Growing Years: 1944 to 1947

Our folk’s new house was located in an area referred to as Lakewood, a little over one mile due east of Douglas Aircraft, which was located at the Long Beach Airport.  Some parts of this area were within Long Beach’s city limits, while other parts were unincorporated.  Although our mailing address was 3816 Sebren Avenue, Long Beach, California, our house was located in an unincorporated area of Lakewood.  Our legal residence was in Los Angeles County, and it was some years before we were annexed into Long Beach.  Our family putt down roots after this May 1944 move to the house on Sebren Avenue.  This new house is where our folks abandoned their itinerant ways and settled down for the rest of their lives.  It is where both Berta and I grew to young adulthood.  While I spent almost nine years in several houses, schools and cities, this house on Sebren Avenue is where I consider “home” to be.  Yes, I remember the previous places, but I believe the Sebren house is where I really grew up.  It seems rather ironic to think that life did not begin until the age of nine.  This view is probably an overstatement, because the first nine years laid the basis for who I am. Yet, the years spent in the Sebren environment contributed significantly to finalizing my persona.

After moving into the Sebren house, my world exploded in every imaginable way and in many ways unimaginable.  My life took quantum leaps into experiences and relationships previously unknown or even dreamed about.  Telling my story to this point has been easy, because activities and memories have been somewhat limited.  Memories were limited due to the many moves and a still maturing memory bank.  Originally, I intended to chronicle life from moving to Sebren Avenue through high school, but while collecting my thoughts for this time period, it became clear this task would be overwhelming and would complicate my Reflections for a number of reasons.  Experiences all the way through high school were too many years to cover.  Also, it was recognized that a memorable event might introduce a subject that would extend into my adult years, a topic which would deserve an essay unto itself.  Based on these considerations this essay will cover those events from May 1944 to August 1947, in other words, finishing Third Grade on through Sixth Grade.

Then, rummaging through my Sebren Avenue experiences, I realized how the area surrounding our neighborhood impacted my growing up.  In fact, to fully understand how the area influenced my experiences, it requires taking a journey back in time to the area that formed my world in the mid to late 1940s.  As an aid to this understanding, a current satellite map of the area has been red lined so that the 1940s setting can be more easily visualized.  Basically, these red lines define the boundary where time has changed what lies beyond.

Sebren Avenue Area, Mid-1940 

The satellite map has a red pin locating our house; this pin is about in the middle of the map.  The park area between our house and Carson Street was an open field.  This field usually contained some sort of crop; I remember pulling and eating turnips.  Those houses between the field and Harco Street (the major street south of our house) were constructed in 1942.  This date is an assumption, because it was imprinted in the sidewalk in front of our house.  Those houses south of Harco Street were built next but without garages.  No garages were built due to construction material shortage or rationing, but a garage foundation was provided.  When we moved into the Sebren house in May 1944 the areas beyond the red lines were open fields.  These fields stretched all the way to the San Gabriel River, a little over one mile to the East.  Woodruff Avenue was a narrow two-lane road, with the East side of the road lined with eucalyptus trees.  This line of trees extended from Carson Street south to Conant Street.  Eucalyptus trees were planted to serve as wind breaks and were common sights in Southern California.  Just on the other side of these trees was a dirt road that extended from Harco Street about half way to Carson Street.  This dirt road provided entrance to two or three ranches adjacent to the dirt road.  Areas north or south of the red line were also open fields.  For a number of years after 1944, the red box at the corner of Carson and Woodruff was an abandoned one-room schoolhouse.  There was a bell tower, but the bell was long gone.  After the war, housing developments popped up like weeds, and my wide open playground and adventure zone was gone.  In my view, we lived on the edge of a frontier, with an unknown world for exploring just blocks from home.

Harco Street served as the main entrance to our development and was accessed by either Bellflower Boulevard or Woodruff Avenue.  Our house at 3816 Sebren Avenue was located on the East side of the street, and was the third house from Harco Street. 

House Location on Sebren Avenue

Our Sebren Avenue house consisted of a combined living/dining room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, a single bathroom and an attached two-car garage. Excluding the garage, the living area consisted of only 860 square feet!  While this size is small by today’s standards, it did not seem that small while growing up.  An early photo of the house shows Berta exiting the front porch.  Our neighbor Bill Wells took this photo.

3816 Sebren Avenue, circa 1945

The living room window is to the right of the front door.  The living room was a combination living room/dining room, but, in reality, it was just one large room that served as a living room only.  The kitchen was located behind the living room.  The front bedroom widow is to the left of the front door; this room was the larger of the two bedrooms.  There was a hall from the front bedroom to the other bedroom at the rear of the house.  The bathroom and a hall closet were located between the two bedrooms.  Although the kitchen was small, it also served as our eating area.  When we moved in, there was a washing machine and laundry sink located behind folding doors on one end of the kitchen.  Needless to say, our eating area was rather cramped.  Dad increased the eating area by removing the folding doors and moved the washing machine and sink to the garage.  Dad’s project gave us a small alcove that increased our eating area. An original photo of our backyard shows how it looked when we moved in.  The hedge separated the lawn from the “farm” area.  In this area were three fruit trees and a Concord grape vine.  Trees to the right and left of the photo are peach trees, which produced two different types of peaches.  The middle tree gave us apricots.  The grape vine is not visible and was located next to the rear fence.  A dwarf lemon tree stands in middle of the yard.  This tree was moved to the far left of the yard next to the fence, but just forward of the line of hedges.  At some point we planted a garden between the apricot tree and the peach tree on the left, I do not remember when it was planted or how long it lasted.  During World War II people were encouraged to plant a “Victory Garden” to help the war effort.  So I suspect we planted it sometime during the war.  The trees and garden area figure later in my story.  Best I can recall is that the two wooden cutout figures came with the house.  These figures were a girl and boy watering imaginary plants.  At some point they disappeared.  Note the outdoor clothes dryer—the clotheslines!  Note a towel hanging on a clothesline next to the clothesline pole.

3816 Sebren Avenue Backyard, Circa 1944

Almost immediately after moving in, Mom and Dad made friends with Paul and Oral Larson (Mr. & Mrs. Larson to me), our neighbors directly across the street from us.  Paul was a construction worker and Oral was a secretary for Walker & Lee, the real estate developers of our housing tract.  As my folks became better acquainted with the Larsons, an unbelievable occurrence was uncovered.  Oral Larson was driving her car in North Long Beach when a horse fell on top of it, which is the scene Dad and I saw not too long before we moved.  Wow, what a coincidence!  Just shows it is a really small world.  The Larsons became very good friends with Mom and Dad.  In fact, I remember Dad spending lots of time over with Paul in his garage.  Sometime around 1947, maybe 1948, they were the first in the neighborhood to buy a TV.  They would invite us over to watch Texaco Star Theater with Milton Berle, or “Uncle Miltie" as he was also known.  Sometime about 1949, Mr. Larson fell from a scaffold at his work and was killed.  Shortly after Paul’s death, Oral’s mother, Mrs. Lena Harris, came to live with her.  Oral had a married daughter, Barbara, who provided some support until she and her husband Matt (?) moved to Portland, Oregon.  To help them, Granddad Graham, who moved in with us in 1945, mowed their lawns; eventually this job fell to me.  Sadly, Oral contracted Multiple Sclerosis and eventually was bed ridden.  I’ve been able to find only one photo of Oral, Barbara, Matt and Mrs. Harris.

Oral Larson, Son-in-Law Matt (?), Daughter Barbara, Lena Harris

However, before settling into our new house I had to finish the Third Grade.  My new school was Douglas A. MacArthur Elementary, which was located over a mile from our house.  Getting to school meant riding a school bus. The following map shows the location of Douglas MacArthur Elementary relative to our home, as well as the bus route.

Bus Route to Douglas MacArthur

The red lines indicate the boundary of existing housing.  The areas to the right of these lines were open fields all the way to the San Gabriel River.  Besides the abandoned one-room schoolhouse, another red box indicates a water pump structure for irrigating the surrounding fields.  In essence, MacArthur’s location was situated in an area that was totally undeveloped; the only structure around the school was a stable that rented and boarded horses.  This stable was adjacent to the school on its north side, but stable buildings were some distance from the school grounds.  A current satellite map shows Douglas MacArthur Elementary as it exists today.  When I attended in 1944 through 1947 there were only the two buildings marked with red dots and one bungalow also marked with a red dot.  The red line provides the extent of the asphalt where our our lunch tables were located.  The other red lines indicate basketball court

Douglas A. MacArthur Elementary School

locations.  The streets mark the school boundaries today, but the roads marked with red dots were dirt at the time I attended the school.  The park to the top of the map was the location of the stables with a barbed wire fence separating the school and the stable’s property.  Besides the two asphalt areas the rest of the school was dirt or was covered with some sort of naturally occurring vegetation—today this vegetation would be called “weeds”. 

There is also a tilted view of the school from Woodruff Avenue that shows the two original buildings that existed when I attended the school.  Also visible are the  basketball courts marked in the map view above.

