and look over the
edge. He reached out and touched the rough gray skin of Jo y's head,
just behind the elephant's ear.
"Feel how thick her skin is, Betty. It's like armor. And
she's so strong—she's carrying all of us and doesn't even notice."
Betty wanted to touch the elephant too, wanted to feel that
strange skin, but the sides of the howdah kept her enclosed,
protected, separated from the creature that carried them. She could put her arm on the edge of the howdah and felt
both disappointed and relieved.
"All set?" the trainer called up. Without waiting for an
answer, he made a clicking sound with his tongue and tapped Joy's
shoulder with his pole. "Walk on, girl."
And Joy moved.
It was nothing like riding in a car or even on a horse, the times
the Carringers had visited a ranch in the country. The elephant's
gait was rolling and rhythmic, a side-to-side sway that made the
howdah rock like a boat on gentle waves. Betty grabbed the side of
the howdah.
"It's all right," Lyle said, his voice calm and steady
in her ear. "That's just how elephants walk. We're perfectly
safe. See? Isn't this something?"
They began moving along the circular track. The trainer walked
beside Joy's head, occasionally touching her with the pole, guiding
her with quiet commands and clicking sounds. The elephant's huge
feet—each one bigger than Betty's torso—moved with surprising
delicacy, placing themselves carefully on the packed earth of the
track.
From her elevated perch, Betty could see over the zoo's fences to
other enclosures. She could see the lion pacing in his cage, could
see visitors pointing and waving up at the elephant riders. She could
see her mother and grandmother standing at the rail where spectators
gathered, Emily waving enthusiastically, Georgianna shading her eyes
with her hand to see better.
"Wave to Mama!" Lyle said. Betty found her voice. "Mama!
Grandma! Look! I'm on an elephant!"
The other riders were talking and laughing, commenting on the
view, on the strange sensation of riding such a massive creature. The
newlywed couple was taking turns with a camera, trying to photograph
each other. The teenage boys were making elephant sounds, trumpeting
loudly.
Betty began to relax. The initial terror was fading, replaced by
wonder. She was higher up than she'd ever been except in her father's
arms. She could feel the elephant's warmth radiating through the
wooden floor of the howdah, could feel the power of the creature's
muscles moving beneath them. Each step Joy took created a gentle
rocking motion that was actually quite pleasant once you got used to
it.
"Papa," Betty said, her voice small but curious, "is
the elephant happy?"
Lyle considered the question. "I think so, Betty-bug. The
trainers take good care of her. She has food and water and a place to
live. And she's letting us ride on her back, which I think means
she's a generous sort of elephant."
"She's very big."
"She certainly is. Elephants are the biggest land animals in
the world. They're very smart too—smart as people, some say. They
remember things for their whole lives. So Joy will probably remember
you, the little girl in the white dress who rode on her back today."
Betty liked that idea. She liked thinking that this enormous
creature might remember her, might carry the memory of this July
morning through all her elephant years.
They made a complete circuit of the track. Betty watched her
mother and grandmother come back into view, watched the zoo buildings
rotate past, watched the shadows shift as Joy plodded along. The
animal's ears continued their constant flicking, and occasionally her
trunk would swing up and around, as if checking on her passengers.
Near the end of the circuit, something magical happened. A
photographer appeared at the edge of the track—one of the official
zoo photographers who documented special moments for the zoo's
records and for publication in newspapers and the zoo's own
materials.
"Hold still up there!" the photographer called. "Big
smiles!"
The riders obliged, turning toward the camera. Lyle adjusted his
position so Betty was clearly visible, sitting in back of him. The
photographer raised his large box camera, disappeared behind the
black cloth for a moment, then emerged.
"Got it! Beautiful! That'll be in the ZooNooZ magazine
-- you'll be famous!"
Betty didn't understand what that meant, but she felt her father's
chest swell with pride behind her.
"You hear that, Betty-bug? You're going to be in the zoo
magazine. Wait until your friends at school see that!"
The ride continued for another half circuit—about five minutes
total, though to Betty it felt both longer and shorter than that, the
way momentous experiences warp time for children. Finally, the
trainer guided Joy back to the loading area and brought the elephant
to a gentle stop.
"End of the line, folks! Everyone climb down carefully now.
Watch your step on the ladder."
The passengers disembarked one at a time. When it was Lyle and
Betty's turn, Lyle climbed over the edge of the howdah with Betty in
his arms and carefully descended the ladder. At the bottom, he set
Betty on her feet, and they both looked up at Joy, who had already
turned her attention to a bucket of vegetables the trainer was
offering.
"Thank you, Joy," Betty said solemnly, as her mother had
taught her to thank anyone who did something nice.
The elephant's trunk swept up, grabbed a carrot from the bucket,
and deposited it in her mouth. If Joy heard Betty's gratitude, she
gave no sign, but Betty didn't mind.
Emily hurried over, gathering Betty into her arms. "Oh,
sweetheart! You were so brave! So high up! I was nervous just
watching you!"
