THERE WAS A BOY

   A couple of years ago, I was asked what I would do if I couldn't take a weekend or a vacation to get away. How would I get away without getting away.  I shared this with my P.E.O. Chapter sisters.

   Several places came to mind when I tried to picture favorite spots to enjoy.  I was still living in the Sierra foothills of California at the time, with a son and his wife living nearby. I might spread a blanket in a shady spot by the water at the Bridgeport covered bridge. On a sunny, warm summer day, just feeling the soft breeze, watching the blue butterflies, or closing my eyes and catching a snooze created a pleasant vision.

   However, I normally lead a quiet life already. A little action, not too dangerous, but exhilirating, was what I craved for a getaway. But what? There was Tahoe or Reno, only about an hour and a half away, with the chance of putting a few extra coins in my thin purse.  Like that was going to happen! A one day trip to gorgeous Yosemite was not out of the question, but tiring in the end.

   Aha! A repeat of a day in spring not so long ago, would fill my lungs with fresh air and my spirit with joie de vivre, not to mention my innards with good grub. I would, in a minute, drop everything and hop (I'm not sure if "hop" is the operative word) on the back of my son, Larry's Volkswagon-sized Harley, clamp on the Star Wars helmet with built-in headphones, and tune in a CD.  I would lean confidently into the curves and pretend I'm not 80 years old (I was 78 at the time). I'd smile smugly at all and sundry, riding tall in the saddle, and take in our God-given scenery, close up and personal. When we got to North San Juan, gingerly I would descend from the bike and saunter into Toki's, always full of locals. Toki's is a little cafe in the hamlet of North San Juan, the often misunderstood - or too well understood - home to aging hippies, arty types, free spirits of all stripes, and gardens with exotic crops. Toki's is run by a Japanese American couple.  Maybe this time I'd have some Japanese cuisine (I heard it's great) instead of a big ol' burger and a beer.  The only down side would be trying to get my stiff, ancient limb over the bike in order to climb back on. The ride back would be less pleasurable, only because it would be over and I'd revert to acting my age.

And that brings me to the following:

                                                           THERE WAS A BOY....

.........a very strange, enchanted boy, as the old song goes. In his late teens that ditty was his favorite, closely followed by "I'm Beginning to See the Light." The latter he plunked out with one finger on my piano. Read on. You might remember someone like this.  Perhaps you WERE someone like this.

     I first met this wild child when his family moved next door to my grandparents' house, in which I grew up. My first view, from the front porch, was as he emerged from the family car and tucked crutches under his arms. Observing me with my girl chum/classmate/neighbor, who lived on the other side, he maneuvered himself into a handstand, using the hand-holds and walked the crutches to the house. We were to see more of that and his flying flips off any available structure. He was 12 going on 5. No that isn't a typo. We girls were 10. He had two older brothers, one younger, and a younger sister. Two more sisters arrived in years following. Oh! This is the same lad who, with a knotted string, made the diorama animals at the museum twitch, for those of you who read the Summer Play blog.

     Our 1940s neighborhood malt shop was favored by Manual Arts High School denizens. By now "The Boy" was a top gymnast. Always the attention-getter, standing on one hand atop the malt shop counter, he would drink a coke and smoke a cigarette. Once, as he sped around the corner in his '37 Chevy and slid onto the Vermont Avenue streetcar tracks, he accidentally discovered that he could totally flip the car and keep on going. After that it wasn't an accident. It was a crowd-gathering exhibition. Did I mention drag racing?

     Derring-do was a way of life with this one. He and his buddies would climb the fence around the L.A. Colosseum at night, pull their bikes over and race around the track. When the City's Finest showed up they were back over the fence and gone before the gendarmes could drive inside. One night, with a brother as witness, he climbed the peristyle (now gone) and stood on his hands. To prove that such a feat was still in his repertoire, he repeated it in Hawaii from a very high monument while in the Coast Guard.  There is a picture somewhere.

     His motorcycle was another adrenalin raiser (It was the motorcylce image that sparked the pleasant day memory, perhaps). Speeding (Tsk!) at night, he rode up the ramp of a flatbed truck to elude CHIPS. In another incident he almost got his comeuppance. Distracted, he plowed into the back of a semi, slid beneath it and briefly was out cold. When he came to, he turned his head and saw a hearse at the curb, next to the rig, in front of a church. He thought, "I'm dead. This is what it's like. You see your own funeral." After that he was a tad more careful; just a tad, mind you.

     There was much that made this fellow appealing to a convent-schooled, quiet, studious young lady. He truly was intelligent and creative, had a disarming smile, quick wit and possessed, at that time, an extraordinary sense of humor. He was not hard to look at, either. If ever there were opposites - but Hey! I actually learned to ride a motorcycle.

9/13/11