Douglas A. MacArthur Elementary School, Elevated View

My four weeks in Third Grade at Douglas MacArthur were not too memorable, except for the first day.  The first day was painful for me.  I was seated at a table with some other classmates, how many or who I have no recollection.  I remember feeling totally out of place, wishing I were somewhere else.  While the teacher announced to the class that there was a new student in class, I attempted to hide by not looking up and kept staring at the tabletop.  I shut out whatever the teacher was telling the class, and concentrated my gaze on an ordinary housefly that had landed on the table.  As I stared at the fly, I remember saying to myself, “Someday I will find out how the fly is put together,” certainly not a very profound thought, but it allowed me to “be somewhere else.”  How the rest of the day went, I do not know.  What I do remember is that several new classmates asked me questions something like, “There are only four weeks left in the school year, how are they going to grade you?” and “Will they promote you to Fourth Grade?”  I could only shrug my shoulders and indicate my grades would probably be forwarded from Clara Barton Elementary.  Whatever process the school used, I was promoted to the Fourth Grade at the end of four weeks.  I’m sure it was a great relief to me when these four weeks were completed, given its stressful beginning.  Wow, now I could explore my surroundings during summer vacation...

While there are no specific memories of what I did this first summer, I began to meet other kids in our neighborhood.  During the four weeks at MacArthur, during this summer and during the first few weeks in Mrs. Cooper’s Fourth Grade class, my world of friends expanded beyond anything experienced to date.  My new friends included Mickey Harris, Karen Hall, Milo Kellogg, Bruce Llewellyn, Carla Fisher, Bobby Klasen, Beverly Peterson, Paul Norcross, Norma Jean Butterfield, Jim Winars, Vance Rathman, Mike Smith, Patty Ann Rathman, Jacqueline Steele, Carol Browne, Delos “Del” Nadeau, Cathy Caster, Robert Fields, Alvin Fair, “Duke”, and probably a half dozen or more who’s names have faded from my memory.

You might say, “Wow! Did you met all these kids in your first three or four months?”  Remembering when I met each one listed has faded into history.  Almost everyone was either in the immediate neighborhood, from my short time in the Third Grade class or from my Fourth Grade class.  As an example, Mickey Harris lived directly behind us, Karen Hall lived two doors up the street, Milo Kellogg lived around the corner on Harco Street and Bruce Llewellyn lived across the street from Mickey Harris.  Several of the others lived within five or six blocks of our house.  Plus, everyone was either in the Third or Fourth Grade at Douglas MacArthur Elementary School when I started the Fourth Grade.  Classes at MacArthur were stable with few classmate changes occurring all the way through Sixth Grade.  As a result, some of them became best friends, some were good friends, some were casual friends, and there was some interaction with all of them—either at play or school or just encountering them around the different neighborhoods in our area.

When I turned nine years old the summer of 1944, my life had changed dramatically in so many ways and in such a very short time.  Prior to this move, my life seemed to be one of isolation, certainly lacking memories of anyone except family.  From this time on there were kids my own age to call as friends and several to share school activities and other adventures.  I believe the impact on me as a person, was dramatic!  In a sense, life blossomed like a sunflower for me.  It was certainly a very meaningful time in my life.  The world was full of wonders, and I was discovering them in so many ways, both at home and at school.  Even with my newfound world of friends and other adventures, there were some events during my year in Fourth Grade that did not involve new found friends.

In 1944 I received my last spanking.  Why did I get this spanking?  For most of the time, Berta and I did not have many conflicts, and we did not have many disputes.  However, there were times Berta would become upset with me.  It could have been I teased her, or she was unhappy with me for some other reason.  Whatever the reason, her method of letting me know about her displeasure was to bite me.  It was irritating, but to the best of my memory I did not ever retaliate until the day she bit me once too often.  I returned the bite on her forearm and drew blood.  Mom scolded me and told me, “Wait till your Dad gets home!”  I knew the spanking was coming and resigned myself to it.  Dad heard the story, and without a word, went to the hall closet and retrieved a foot long, plastic shoehorn.  Yes, it hurt, and I knew it was deserved.  I do not remember crying but probably did.  However, from my viewpoint it was worth it—Berta quit biting.  I’ve never told her about this episode, so I suspect it comes as a surprise to her.

Also, during my ninth year I had my first surgery.  Best I can remember, there were lots of sore throats over the previous few years.  Perhaps it was strep throat that seemed to plague me.  In any event, it was decided my tonsils had to be removed.  I’m sure it was a doctor’s recommendation, but this procedure was also a very common practice during this period of time.  My folks returned me to the city of Orange to have Dr. Paul E. Rumph, the doctor that delivered me, remove my tonsils.  Dr. Rumph’s office was on North Glassell Street in the second block north of the Orange Circle.  I believe his office is now the dentistry office at about 260 North Glassell Street.  My folks parked behind the building and we went into the operating room in the back part of his office.  After I was on the table, Dr. Rumph told me to count backward from 100.  I do not believe my count went beyond 95 and I was gone.  There is a faint memory of waking up, but getting home is a complete fog.  What I do remember was being out of school for a week and being in bed most of the time.  My throat was sore, and the only thing I ate was watermelon and ice cream.  I certainly played it for all it was worth, but it all ended in a week.  Then it was back to school.

Most nine year-old boys hate going to school or do what they can to avoid it.  I do not believe that was my feeling about it, because to me school was fun.  There were probably two basic reasons for not finding school boring.  First, I did not have difficulties from an academic standpoint.  Second, the outdoor activities were what I really enjoyed because of the competition of games played with all the other kids.  Mathematics, actually arithmetic, was never a problem, and I was always in the top reading group. In my case, learning was not boring, but learning new information was sort of a stimulus to exploring different subjects.  At MacArthur, cursive writing was started in the Third Grade, while at Clara Barton, we only printed.  So, I was behind in learning cursive writing when I started in Mrs. Cooper’s Fourth Grade class.  Fortunately, we had cursive writing sessions once or twice a week, which was a real help for me.  Although I did not like these session, they were a big help because I developed a very good hand-writing style.  Deep down I enjoyed learning new and different things, but it took second place to the outdoor activities.

These outdoor activities were possible during three class breaks every day.  There was a 10-minute morning recess, a 30-minute lunch period that included a 10-minute recess and a 30-minute afternoon break that include a 20-minute physical education session and a 10-minute recess.  During the lunch break you ate as fast as possible to maximize your playtime.  The afternoon break during Fourth and Fifth Grades was totally unstructured and amounted to a 30-minute recess.  This unstructured period changed in Sixth Grade and will be explained later.  On rainy days we lost our outdoor time.  Rainy day sessions resulted in eating lunch in our classroom and loss of the 20-minute afternoon session, while the morning and afternoon recess time was lost or shortened.  Rainy day sessions meant school was out at about 2:20 PM instead of the usual 3:10 PM.

So, what was so exciting about my outdoor activities that were so attractive?  Basically we could do whatever our heart desired since there was little, or no, playground supervision.  Essentially we were on our own and not under any teacher instruction.  We played tag, kickball, hide and go seek, softball, football, dodgeball and in the Sixth Grade we began playing basketball.  While these games were usually coed, there were games in which only boys or girls played.  Boys played “Marbles”, and, for girls it was either “Jacks” or “Hopscotch”.  You may ask how could you play hide and go seek on a school playground?  Remember most of the playground was either dirt or covered with vegetation, primarily wild oats.  These wild oats grew to a height of about three feet, which made hiding quite easy.  Being fleet of foot was essential the way we played this game to avoid becoming “It”.  Our brand of football was tackle and no one had any sort of protective gear.  Amazingly, no one was injured beyond, scrapes and bruises.  Which game to be played was decide on the spur of the moment and teams selected on the spot.  I was usually the last chosen for any given team, but probably because I was among the smallest.  During these playground games I learned that my participation in “sports” related activities was my way of gaining social acceptance.  The nature of the playground being so wide open with so little adult supervision really allowed me the freedom to participate in ways that were beneficial to my growth.  As such, attending MacArthur for three years definitely had a positive impact on my life.  While you may recognize most, if not all, of the activities listed above, I feel certain “Marbles” is a mystery since marble games have faded into history.

There were two different marble games we played; one was called “Chase” and the other had no name that I remember, but I will call it “Pots”.  Pots was the more popular game and consisted of up to about five or six players.  A circle about three feet in diameter was drawn in the dirt, and each player would place a given number of marbles in the center of the circle to form a “Pot” of marbles.  Each player would lag a marble toward a line about five feet away to determine the order of play.  The object of the game was to knock Pot marbles out of the ring; those you knocked out were yours to keep.  Hence, you could win or lose more marbles than you placed in the Pot before the game started.  A player began his turn by shooting his “shooter” marble somewhere  from outside the circle drawn in the dirt.  A “shooter” marble was usually an agate larger than most marbles in the pot.  Shooting a marble was simply holding a marble with your index finger against your thumbnail and propelling the marble with a flick of your thumb.  If you hit a Pot marble and knocked it out of the circle it was yours.  If your “shooter” remains within the circle, your turn continues until your “shooter” bounced outside the circle.  When that happens the next player begins his turn.  There was a special talent involved to knock a marble out and have your “shooter” stay within the circle or “stick” as we used to say.  This talent involved putting the correct spin on your “shooter” to have it stick when you hit another marble.  This spin is like the spin on a cue ball when shooting pool.  My talent was in the ability to shoot a marble hard, but my spin capability was not as good.  As a consequence, I was usually a loser in most Pots games.  I did better at the Chase marble game.

