Looking down the past is a kaleidoscopic experience. Images blur
and brighten as memories wax and wane like dreams. In reverie, I am
walking along the west side of San Benito Street in the 600
block.
Looking down the past is a kaleidoscopic experience. Images blur and brighten as memories wax and wane like dreams. In reverie, I am walking along the west side of San Benito Street in the 600 block.
Black and Cooper’s doors are open. There’s Fred Gherholdt telling a couple about the assets of bunk beds. Old Axel with a cigar in his teeth is playing the shill.
Holt’s owner, Dave, is on one knee polishing his showcase.
Graham’s Meat Market is quiet at the moment. The boss is trying to get the hang of weighing his thumb.
Ralph Maze, the barber, has a full house. He likes to tell about his cowboy days in the San Joaquin Valley when his bunch rode into Firebaugh and shot holes in the ceiling of the post office.
As I walk across the alley to the Granger’s Union, I see Tom Patterson in the cheese section stalking flies. They’re a problem this time of year.
Ah! Here is the impressive doorway into Ladd Hardware where my dad is the outside salesman for Allis-Chalmbers and John Deere farm equipment. His sales are so important to the company that Mr. Ladd is flexible with his time.
Look. Every clerk in the store is busy. I’ll just sit in the gun area and hitch a ride home with dad at quitting time. It’s about two miles home and I had a rough day.
There’s Charlie Turner knocking his teeth with a pencil. His voice is an octave high. He owns the Kitchenware; Mrs. Williams is his clerk. One morning, old Joe Bourdet phoned. Charlie answered. Joe said, “Oh, good morning, Mrs. Williams. Is Charlie there?”
The reply he got was, “Mrs. Williams be damned. This is Charlie talking.”
A voice startles me. It’s George Hageman, the gun expert.
“Hiding out?” he chuckles. “Yeah, waiting for dad.” He glanced at the clock. “Be a while, yet. Polish those rifles for me. There’s two-bits in it.” “You bet. Where’s the shining rag?”
Mr. Ladd is on the floor smoking a cigarette through a holder. He always wears a brown suit with a vest and gold watch chain. He has a stern aura about him, but in reality he is a kind, wise and thoughtful man.
We are in a Depression as well as under Prohibition. Mr. Ladd allows farmers to charge their needs until the crops are sold. Fall is remuneration season when tabs are paid. Hank Harris gives a free pocket-knife to each debtor which gripes the heck out of my dad.
Ah! Here he comes now. “Long wait?” he asks. “No, George Hageman gave me two-bits for dusting rifles.”
The Granger Union Building has a passage connecting all the stores. We head into McNamara’s to pick up a pair of shoes my dad had stretched.
Mr. McNamee is standing in front of this drygoods store with his hands clasped behind him. In his Scottish accent, “Careful. You devils are both in bad company.”
Our ’28 Buick parks on Fifth Street in front of “Garcia Brothers Saloon.” A giant barrel of root beer sets in the window. We choose stools in front of a long counter.
A big, round guy in an apron wants to know my age.
“Ten,” I say. “Want a root beer?” Dad says, “The usual for me.”
The man smiles as he serves us. Eyeing me, he says, “Ten, uh. You look more like 21.”
After my dad has two “usuals,” we head home to do the chores.
Outside, we see Cal Sullivan approaching.
“Hey, Larry, we going to South County tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” dad says. “Andrade delivered the disc and tractor today.”
Home at 111 Chappell Road. The cow has been milked. I have filled the manger with hay for the cow and two horses, slopped the pigs and closed the chicken pen.
Brother Bill has filled the woodbox. Mother and sister Virginia have prepared dinner, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, artichokes and two apricot pies.
When dad mentioned his jaunt to South County, a somber silence fell. She knows those two Irishmen can’t get by Jungle Inn.
With lowered eyes, I said, “Can I go along? I won’t be a bother.”
Through a broad smile, he says, “No school Saturday. Why not. Might need your help.”
The sunset was beautiful.
Saturday was a big day for me. We are home now. But I want it known that riding in the backseat listening to those guys talk about the country and the natives was a lesson to remember.
At the ranch, Cal Sullivan made adjustments while Larry answered the buyer’s questions.
As we turned the car around, the owner handed us paper bags and said, “There’s a lot of mushrooms near the gate. Take all you want.”
We did. Dad didn’t want any so Cal got them all.
We stopped at the Jungle Inn to see the monkeys. I had a blue Nehi. The other guys had two “usuals.” Happy ending.
After going 72 years into the past, it’s time to return. See you all a little farther up the creek.