"It was fun, Mama," Betty said, surprising herself with
the truth of it. "The elephant walks like this -- " She
demonstrated the side-to-side sway, making her mother laugh.
Georgianna patted Betty's head. "My brave girl. Not many
children can say they've ridden an elephant."
"The photographer took our picture," Lyle announced
proudly. "We might be in the newspaper."
"Wouldn't that be something," Emily said, straightening
Betty's ribbon, which had come askew during the ride.
They spent the rest of the morning at the zoo, visiting the other
animals, but nothing could match the elephant ride. Betty looked back
several times as they walked away, watching Joy carry other groups of
riders around the track. Each time, she felt a small thrill of pride.
She had done that. She, Betty Virginia Carringer, just four years
old, had ridden an elephant.
Several years later, the ZooNooZ magazine arrived in
mailboxes across San Diego. The Zoological Society's newsletter was a
modest publication, but it was read avidly by zoo supporters and San
Diego families who wanted to keep up with the latest developments at
their growing zoo.
And there was a photograph with the caption: "Visitors
enjoy an elephant ride aboard Joy, one of the Zoo's most popular
attractions."
The image showed the howdah atop Joy, with all eight riders
partially visible. At the very front, sitting back-to-back, were Lyle
Carringer and little Betty. Lyle's hand reached forward to touch
Joy's head, while Betty sat enclosed by the howdah's high sides, too
small to reach over the edge but clearly delighted, her face split by
a huge smile. The trainer stood beside Joy, his pole resting against
his shoulder, and in the background, you could see other zoo
buildings and the distinctive architecture of Balboa Park.
Betty, when she was older remembered the cool January morning, the
smell of the elephant, the swaying motion of the ride. She'd remember
her father's arms around her, making her feel safe. She'd remember
looking down at her mother and grandmother from the height of an
elephant's back, feeling like she could see the whole world.
The years would pass. Betty would grow from a toddler to a child
to a young woman. She'd attend school and college, become a teacher,
meet Fred, marry, have children of her own. The San Diego Zoo would
grow too, from that modest collection of animals to one of the
world's great zoological institutions. Joy would eventually be
retired from giving rides as the zoo's philosophy evolved.
But that photograph from 1924 would remain in the Zoo archives, and finally appear in December 1985 in ZooNooz. Betty and her sons saw it and marveled at how young their mother was, how small, how brave. Her
grandchildren would study it, trying to imagine their grandmother as
that tiny girl in the white dress.
And Betty herself, in her later years, would remember that her father had made
her feel safe enough to try something scary. She'd remember that her
mother and grandmother had cheered her on. She'd remember the feeling
of being carried by something much larger and stronger than herself,
trusting it to take care of her.
In a way, that elephant ride had been a metaphor for her whole
life. There had been many times when Betty had found herself in
situations that felt too big, too overwhelming—teaching a classroom
full of teenagers, raising three boys, waiting for Fred to come home
from the war, facing cancer. And each time, she'd had to trust
something larger than herself to carry her through. Sometimes it was
faith. Sometimes it was family. Sometimes it was simply the forward
momentum of life itself, taking one step at a time, swaying but never
falling.
The elephant ride at the San Diego Zoo had lasted perhaps five
minutes. The memory would last a lifetime.
And somewhere in the zoo's archives, that photograph remained -- testimony to a
moment when a little girl in a white dress had done something brave,
something memorable, something that connected her forever to the city
she loved and the zoo that had captured her four-year-old heart.
Betty Virginia Carringer, sitting back-to-back with her father
atop an elephant named Joy, smiling for the camera, too small to
touch the elephant herself but carried safely nonetheless, while a
trainer led them around a circular track on a perfect San Diego
morning in 1924.
Some moments are simply meant to be preserved. This was one of
them.
3) The Google NotebookLM Video Overview for "Betty's Elephant Ride" is below:
4) This AI-generated material is historical fiction, since I don't have details of every day or every year in the lives of my own life or the lives of my ancestors. Does it matter that I am presenting these as seemingly real answers or conversations? I don't think so - because my purpose is to enable my descendants to know who their ancestors were and to help them understand the lives of their ancestors. The AI-generated responses are much more readable and creative than any response I have in my memory bank or that I can create.
5) This event really happened and the names and events mentioned are real. See a newspaper article from 2 January 1924 in Children Rode Elephants At the San Diego Zoo in 1924. ZooNooz published the photograph in the December 1985 edition of the magazine. I asked my mother about this when I first saw the photograph back in 1985 and she confirmed it was her and her father. What are the odds that they would appear in a photograph like this, and be published 60 years later?
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Links to my blog posts about using Artificial Intelligence are on my Randy's AI and Genealogy page. Links to AI information and articles about Artificial Intelligence in Genealogy by other genealogists are on my AI and Genealogy Compendium page.
Copyright (c) 2025, Randall J. Seaver
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