Chase was a one on one game with no boundaries involved.  The first player would shoot his marble, then the second player would chase with his marble.  When one player struck the other player’s marble, the game was over.  If the shooter hit the other marble you won that marble.  This game involved strategy as to when to attempt to strike the other player’s marble.  If you decided it was time and you missed, your marble would be close to the other player’s marble, which gave him an easy shot, and you usually lost.  I did a little bit better at this game by winning more than I lost.  Even so, you only won one marble at a time.  Besides the strictly boys’ game of Marbles I tried the girls’ game of Jacks.  It was a game requiring eye/hand coordination, which was within my capabilities.  However, there was no risk if you missed picking up the correct jacks before the ball hit the ground a second time.  The only risk was failure and embarrassment.  All these playground activities were enjoyed throughout my attendance at Douglas MacArthur, but did change each year depending on what game would be more popular.  However, there were a couple of incidents that produced some excitement.

An all white mule escaped from a corral, or barn, at the stables that were adjacent to the school.  The mule ran wild on our playground, and we had to scramble to safety of the school buildings.  The mule chased some kids but did not catch them.  This mule escaped from the stables two years in a row; I think it was when I was in Fifth and Sixth Grades.  Only one boy came close to being injured.  This boy was sort of a dare devil and he climbed a pole on the playground just before the mule reached him.  Then the mule kicked the pole and Duke almost fell off the pole.  By that time a couple of cowboys arrived from the stable, roped the mule and lead it back to the stable.

Besides this excitement there was one other event of note while I was in the Fourth Grade.  As it turned out this event was historical and also very memorable.  On April 12, 1945, sometime just after lunch, the principal’s secretary entered our room and spoke quietly with our teacher, Mrs. Cooper.  Then the secretary announced that President Franklin Delano Roosevelt had died.  This news was a shock to me and to everyone in our class.  I understood a war was raging, and the President was important to the conduct of the war.  I remember thinking as the secretary left our room, “What is the country to do now that the President has died?”  I remember being troubled that we had no President or so I thought.  When I learned that Vice President Harry S. Truman was the new President I do not remember.  It could have been that Mrs. Cooper explained the situation, or maybe I learned about him that night at home from Mom or Dad.  Looking back on this incident, it is amazing how little a nine year old knows about the world.  You know a war is being fought, but what it really means is not truly comprehended.  My view of the war was only what I knew from movies, newsreels and my Marine Corps comic books.  Living about a mile from Douglas Aircraft and the Long Beach Airport also provided a window into the war.

The Long Beach Airport served as a base for the US Army Air Corps.  It was common to see warplanes flying into the airport at any time of the day.  Seeing these planes peeked my interest in flying and identifying each plane type.  In some cases, I could recognize a specific plane type just by the sound of its engine.  At night you could hear machine guns firing.  It was believed the machine guns were being fired to synchronize the firing with the propellers.  While I really doubt this story, it was real to all the kids at the time.  Spring Street ran along the South side of the airport and was closed to public use.  However, a Long Beach City Bus was allowed to use this closed street.  So, riding the bus to downtown Long Beach was a treat since you were able to ride through forbidden territory.  As it turned out, you did not see too much other than a few planes parked along the airport’s fence.  Douglas Aircraft buildings were protected by anti-aircraft batteries mounted on the roofs.  To aid in camouflaging the buildings these batteries were located in fake houses.  I doubt these fake houses would really fool an enemy bomber.  As you can see, World War II was a dominating factor in our lives, even when I joined the Cub Scouts.

I joined the Cub Scouts shortly after turning nine years old in August 1944.  There were a couple reasons for joining the Cubs.  First, since Mickey Harris, Milo Kellogg and Bruce Llewellyn were Cubs, so joining seemed natural.   Mom and Dad had become friends with Bill and Carol Wells, who lived up Sebren.  Bill Wells was the Cub Master of Pack 106, so maybe their friendship introduced me to Cub Scouting.  Mr. Wells talked Dad into being the Assistant Cub Master and Mom became a Den Mother.  To help the war effort our Pack contributed by conducting a paper drive.  Mom’s Den 2 collected newspapers for recycling; results of our Den’s effort are shown in the photo. 

Den 2 Paper Drive

Cub Master Bill Wells worked at Douglas Aircraft as an aircraft engineer and arranged for a Cub Scout outing to the Army Air Force Base at Long Beach Airport. A photo shows us among the planes with our Air Corps guide.  I recognize only four of the boys and three of the adults.  Those boys and adults not remembered are shown as DNR.  Front Row Cubs (L-R):  Robert Fields, DNR, DNR, Bobby Klassen, Royal, DNR.  Second Row Cubs (L-R):  DNR, DNR, DNR, Mickey Harris, Bruce Llewellyn.  Adults in Back Row (L-R): Bill Wells, Carol Wells, DNR, DNR, Mom.  In the Middle Row are Boy Scout Den Chiefs; I have no recollection of their names.  Besides the paper drive and visit to the airport, the other major Cub Scout event was the Soap Box Derby, the first one was held in 1945 before the war ended. 

Cub Scouts At US Army Air Force Base, Long Beach Airport

Cub Master Bill Wells and Dad conceived of holding a Soap Box Derby for the Cubs of Pack 106.  Their idea was to have the Cubs pick a partner to build a race car to race against other teams.  Since our area was totally flat with no hills, each race car required two racers per car, with one boy driving and the other pushing the race car.  Cars would race two at a time to the half way mark, turn around, change driver/pusher, race back to the start/finish line, and their elapsed time was recorded.  Our first Soap Box Derby was held before World War II ended in May 1945.  The Derby was quite a community event held on the Lakewood Diagonal located near the Northwest corner of Carson Street and Bellflower Boulevard.  Lakewood Diagonal was a small commercial street with a grocery store, a Thrifty Drugstore and various stores located between these two major stores.  One of the stores helped promote the Derby by permitting a window display to advertise the event.  A photo of the store window shows a Derby car and the winners’ trophies.  It should be noted that Dad made the trophies.

Soap Box Derby Display

For my first Soap Box Derby my partner was Bruce Llewellyn.  Bruce, Dad and I built the racer.  However, I believe Dad was the chief designer, while Bruce and I did whatever we were instructed to do.  Bruce and I were rather passive on how the car was constructed.  Dad’s design used sheet aluminum for the front of the car.  I do not remember how we steered.  My sole contribution was insisting on an exhaust pipe to indicate an engine.  In the photo you can see our car near the far end of the lineup.

Cub Scout Soap Box Derby, May 1945

Where Bruce and I finished this first year I do not remember.  Actually, I do not think we were even close.  We certainly were not in the top five finishers.  We probably thought that next year would be better.

For 1946, I teamed up with Milo Kellogg.  Once again, Dad was the chief designer although Milo and I had some input into the design.  Unfortunately, our design resulted in a larger race car than the one from the previous year.   To be honest, it was too big and too heavy to allow us to be competitive.  The photo shows the Soap Box Derby lineup for 1946, where you can see there are more cars this year that in 1945.  The fifth car from the right is Bruce Llewellyn and Mickey Harris, while Milo and I are in the sixth car from the right.  You can see our racer is fairly large compared to other cars.  Not only was there a lot of sheet aluminum, the base was Masonite which added to the weight.  The car next to our car was Bobby Klassen and the boy with the sailor hat.  While I do not remember his name, his hair was flaming red.  As you might expect, Milo and I finished out of the money.  Maybe the next year would be better.  Losing did not bother me, but two good friends moved away which caused some sadness.  Bobby Klassen’s family moved back to Oklahoma, while Mickey Harris moved to Bellflower.  I did maintain some contact with Mickey, but this friendship faded eventually due to distance. 

Cub Scout Soap Box Derby, May 1946

For the the 1947 Soap Box Derby I dumped Dad as the chief race car designer.  Exactly why this happened is rather fuzzy.  I believe Dad, my partner and myself started the process of building a racer.  I do not remember who initially was to be my partner although it was probably either Milo or Bruce.  For some reason I told Dad that I was going to change teams and help Vance Rathman build his car and race with him.  I believe Dad’s feelings were hurt, but he never said a word.  Perhaps I knew big heavy race cars could not win, maybe Vance ask me to help him, perhaps Milo decided to team with Bruce, or maybe it was Patty Ann Rathman (Vance’s sister).  Patty and I were in Mr. Heinze’s Sixth Grade class, while Vance was in Mrs. Stauffer’s Fifth Grade class.  Patty said her “favorite” boy in her class was me, so maybe she encouraged him to ask me to be his partner.  Patty Ann was okay, but Carol Browne was a new girl in class that caught my eye.  However, playing baseball, football and basketball were more important to me, not girls.  In any event, Vance and I built the race car with little help from Vance’s Dad.  We named our racer Super Suds, a popular laundry soap of the time.  Why we picked this name is another fact that has faded into history.  Once we finished the car, Vance and I practiced the turning around and changing places.  We knew this was a critical maneuver that could reduce our elapsed time.  Our practice paid off for us because we won First Place.  Not only did we win, Bruce and Milo won  

Second Place.  I think everyone involved was a winner.  My best friends received trophies, while Dad could be proud of his son.  There are even color photos of the First and Second Place winners.

