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As he works carefully and methodically through the day's problems, he puffs steadily at a pipe or an occasional cigaret. For visitors, even if it is one of his vice presidents, he has a routine. When someone enters, he takes off his spectacles, places them on his desk, snaps off the desk lamp and listens. At some point he will pick up his spectacles and snap on the light. This means the interview is over, even if the visitor is in mid-flight of an eloquent peroration.
At precisely 12:10 p.m. he walks from his office, across Ocean Park Blvd., and into his private dining room. There he has his invariable daily lunch of hamburger steak, black coffee, a chocolate sundae. Finished, he returns to his office and his work. Sample answer to a letter: "Tell him nuts." About 5:30 p.m. he leaves his office, steps into his car, drives home—again in a measured ten minutes. Dinner is at 6:30 on the dot. Dessert is always a chocolate sundae.
Bagpipes and Yachting. Donald Douglas spends almost all his evenings in his favorite chair near the fireplace in his library. The study is much the best furnished room in the house. The huge living room is bare of rugs and furniture, except for a few camp chairs. Reason: after Pearl Harbor, cautious Planemaker Douglas was sure the Japs were going to bomb the West Coast. He shipped most of the furniture in his house to Salt Lake City.
From the chair, which must never be moved an inch, he can see over the mantel a painting of his 70-ft. schooner Endymion. He usually spends his evenings alone, because his wife and daughter and young twin sons are upstairs listening to the radio. He hates radio programs, will not permit a radio downstairs. Usually he reads one of his prized books on yachting. He keeps these behind a secret panel in the study, out of reach of the family. He does not like company. He simply refuses to go out socially in the evening. Recently, he promised to take his wife to a Los Angeles performance of This Is The Army. He got one arm into the coat of his tuxedo. Then he reconsidered, stayed home.
The only time he breaks this routine is when he is aboard his Endymion. Before the war sent West Coast yachts scuttling to harbor, he spent weekends cruising along the coast, doing the cooking for his crew (mainly Douglas executives). His specialties: steak with two sauces and curried lobster or shrimp. His one musical taste is for the bagpipe, as played by himself. When he decided to learn the bagpipe some years ago, he was methodical as always. He bought a chanter (mouthpiece) and by practising finger exercises on it in his office soon became expert. Then he formed a Douglas bagpipe band, outfitted everyone with kilts, and regularly cruised in the Endymion to Catalina Island. There he led the bagpipers up & down the hills, skirling his favorite songs.
The Barbershop Backlog. Even as a boy in Brooklyn, where he was born, he had his two passions: for precision and for aircraft. His banker father wanted him to be a naval officer, but Douglas, his engineer's eyes on the Wright brothers, had other ideas. He went to Annapolis but he spent all possible time there in building model planes.