1947 Soap Box Derby, First Place

1947 Soap Box Derby, Second Place

I really enjoyed my three years in the Cub Scouts.  Besides the camaraderie with other boys my age, both Dad and Mom were involved also.  I was very fortunate that they were involved in Cub Scouts because it provided a closer bond with them, plus there was the prestige I felt due to their involvement.  Dad became the Cub Master when Bill Wells quit.  There is a photo of Dad in his Cub Master shirt. 

Cub master Robert O. Price, Circa 1946

Dad became the Cub Master in either 1946 pr 1947.  Actually, he was a natural because of his outdoors experiences and his ability to make scouting interesting.  Mom served as a Den Mother all three years I was in the Cubs, and we had the best Den in the Pack.  There is a photo of Mom, Berta and me in my Cub Scout shirt.

Beta, Royal, Mom, Circa 1946

I was 11 years old when this photo was taken, because the Wolf, Bear and Lion badges are visible.  My Cub Scout ring is visible on my finger.  Berta would have been about three or four depending when the photo was taken.  Looking closer, I appear to be unhappy at the time.  There is a rather sour look on my face.  During the Cub Scout years there were other events and activities that had an impact on growing up.

While attending Douglas MacArthur there were two World War II historical events that occurred.  First, on June 6, 1944, D-Day, the combined armies of the US, Great Britain and Canada invaded occupied France at Normandy.  Second, Germany surrendered on May 8, 1945, ending the European war.  Surprisingly, these events do not register with me, primarily because the Pacific war with Japan seemed to be the more important war.  Why was the Pacific war more important?  Well, I was enamored with the US Marines; we lived on the Pacific Coast and the war movies were almost entirely about this war.  My Marine Corps comics, that I read and reread, highlighted all the island landings, thus I was totally familiar with the war’s progress.  Since we lived on the West Coast, the Pacific war just seemed closer and more important.  Beside the movies mentioned in the last essay, the other Japan war movies I saw were 30 Seconds Over Tokyo, The Fighting Seabees and Guadalcanal Diary.  The only remembered movie about war with Germany was Sahara with Humphrey Bogart.  During the spring of 1945 the US captured the Japanese held islands of Iwo Jima and Okinawa.  In fact, Okinawa was captured just before my year in Mrs. Cooper’s Fourth Grade was concluding and I was promoted to the Fifth Grade.  As summer vacation started the Japan war was still underway, but ended before starting in Mrs. Stauffer’s Fifth Grade Class.

The summer of 1945 was certainly very memorable for me.  Granddad Graham came to live with us, receiving my first bicycle, the dropping of the atomic bombs and the end of World War II. I am guessing Granddad Graham began to live with us this summer, because I remember staying with him for about a week in Santa Ana.  At this time he lived in a converted stone garage and I was alone during the day while he went to work at the cemetery.  I remember a Cub Scout project I was worked on to give to him.  Hence, my best guess is that I was nine years old.  Plus, I remember Granddad and Dad bought my first bicycle during this summer while Granddad was living with us.  I do not exactly remember how long it took to learn to ride it, but I learned how fairly quickly.  After all, most of my friends had bikes and knew how to ride, so the pressure was on to learn.  Then in early August the newspaper headlines read, “ATOMIC BOMB DROPPED ON JAPAN”.  Our first reaction was, “What is an atomic bomb?”  Best I can determine, this headline occurred on August 8, 1945.  Then on my tenth birthday, August 14, 1945, Milo Kellogg and I were in our living room playing with a Gilbert Chemistry set, when we heard lots of car horns honking. Mom came into the living room, and we asked, “What is happening?”  Mom turned on the radio and we heard the announcement that Japan had surrendered.  Wow, the war was over!  What a birthday present!  Now the war was over, it was back to school.

In September 1945, I started the Fifth Grade in Mrs. Stauffer’s class.  While nothing stands out as a real memorable event, I remember some specific topics we studied.  One history topic was the Pilgrims and how they lived.  We even constructed a “log cabin” out of wood slats and construction paper painted to look like logs.  Every week we would have singing sessions in which we learned songs of early America.  We learned Swanee River, My Old Kentucky Home, Dixie, Clementine, Frog Went Courtin,' Battle Hymn of the Republic, America, America the Beautiful and, of course, the Star Spangled Banner.  Then we learned songs that you cannot sing at school today.  These songs were:  Faith of Our Fathers, Silent Night, O’ Come All Ye Faithful, It Came Upon A Midnight Clear and all the classic Christmas carols.  It might be this year that in Math, I learned how to calculate the square root of a number.  To this day, I do not have to use a calculator to take the square root of a number.  I thought Mrs. Stauffer was a good teacher and enjoyed being in her class.  There was some apprehension about being promoted to the Sixth Grade because this year’s Sixth Grade teacher was leaving and a new one had not been assigned when school let out for the summer.  As it turned out, the new teacher would become my favorite of all time, at least through high school.

The new Sixth Grade teacher became my favorite for two basic reasons.  First, the new teacher was a man, Mr. Heinze.  He was the first male teacher I had, and, for me, there was an instant connection.  Second, Mr. Heinze had been a US Marine and had fought on Guadalcanal.  These were the best credentials anyone could have, at least from my view point.  I believe a male teacher in elementary school is a great asset for young boys.  What the girls’ thought of Mr. Heinze I do not know, but I believe he was good looking, so maybe that was in his favor.  Besides being a good teacher in the classroom, he participated in playground activities.  Mr. Heinze changed our 30-minute afternoon activity session completely.  Previously, Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Stauffer did not organize any activity during these 30 minutes, thus, it was 30 minutes doing whatever you desired.  Mr. Heinze changed this playtime by having organized coed games for our class.  Only the first 20 minutes were devoted to this coed activity, the last 10 minutes was free time again.  This organized coed time was only three or four times a week.  These changes he made were accepted by most the class.  During times when there was not any coed game, Mr. Heinze taught the boys the basics of basketball.  For me, Mr. Heinze was like an extension of Dad at school.  While in Junior High I visited Mr. Heinze at his house one summer.  He was that important to me.  Mr. Heinze taught in the Long Beach School District and eventually became the Principal of Lakewood High School.

When the war was over, Dad and I began doing more things together, in addition to the Cub Scout activities.  Although Dad and I went to the movies during the war, these outings were more or less random events.  Not sure when it started, but, every Friday night Dad and I would go to the movies.  The movie theatre was in the city of Bellflower, abut four miles north of home.  Our movie fare changed from war movies to cowboy movies.  We saw movies with Sunset Carson, Wild Bill Elliot, Red Ryder and Little Beaver, Lash LaRue, Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry and other cowboy heroes.  These movies were all B-Westerns, cowboy movies in which the star cowboy was the “good” guy wearing a white hat, while the “bad” guys wore black hats.  Of course, the white hats always ended the black hats’ evil deeds.  There were running gun battles where six guns were able to fire continuously without reloading.  There was always a fistfight scene where the hero always bested the outlaw.  I did not like fistfights; because they were boring, I wanted a shoot-out.  Since Dad had worked as a real cowboy, I asked lots of questions about guns and horses.  During one movie, when the white hats were rushing to cut the black hats off at the pass, there was a loud thudding noise you could hear above the hoof beats.  Wondering what this noise was I asked Dad, “What is that thudding noise?”  His answer was, “It is water in the horse’s stomach.”  Only a real cowboy would know that answer.  Cowboy movies began my interest in firearms, or more commonly referred to as guns.

My first gun, or more accurately guns, were cap pistols.  Most cap pistols were a replica of revolvers seen in the cowboy movies.  However, these cap guns used a roll of paper containing 50 caps, which meant you had to reload after 50 shots—very unrealistic.  At some point, I had a cap pistol that used a circular piece of cap paper with only six caps.  Now this cap pistol was realistic.  We would have running battles with our cap guns yelling, “Got ya!”, but no one fell.  Then, there was that moment of ecstasy when I was given a Red Ryder BB Rifle!  This 1000 shot rifle was a thing of beauty to a boy of 10 or 11.  I was taught and learned the proper use of firearms with this Red Ryder BB Rifle.  In addition to the movies, cap pistols and BB rifle, there were radio programs about cowboy heroes, which furthered my cowboy interes.

Of course, the most famous radio program was The Lone Ranger.  Actually, I was listening to this radio program for several years before going with Dad to see the cowboy movies.  The Lone Ranger was easily my favorite cowboy hero of the old west.  Besides, the program’s music (William Tell Overture) was soul stirring and helped transport you into the days of the wild west.  There were a couple of other cowboy radio programs that were also on a “must listen to” list:  Red Ryder and Tennessee Jed.  I’m sure you know about Red Ryder but have never heard of Tennessee Jed.  There were Red Ryder comic books and eventually movies.  Tennessee Jed was only a radio program, and to my recollection. TJ was a marksman of some note, certainly nothing memorable, except the program name.  Besides these radio programs, there were several others that caught the ear of our family.

Radio, actually AM radio, was the only home entertainment available until about 1949 to 1950, when we bought a TV set.  The mentioned radio programs were one-half hour in duration that were complete episodes.  I also listened to 15 minute programs that were serials that ran daily, Monday through Friday.  The most memorable were:  Captain Midnight, Sky King, Tom Mix, Superman and Jack Armstrong: The All American Boy.  These programs were on the air at about the time we were having dinner, so my family had to suffer through these episodes.  During the day, Mom listened to some of the soaps like: Stella Dallas and One Life to Live.  Granddad listened to boxing matches called Prize Fights.  Dad listened to the Richfield Report, which was a recap of the day’s news at 10 PM.  During the winter the news was followed by the Frost Report.  The Frost Report provided citrus growers overnight temperature and recommended when the smudge pots had to be fired up.  Smudge pots were oil-burning heaters set throughout a citrus grove to keep the fruit from freezing.  On mornings following smudge post use, the air was full of black soot.  Blow your nose, you would find a black residue on your handkerchief.  There were many other radio programs the family listened to during this time period.  The family continued to listen to some of these radio programs even after we had a TV set.

Some observations are in order about the importance of going to cowboy movies with Dad.  Our weekly outing to see cowboy movies was very special for me.  Seeing these movies gave us something in common to talk about, not to mention the individual time spent together being special.  During these times I learned some of the stories about Dad’s childhood.  Today, when looking back on this time, it is my belief that Dad wanted to be the father he did not have in his childhood.  Until we moved to the Sebren house, Dad and I had little time together, except for some war movies.  After we moved there, my time with Dad increased significantly.  Attending these cowboy movies was the beginning of what became a warm, loving Father-Son relationship that endured throughout.  Perhaps you can tell, but maybe not, these cowboy movies and radio programs filled my childhood days.  Willie Nelson recorded a song that speaks to the affect these stories of cowboys had on me.  The song title is My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.  These lyrics sum up my feelings during this time of my childhood.

I grew up a-dreamin’ of bein’ a cowboy

And Lovin’ the cowboy ways

Pursuin’ the life of my high-ridin’ heroes

I burned up my childhood days

.

.

.

.

My heroes have always been cowboys

And they still are, it seems

Sadly, in search of, but one step in back of

Themselves and their slow-movin’ dreams

These cowboy thoughts did not end as I grew older.  This story will become obvious as the future essays will reveal.  It was during this cowboy dreamin’ time that the modern world hit me, and I took my first jobs and earned money of my own.  Earning my own money was important, because my folks did not provide any allowance.

My first job was selling Collier’s weekly magazine on a door-to-door basis.  How this job came about I do not remember.  Mom made a red shoulder bag to carry the magazines.  Best I can recall, this job lasted only about six months before Collier’s terminated this door-to-door sales.  In 1957 Collier’s stopped publishing the magazine, so stopping these home sales was the first step in ending its publication.  When Collier’s stopped selling door-to-door, a new magazine named Fortnight was offered.  This magazine lasted only a couple of months, hence my first job ended.  Interestingly, I learned a fortnight was two weeks.  Following the Collier’s job I started my first newspaper route by delivering the Los Angeles Daily News. There were 40 to 50 subscribers, all located in our housing development.  This paper route required afternoon delivery with no Sunday paper.  Since the paper had to be delivered after school, my afternoon play time was severely limited.  Thus, the paper route lasted only about six to eight monte.  Plus, with only about 50 papers maximum the money earned was minimal and really not worth the time spent folding papers, delivery and collecting from customers once a month.  The paper route manager would give me a bill each mont for the papers delivered to me.  It was my responsibility to collect the monthly cost from the customers to pay the bill.  This bill was less than what each customer paid on a monthly basis, thus the difference was what I could earn for a month’s effort.  If all customers paid, my monthly pay was about $10.  If I could not collect from customers I made less that the $10, because the bill had to be paid first.  As a result, you learned financial responsibility and persistence needed to collect from all your customers.  All in all, these were very valuable lessons.

I will conclude this essay with a classic photo taken by my folks without my knowledge.  I have no idea when the photo was taken, nor is there any recollection what I had been doing.  There are at least two possibilities for what happened.  First, I wanted to sneak out to see whether Santa Claus had visited.  Second, my folks had some company after I had gone to bed, and I was curious who was visiting.  Whatever the reason, I was so sleepy I did not get completely back into bed.  Another possibility was I had been sleep walking.  In any case it is a classic photo. 

Slumbering Royal, Circa 1945

Early Years: 1940 to 1944

Sometime after our Kansa trip in October 1940 there were photos of our family and Uncle Walter’s family somewhere in the San Bernardino Mountains, probably near Crestline.  The time is either late 1940 or early 1941 because of the snow. 

Bob McClintock, Aunt Dot, Carol,Royal, Uncle Walter and Mom

Bob McClintock is Carol’s cousin from Aunt Dot’s family.  You will notice Aunt Dot is thinking of throwing a snowball.  Since Dad obviously took this photo,  Uncle Walter took the following photo. 

Bob McClintock, Aunt Dot, Carol, Dad, Royal and Mom

I’m not sure why Mom is holding me, maybe my feet were cold or wet, so Mom picked me up.  What a wimp!

I must make a cultural comment at this point, at least as related to my family.  I was instructed that the only proper way to address an adult relative was to call them Uncle Walt or Aunt Dot.  It was late in my adult life before I ever addressed them as Walt or Dot.  For some unusual reason I alway referred to Aunt Gladys as Auntie Gladys; why I do not recall.  As an extension, I was also instructed to address any adult by Mister, Missus, or Miss.  This convention was especially important regarding schoolteachers.  I believe this convention was intended to show respect to our elders.  Showing respect to elders seems to be lacking in large segments of today’s society.  

In September 1941, Dad quit his job with the Orange County Flood Control District and began working for the US Navy as a Federal Civil Service employee.  His place of employment was the Terminal Island Naval Air Station located in San Pedro, California.  To reduce the distance from home to the air station, we moved to Belmont Shore, California.  Belmont Shore is a suburb within the city limits of Long Beach.  Belmont Shore has its own shopping district, including a movie theatre.  This suburb is located about four miles east of downtown Long Beach.  Belmont Shore’s shopping district is only three blocks from the beach.  In reality, Belmont Shore was a beach community due to its close proximity to the ocean.  Houses were built on small lots with very little, if any, lawn.  As with most beach communities, even in 1941, there were numerous apartments.  As a result, our first place in Long Beach was an apartment.

This apartment was located at 132 Ximeno Avenue.  The apartment was only two blocks from the beach. This apartment was upstairs with a balcony overlooking the street.  At the rear of the apartment there was a garage accessed via an alley.  Entrance to the apartment was via outside stairs to a door at the rear of the building, which opened into the kitchen.  These stairs were reached either from the alley or by going between the two buildings shown in the photo below.  The entire front of the apartment was occupied by the living room/dining room.  The bedrooms were in the right rear part of the apartment.

132 Ximeno Avenue, Belmont Shore 

There is only one photo of inside the apartment, with me standing behind our dining room table.  This table and chair set was of Southwestern style and stayed  with us until about 1944 when we moved to the house on Sebren Avenue.  There are three items in the photo, which were with our family as long as I can remember: the glass bowl on the table, the lace tablecloth, and the picture of a Yankee Clipper hanging on the wall.  The picture and tablecloth have been lost to time, while my sister, Roberta, has the glass bowl.  Best I can tell the dining room floor is bare, but I remember playing on a carpet or rug.  Perhaps the living room area was covered by a rug or carpet.  What else do I remember about living in Belmont Shore?  Strangely, not too much although there were some significant events that occurred while we lived here, as well as some every day activities of a young boy.

Apartment Dining Area 

I was six years old when we moved in September 1941, and my folks enrolled me in First Grade at Lowell Elementary School in Belmont Shore.  Lowell was about a 3/4-mile walk from the apartment.  Just like Santa Ana, I walked to school, but I have no recollection of walking there.  I remember sitting in a classroom but nothing else about the school, nor do I remember any classmates.  Lowell Elementary is still an operating school and is shown in the following photo.

Lowell Elementary School, Belmont Shore

I must admit this photo of Lowell Elementary does “tickle” some memory cells.  I certainly can visualize climbing these steps into the building, but nothing else.

Belmont Shore was similar to Santa Ana in one regard; there were no playmates in the neighborhood around the apartment.  However, I must have made some contact with a classmate as there is a faint memory of going to another boy’s house to play. There is a blurry visual image of visiting his house, but no recollection of his name or what we did.  I am not sure if it was a singular incident or whether it occurred more than once.  I suspect it was not on a regular basis, nor do I remember him visiting our apartment.  There is a fuzzy recollection of walking to his house but not until sometime after the following events.

We had been in Belmont Shore only three months when on December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.  I remember nothing of  “…a day which shall live in infamy.”  I’m sure my folks discussed it and told me about what it meant, but my memory is blank as to when it became a reality to me.  Then about five months after we moved to Belmont Shore, Grandmother Minnie Graham died on February 16, 1942.  There is no memory of knowing she had died.  I have no recollection of any grief or sadness about her passing.  In fact, I do not remember my folks informing me of her death.  I believe her death was rather sudden and did not follow a prolonged illness, which may also help explain not remembering her passing. It is surprising that her death does not in any way register with me, especially since she had been an important part of my early childhood.  Perhaps death to a six year old is not all that comprehensible.  Thus, it makes sense that my folks did not include me in any memorial or burial service.  In fact, after Grandmother’s death, I do not remember seeing Granddad Graham for what seems like almost two years.  Plus, another major event occurred about a week after her death, which may have overshadowed her passing.

Perhaps the reality of war hit me in late February 1942 when the Battle of Los Angeles occurred.  Lately this event has been called the Great Los Angeles Air Raid . Late on the night of February 24 into the early hours of February 25 a rumored enemy air attack resulted in an anti-aircraft barrage all over Los Angeles County.  Even with the tremendous anti-aircraft barrage, there were no planes shot down or bombs dropped.  This incident occurred less than three months after the Pearl Harbor attack and one night after a Japanese submarine shelling petroleum facilities near Santa Barbara.  As a result, the entire West Coast was in fear of a Japanese invasion.  Typical newspaper headlines available the next day are shown in the composite pictorial below.

Great Los Angeles Air Raid

There were wild rumors about Japanese planes operating from either a secret base in Mexico or from Japanese submarines.  Both rumors were ridiculous on their face.  It was obvious everyone was on edge and very nervous!  In fact, these two incidents led President Roosevelt to issue an executive order to incarcerate all people of Japanese ethnicity, even though most of them were American citizens.  A truly black part of our country’s history.

In addition, the air raid scare, plus the shelling of oil storage tanks near Santa Barbara, resulted in blackout requirements for all buildings, homes and apartments.  Thus, we had blackout curtains which had to cover all windows each night.  There were Air Raid Wardens that patrolled the streets at night to be sure no lights could be seen.  Even streetlights had to be modified so that the light was directed down.  There is a faint memory of looking up at these shrouded streetlights on a walk home from visiting the boy mentioned earlier.

While I slept through the “air raid," Dad did not sleep through the anti-aircraft barrage.  He went out on to the balcony to “see what he could see," and stubbed his toe on the way out.  I heard more about his sore toe than the air raid!  I remember finding shrapnel on the streets over the next few days.  These pieces of shrapnel were from antiaircraft shell bursts.  The beginning of World War II had a major impact on me in any number of ways.  I began to play with toy soldiers.  There were three lead soldiers I used to have mock battles.  I remember playing on a rug in the living room with these soldiers.  Dad furthered my involvement with airplanes of World War II.  There was a paper model of a Japanese Zero and a balsa wood replica of a British Spitfire fighter.  While there is a photo of the Spitfire, there is no photo of the Zero.  Both models have been lost to history.  

British Spitfire Fighter Model

However, these models began my fascination with airplanes, especially with warplanes.  My first encounter with a warplane occurred sometime, I believe, in late 1941 or perhaps early 1942.  Uncle Walter joined Lockheed Aircraft Company sometime in 1941 and moved his family to Burbank from Riverside.  Lockheed was located at the Burbank Airport.  Their house was about a mile south from the airport and the end of a runway.  Lockheed was building the Hudson Bomber for England’s Royal Air Force.  Lockheed was building these bombers before and after the Pearl Harbor attack.  It is my belief that I witnessed some of these bombers taking-off prior to Pearl Harbor, but I could be in error.  Whether it was before or during the war, these planes would takeoff and fly right over their house at a low altitude, and I could see the airplane’s tail wheel still spinning.  A photo of the Hudson Bomber illustrates how predominate the tail wheel was on the plane.  In addition, the planes were painted with the camouflage pattern and with the British markings shown in the photo.  There is no way of knowing why such a strong visual image is stored in my memory cells.  Perhaps it made such a lasting image because of the closeness of the plane, or its painting, or the spinning wheel.  Then again, it may be remembered because it was probably my first real close encounter with airplanes.

Lockheed Hudson Bomber

While memories in Belmont Shore are scarce maybe it was due to being thrust into a totally new, strange environment.  I was a complete stranger to everyone at school, and there were no playmates around our apartment.  Perhaps the beginning of the war resulted in restrictions on activities that would not have existed without a war raging.  The Great Los Angeles Air Raid may have raised my parents’ fears about safety.  All these factors could have contributed to my spending most of my time at the apartment.  After the school year concluded, it was time to think about moving again.  We had lived in Belmont Shore only about 11 months when we moved in August 1942.

Our next move was to a house in a North Long Beach subdivision located at 5107 Walnut Avenue.  Houses in this subdivision were constructed sometime in 1942, so this house had to be fairly new.  To the best of my knowledge my folks were renters.  This house was near the major streets of Orange Avenue and Del Amo Boulevard, although at the time Del Amo did not exist between Cherry and Orange Avenues.  I took photos of the house about 12 to 14 years ago, but I cannot find them.  It seems several of my photos have fallen into a black hole.  I ask my sister, Roberta, to take pictures of the Long Beach houses and schools, but this Walnut house caused some issues.  Her photos were not of the house I remember, either from 12 years ago or 70 years ago.  First, she found no 5107 Walnut address, there were only addresses of 5101 and 5109.  Plus, these houses had the driveway on the wrong side of the house.  However, there was a 5107 Falcon Avenue photo that looked like the house I remembered.  The only difference was that the front porch was larger.  Our house had a small concrete porch just a little wider than the front door.  Beyond this difference this house reminds me of the one we lived in for nearly two years, and the driveway is on the correct side of the house.  The living room was located to the right of the front door,with the kitchen and breakfast area to the left of the door.  Bedrooms were to the rear of the house.  I would like to knock on some doors to ask people about these houses.  What else do I remember about the neighborhood?

5107 Walnut Avenue Look Alike, North Long Beach

I remember the garage was to the rear of the property, down the left side of the house.  The neighbor to the left, or south, of our house raised rabbits.  It seemed he raised them for two reasons: food and pelts.  There were always rabbit skins stretched out on a wire frames hanging out to “cure.”  I had a black Angora rabbit that we kept in a cage behind the garage.  I remember feeding the rabbit, and for some reason, I was interested in the green rabbit pellets he ate.  Actually, I have no idea whether it was a male or female rabbit.  I sure do not know what happened to the rabbit either.  Just to the north of the house, about 200 yards, were a set of railroad tracks.  The rail bed was about 20 feet higher than our street level.  This rail bed could be seen from our front room.  I used to watch trains go by carrying war materials and huge rocks.  These rocks were being used to build the Long Beach Harbor breakwater.  Each train seemed to take several minutes before a caboose would signal the end of the train.  Needless to say, I was fascinated by these trains, and, at times, I attempted to count the number of railroad cars that were in a given train.  I usually lost count, but these trains had around 100 or so cars.

There was little time to investigate the neighborhood wen we moved in before the start of the 1942/1943 school year.  So, starting school was the new focus of my settling into a new place.  Although I was promoted to Second Grade, our North Long Beach house was over eight miles from Belmont Shore and continuing at Lowell Elementary was not possible.  Our move to North Long Beach  meant I had to change schools again.  When we moved into the Walnut Avenue house there was not a school close to us.  There was one being constructed nearby, but it was not yet finished.  As a result, I was enrolled in Ulysses S. Grant Elementary.  The school was located on Orange Avenue about two miles north of us.  Since I could not walk to school, I had to ride a school bus.  Best I can remember, I boarded the bus near the corner of Orange Avenue and Del Amo Boulevard.  A photo of the school is pretty much as I remember it.  My classroom was the second set of windows to the left of the main entrance doors.

Ulysses S. Grant Elementary School, North Long Beach

There is one memory of something that occurred during my year at Ulysses S. Grant.  My class took a field trip to a farm.  We did not have far to go for this farm visit.  The farm was directly across the street from the school.  Best I can remember we saw some chickens and dairy cows.  Not sure this would have been exciting to me after staying on a Kansas farm two years prior.  Except for this field trip, attending Ulysses S. Grant Elementary School is basically a blank.  In fact, I do not recall making any new acquaintances or fiends with any of my classmates.

At this school I was again among strangers. I did not know anyone from our neighborhood or subdivision, even though we rode the school bus together.  I somewhat remember playing at recess, but I do not remember anyone specific or any particular group of kids.  It appears I must have been a loner and did not make friends easily.  I would say that making new acquaintances was not a strong attribute of mine.  There could be some obvious reasons for this trait.

By the time I was attending Second Grade we had lived in three cities, in three different houses, and I had attended three different schools.  Plus, where we lived there were no playmates.  In essence, I was an only child; my parents and grandparents were the only constants in my life.  At this point, even my grandparents were no longer around.  Grandmother Graham had died, and Granddad Graham still lived in Santa Ana, so for now we did not visit him.  I believe these factors resulted in me being withdrawn and shy.  Certainly these factors and characteristics do not lead one to becoming too out going.  Even so, is it possible that living in our new house amongst other families, that I could overcome these factors to find playmates in our new neighborhood?

My recollection is that there were not many boys in the neighborhood.  Or was it a matter of not wanting to seek out playmates?  Perhaps it was a combination of both.  For what ever reasons my world for activities was no more that three or four houses in either direction from our house.  I did not roam outside this limited territory.  I had not learned to be inquisitive and investigate new areas or things, at least not yet.  However, there was one incident involving some boys on our street that probably contributed to my decision to stick close to home.

I am unsure whether this incident occurred during the first or second year after we moved into our house.  Whenever it happened, it was not a positive experience.  One day when I went looking for someone to play with, I went to a house about four or five houses south of mine.  There were two or three boys playing in a garage.  These boy were about my age and perhaps I had played with some of them previously; but I’m not sure.  The garage was to the rear of the house; I walked about halfway down the driveway and ask, “Would you like to play?”  One of them said something and threw an object at me; he was about 30 to 40 feet from me.  I watched the object and tracked its flight without moving.  Watching this object, I knew it was going to hit me, but I just stood without moving.  Sure enough it hit the top of my head.  I had been playing soldier and was wearing a helmet.  Well, the helmet was made of construction paper and afforded no protection at all.  The thrown object was a rattail file, which broke my scalp when it hit me.  I said nothing and walked away and went toward home thinking to myself, “No, they do not want to play!”  Thinking back, there is one positive to gather from this incident: my brain was able to calculate where a flying object would land so I could be at that point to catch a fly ball when I began playing baseball!  This recollection is the only one I have of attempting to play with anyone in the neighborhood.  As a result, most of the time I played alone, which did not bother me.  It seemed the natural thing to do given my life up to this point.

Since America was at war, for the most part, my play centered on playing soldier in one manner or another.  Besides the three lead soldiers, obtained while in Belmont Shore, and the “helmet,” I had a wooden rifle used in playing soldier.  This rifle was a bolt-action style with a working bolt.  Working in the sense you could raise the handle, pull it back, and push it forward as though loading a cartridge.  When you pulled back the bolt you could see a wooden cartridge, which when the bolt was pushed forward simulated loading a round.  When the trigger was pulled a click was made simulating firing the rifle.  Since this click was not realistic to me, I developed my own verbal gunshot sound.  Also, I developed a verbal machine gun sound to use with one of my lead soldiers.  then there were sounds for falling and exploding bombs, and of course airplanes.  I even had a soldier’s uniform as you can see in the photo.  Fortunately, I have no recollection of having or wearing this outfit.  I am standing on our front porch for the picture.  I do not know how I felt about this get-up, but I sure do not know how my folks got me to put it on.  Maybe it seemed cool at the time but sure looks dumb now.  I would have been okay with battle fatigues but not an officer’s uniform.  Besides playing soldier, what else did I do while we lived here?

Soldier Uniform

While we lived at the Walnut Avenue house, we began to go to the movies on a somewhat regular basis.  There were four or five movies released in late 1941 through 1942 that I remember seeing.  These movies were: They Died With Their Boots On, Wake Island, Pride of the Yankees, Flying Tigers and Bambi.  I certainly do not remember the entirety of any movie, but there was a singular scene that etched each movie into my memory.  They Died With Their Boots On was a biography of George Armstrong Custer with the final scene of Custer being the last one to be killed at the Battle of the Little Bighorn.  Wake Island was about the battle for Wake Island.  The memorable scene was a Marine Wildcat fighter plane landing, with a ground crew member rushing to congratulate the pilot, but the pilot was dead.  Pride of the Yankees told the story of Lou Gehrig.  There are several scenes I remember in this movie, but one that sticks out is Gehrig’s being hit in the head while running from first base toward second base when the shortstop was throwing to first base to complete a double play.  For some odd reason, I remember that Sam Woods was the film’s director.  I thought the film was great and I made a conscious effort to put the director’s name in my memory bank.  Everyone knows the story of Bambi.  The scene most memorable was when Thumper told Bambi how he earned his name.  I also had a Bambi comic book that I read and re-read.  The movie Flying Tigers is remembered for a couple of reasons, one not involving the movie.

Flying Tigers was, of course the story of the famous volunteer unit of Americans flying for the Chinese against the Japanese.  Certainly the P-40 fighter painted with the shark’s mouth and teeth was memorable.  A photo of a Flying Tiger flight line of hess fighters with a Chinese guard is shown.

Flying Tiger P-40 Flight Line

The memorable scene occurred when a Japanese pilot was shot down, and as his plane was going down “blood” oozed from his mouth.  The blood was a dark liquid since it was a black and white movie.  Why would this scene be memorable?  Well, we were at war, and the Japanese were the enemy.  To a seven year old if an American was killed, that was bad; if a Japanese was killed, that was good.  I would say that attitude was common during World War II.  Also memorable about the Flying Tigers movie was how I probably got Dad in trouble.  It is my recollection that Dad, Mom and I were going to the movie theatre.  I was riding in the back seat with Dad and Mom up front.  Apparently, I noticed a young woman walking on the sidewalk as we turned the corner.  I am not positive if either Dad or Mom saw this woman, but it raised a question in my mind. So I blurted out a question, “Dad why didn’t you whistle at the redhead?”  There was silence in the front seat!  I knew better than to repeat that question.  There were more movies to see over the next few years, but Dad and I went by ourselves.  We went by ourselves, not because of the “Redhead Question," but because my sister was born in early 1943.  Thus, Mom would stay home to take care of my baby sister.

I was totally clueless about Mom being pregnant and giving birth to my sister.  Well, at age seven, the only thing I knew about babies was that storks delivered them by dropping them down the chimney.  Well, we did not have a chimney, so Mom had to meet the stork at a hospital!  I do not know when Dad took Mom to the hospital, if it was the day before the birth or the day she was born.  There is a very fuzzy memory of us getting in the car with a suitcase, so maybe we took Mom to the hospital the day of the delivery.  Whenever Dad took Mom to the hospital, they went to the Cottage Maternity Hospital located somewhere in downtown Long Beach.  This hospital no longer exists, just as the Sargeant Maternity Hospital in Santa Ana no longer exists.  Maternity hospitals must have been common around this time, and regular hospitals were not used like they are today.  I’m sure my folks were “old hands” at this baby delivering process now, even if the last time was seven and a half years ago.  However, my folks were probably apprehensive to some extent due to past experience.  Reason for this apprehension will be explained in a later essay.  I’m sure Dad paced while being anxious about Mom and the expected baby.  Mom probably had similar apprehensions while the nurses prepared her for the delivery room.

The attending physician was Dr. Buffum.  The Buffum family was well known within the Long Beach community.  There is no record of nurses’ names that assisted Dr. Buffum.  At 1:47 PM on Tuesday, February 23, 1943, Mom delivered a healthy seven pound five ounce daughter.  Just as seven and a half years ago, my folks apprehensions were replaced with joy and pride.  As was common in 1943, Mom remained in the hospital several days.  There is another fuzzy memory of visiting her.  I have an image of a large room filled with beds, but I will not swear to the images validity.  Now that the excitement of getting to the hospital a healthy baby was born and Mom and baby were fine; they had to name their new baby daughter.  Did they have a boy and girl name selected?  Or did they have to discuss what to name their daughter?

Whichever the case, my folks gave her the name Roberta Rene Price.  Who selected her name is not known, but Roberta is a feminine version of Robert, our Dad’s name.  Since my name was selected by Mom and Grandmother Graham, perhaps Dad was the one naming her.  Roberta’s middle name, Rene, is a mystery as to its source and pronunciation.  Neither Roberta nor I have the faintest clue as to its source or meaning.  Family research has not revealed any relatives with the name, or with anything similar.  Our folks pronounced Rene in a manner such that it rhymes with Gene, an unusual pronunciation.  Why they chose this manner of pronouncing it is lost to history. It should be noted that it is not pronounced Rene´, as some folks have thought because there is no accent on the final e. Eventually, Roberta was shortened to Berta by our family.  During high school, Roberta’s friends called her Robbie, a nickname she has carried into adulthood.  I still call her Berta, because that is who she is to me; she always has been and always will be Berta to me.  What did I think about having a baby sister?

I am sure there was curiosity and wonderment.  I do not remember feeling any resentment toward her for the loss of attention from Mom or, for that matter from Dad.  If I behaved badly and was reprimanded by either Mom or Dad, I either took it in stride or it passed into one ear and out the other.  Basically, I do not have many memories of Berta until much later.  However, I do remember Berta being sick for a while after she came home.  Her illness brings to mind some other incidents that occurred due to the war.

During Berta’s illness one remedy prescribed by her doctor required obtaining Dark Karo Syrup.  I have no idea why this syrup was required; I just remember Dad and I going to grocery stores asking for it.  It seems this Karo Syrup was difficult to get due to war shortages, I presume due to sugar being rationed.  At one store in North Long Beach, at the corner of Orange Avenue and South Street, Dad had a “serious” discussion with a store clerk.  We acquired the syrup due to Dad’s insistence of its need.  On a grocery shopping trip with Mom, she went ballistic upon discovering the price of a loaf of bread had been increased.  Previously the loaf cost 10 cents and now it was 13 cents.  Yes, it was only a three cent increase, but that was a 30% jump in price.  A 30% increase for a loaf that cost $2.50 today would be a $0.75 increase to $3.25!

One of the earliest photos of Berta was taken when she was about five or six months old.  Mom is holding her on a swing.  Berta is holding the chains of the swing as if she was swinging.

Roberta and Mom

About the time that this photo of Berta was taken, the “Rabbit Man” next door to us moved out.  Lloyd and Thelma Biddle, with four little Biddles, moved in shortly afterward.  These four young Biddles were Harold and I believe two  daughters (no names remembered) and a baby (boy or girl not remembered).  I believe Harold was one year younger than me, but Harold became a playmate.  Dad and Mom became good friends with Lloyd and Thelma.  A few years later Dad, Lloyd, Harold and I would go on our first deer hunting trip near Big Bear, but that’s another story.  I would say that this was the first time my family became friends with another family, and it seemed to initiate a change in our family dynamics, relative to relationships with other families.

A little over three months after Berta was born my school year came to a close.  I was promoted to Third Grade.  The school under construction when I started the 1942/1943 school year at Ulysses S. Grant Elementary School was now completed and open for the 1943/1944 school year.  Clara Barton Elementary was my new school for attending Third Grade.  It was located on Del Amo Boulevard about a block west of Orange Avenue.  Its location meant it was close enough for me to walk to school again.  The seven-tenths-mile distance was very similar to the walk to Spurgeon Elementary School in Santa Ana and Lowell Elementary School in Belmont Shore.  Since I have no recollection of walking to these other schools, was it different for Clara Barton?  I am eight years old now, but I do not remember walking to school.  So much for good memory bragging rights.  The photo of the school was taken recently by Berta, but I do not recognize it.  No, I have not forgotten what it looked like.  The building in the photo did not exist when I attended the school.  In 1943 the classrooms were bungalows and there were not any permanent buildings at the time.  Are there any memories from the Third Grade?

Clara Barton Elementary School Today

Yes, I have a few memories from my bungalow days at Clara Barton.  My book for reading was the Dick and Jane series.  Reading was really challenging!  I had to read sentences like: See Dick Run, See Jane Run, See Spot, and  Oh Spot.  Near the end of the year, sentences had increased to about 4 or 5 words!  At one time I had Dad’s McGuffey’s Reader that was used when he was in school, and it was more advanced than the Dick and Jane series.  After reading my Bambi comic book, Dick and Jane was not difficult, but actually rather simple.  Beside reading lessons, we were studying about American Indians, or should I be politically correct and say Native Americans?

I remember the Indians being studied were those of the Great Plains.  One day we were asked to draw a scene depicting something in their life.  My drawing had an Indian on a pinto horse and a teepee.  The teepee included some markings that might be used to decorate it.  I included an arrow, a setting sun and an Indian style swastika.  Previously, I had seen this swastika somewhere in Indian pictures or books about Indians.  I firmly believed my depiction of the swastika to be an authentic Indian symbol.  My teacher was walking around the class observing what everyone was drawing.  Upon seeing my drawing, she said something to the effect, “I do not think it is appropriate to include that Nazi symbol on the teepee.”  I responded, “That is not a Nazi swastika, it is an Indian symbol and is drawn backwards to the Nazi swastika.”  Her response was something to the effect, “Oh, I did not know that.”  She said nothing else and continued to move about the class looking at other student’s drawings.  I believe she accepted my explanation, because I was so positive about the symbol.  If this incident happened in today’s classroom, I would have been suspended for drawing “evil” symbols.  Thank goodness political correctness was about 40 years in the future.  Are you wondering if my Indian swastika knowledge was valid?

After an internet search for information about American Indian swastikas, I found the following photo showing swastikas on Indian articles.  You will notice swastikas are constructed in two different ways.  What I had seen with my kid’s eyes was like the symbol pointing left, while the ones pointing right is representative of the Nazi swastika.  I n 1940 the Arizona Indians--Navaho, Apache, Hopi and Papago--got together in a solemn ceremony in Tucson and made a bonfire of blankets, baskets and other articles that were decorated with their sacred Swastika sign to show solidarity against Hitler.  This was a great sacrifice for them because this symbol is a sign of profound sacred meaning for the natives all over North America, regardless of tribe. The Arizona Indians were severely criticized by a tribe in Connecticut for letting Hitler rob them of their ancient symbol the Native Americans called "The luck”.  As it turns out, both myself and the teacher were wrong, primarily because neither had a real knowledge of American Indian culture.  It is an interesting lesson to re-visit an event that occurred 70 years ago, to remember your thoughts and compare them with reality today.  Comparison of belief and fact is very sobering.

American Indian Swastikas

Lastly, I believe it was while at Clara Barton that I began to notice-egads-girls!  I distinctly remember there was one specific girl I noticed.  I cannot describe her or give her a name.  What made her special, I have no idea.  In fact, the only thing I remember was that she was left handed.  Why I remember just that characteristic, I have no clue.  There is no memory of ever talking with her.  Since making friends with other boys was difficult, talking with a girl would have been scary!

During this school year, Dad and I continued to go to the movies.  One Friday night we had gone to see Destination Tokyo, a story of an American submarine whose task was to obtain weather data about Tokyo harbor prior to General Dolittle’s bombing raid.  There were two memorable scenes in this movie.  One scene was the submarine entering Tokyo harbor sneaking through the submarine nets.  The other scene was a Japanese pilot, shot down by the submarine crew, stabbing a sailor in the back while he was attempting to help the pilot onto the submarine.  Looking back on this scene, it was a visual metaphor for the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor.  Besides seeing the movie, our trip home was also an exciting adventure of sorts.

It was foggy going home from downtown Long Beach.  Visibility was poor so Dad was driving slow, when suddenly there was a police car with flashing lights behind us.  When the officer approached Dad’s lowered window, he ask Dad, “What are you doing out so late tonight?”  Dad explained we had been to the movies.  Then the officer shined his flashlight on our gas rationing sticker on the windshield on my side.  Dad had an “A” sticker which indicated we were entitled to the greatest ration of gas.  Then the officer wanted to know why we were so far from home.  At this point Dad was upset and told the officer we were within our allotted gas amount and asked if it was a crime to go to the movies.  I do not remember what the officer said at this point, but he told us to drive on and to be careful due to the fog.  Dad believed the officer was bored and wanted something to do.  During the war, gas was not the only thing that was rationed.

For some unknown reason butter was rationed and was not available to the general public.  It was available to the Armed Services and whoever had special privileges.  Margarine was the butter substitute for the general public.  Originally, margarine was white in color and did not look like butter.  Eating bread, or toast, with white margarine was not too appetizing, so a food-coloring was provided to give margarine a butter like color.  At first, you placed the margarine in a bowl, broke a small capsule of the food-coloring and “stirred” the coloring into the margarine.  Now the margarine looked like butter.  Needless to say, the stirring process was not easy since the margarine was like a very soft butter, and the mixing of the color was a chore.  American ingenuity came to the rescue, and the process changed.  The margarine was in a sealed plastic bag with the food-coloring capsule also in the bag.  The food-coloring capsule was squeezed until the capsule burst.  Then the entire plastic bag was kneaded until the margarine was a uniform “butter” color.  By the war’s end, or shortly after, you could buy margarine that was already colored, just as you do today.  Since I was raised on margarine I cannot say if the war time margarine tasted like butter.  I only learned how butter tastes within the last 20 to 25 years.

In the spring of 19444, just before the school year was to end, Dad and Mom bought a house.  This new house was in the Lakewood area over four miles southwest of our house on Walnut Avenue.  We moved to the new house in May, which meant I could not finish the school year at Clara Barton Elementary School.  I would have to finish the Third Grade at Douglas A. MacArthur Elementary School.  Once again a change in schools would have to be made.  However, this time there were only four weeks remaining in the school year.  This move was probably the most disruptive to my schooling yet.  Starting in a new school with only a month left in the school year had to be upsetting and confusing.  Projecting ahead somewhat, I do not think this disruption had any lasting affect on my schooling.  In terms of my growth, I believe this move had more positive benefits than negative ones.  However, there is one incident that occurred not too long before we moved that was very memorable and turned out to carry over to our new home.

There was a railroad bridge that crossed over Orange Avenue.  These railroad tracks were the same ones that passed near our house.  One day Dad and I were out doing some errands in the North Long Beach business district.  After finishing our errands, we headed home driving down Orange Avenue.  As we approached the railroad bridge there was a traffic jam.  As we slowly approached the bridge and were allowed to proceed by the police, we could see what was causing the slow down.  There was a dead horse laying on top of a car!!  Apparently, the horse fell off the railroad bridge and landed on top of a car that was passing under the bridge.  I have no idea if there was a rider, but I seem to remember there was a saddle on the horse.  I have no way of knowing how the horse fell, or what happened to the rider (if there was one).

I certainly have more memories about living in North Long Beach than those from living in Belmont Shore.  For one thing we lived there for almost 21 months compared to 11 months in Belmont Shore.  However, memories of time in school, classmates or playmates seems to be just as bare in North Long Beach as in Belmont Shore.  Memories of several movies are quite vivid, especially recalling specific scenes from those movies.  While other movies come to mind, not all of them have been mentioned.  Some of these will appear in future essays, they support other memorable events.  My relationship with Dad began to grow here due to attending movies and joining him on shopping trips.  Even so, there are only fuzzy memories of doing things around the house with Dad, Mom or Berta.  I know we interacted, but specific events do not stand out.  Perhaps this lack of these type memories speaks to the fact that I was a very quiet loner and could entertain myself.  Then perhaps it is a further example of a maturing brain with memories being erased in the process.  I turned nine years old about three months after we moved to our new house, so my brain must have really matured, because the following years are bursting with memories.