As I Recall: The Story of a Bike Ride - Brossura

Manfredo, Joseph N.

Brossura

ISBN 10: 149074276X ISBN 13: 9781490742762

Casa editrice: Trafford, 2014

Riassunto

This is the story of a one-day bicycle ride taken by an eighty-year-old man along the Southern California Beach bike path for a twenty-four-mile round trip. As he stops to meet people and observe events, he is reminded of similar people, places, and events from his past. These memories comprise a series of vignettes filled with historical facts, humor, pathos, and nostalgia. From early childhood memories through school crushes and a myriad of his and others' experiences, the book tells short stories that are at times humorous, sometimes profound, and always memorable. Historical moments taken from World War II and the Korean Conflict are retold alongside personal adventures, with such things as horse and motorcycle ownership, creating a captivating juxtaposition of serious and humorous events. The view presented in this book gives a unique look into the mind of an older person who has lived a full and memorable life.

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As I Recall

The Story of a Bike Ride

By Joseph N. Manfredo

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2014 Joseph N. Manfredo
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-4276-2

Contents

Acknowledgments, xv, 
Chapter 1 Rat Beach, 1, 
Chapter 2 Brandegee, 5, 
Chapter 3 Torrance Boulevard, 21, 
Chapter 4 Best Friends Forever, 23, 
Chapter 5 Redondo Pier, 33, 
Chapter 6 The Little General, 37, 
Chapter 7 Charlie's Place, 45, 
Chapter 8 The Little Ballerina, 47, 
Chapter 9 Pauly's on the Pier, 51, 
Chapter 10 Aunt Mary, 53, 
Chapter 11 Dockweiler Plateau, 59, 
Chapter 12 A Kick in the Ass, 61, 
Chapter 13 Burton Chase Park, 67, 
Chapter 14 Syracuse Winter, 69, 
Chapter 15 The Bus Driver, 75, 
Chapter 16 The Ranger, 77, 
Chapter 17 Sweet Spots, 83, 
Chapter 18 The Button, 85, 
Chapter 19 Fisherman's Village, 89, 
Chapter 20 The Palms, 93, 
Chapter 21 The Bike Shop, 97, 
Chapter 22 The Glider, 99, 
Chapter 23 Blue, 103, 
Chapter 24 The Time of the Scrub Jays, 105, 
Chapter 25 Sea Lions, 109, 
Chapter 26 Lion Country Safari, 111, 
Chapter 27 Ballona Creek, 117, 
Chapter 28 The Gold Chain, 119, 
Chapter 29 Playa Del Rey, 125, 
Chapter 30 Proctor, 127, 
Chapter 31 Playa Del Rey Beach, 147, 
Chapter 32 European Interlude, 149, 
Chapter 33 Dockweiler Rest Area, 173, 
Chapter 34 Soccer Saga, 177, 
Chapter 35 Whale Barf, 187, 
Chapter 36 Kicking a Few Stones, 191, 
Chapter 37 El Segundo, 207, 
Chapter 38 The Motorcycle, 209, 
Chapter 39 Iron Horse, 221, 
Chapter 40 The Horse Years, 223, 
Chapter 41 El Porto Beach, 243, 
Chapter 42 Moose, 245, 
Chapter 43 Redondo Beach, 257, 
Chapter 44 From 1957 Chevys to Louise Perry, 259, 
Chapter 45 The Signpost, 271, 
Chapter 46 The Marine, 275, 
Chapter 47 The Ramp, 279, 
Chapter 48 The Grandson, 283, 
Chapter 49 Home, 291, 
Chapter 50 The Letter, 293, 
Chapter 51 The Dream, 297, 
About the Author, 299, 

CHAPTER 1

Rat Beach

He was eighty years old, and he could still ride his bicycle for significant distances. But now he stayed as much as possible on the strand along the beach, away from the busy streets of greater Los Angeles. The sound and smell of the sea was soothing, and studying people along the beach gave him great pleasure. He sometimes tried to imagine the life story behind the more striking ones—the old and feeble, the young and nubile, and those few regulars who appeared homeless, all their worldly possessions piled on a stolen shopping cart or strapped onto a sea-air rusted bicycle.

He had parked his car on a bluff overlooking the start of the paved bicycle path in Torrance Beach. His bicycle was mounted on a rack behind the trunk of the sedan.

For a while he looked down at the beach and out to the small breakers, scanning for the dolphins that often played and fed along this beach. Southward, the shoreline curved slightly in a long arc that turned westward toward Catalina Island. It formed a cove that was very popular with the local teenagers. The cove became known as Rat Beach, an acronym for "right after Torrance beach." The paved bicycle path started here and ran northerly up the coast.

With practiced movements, he opened the trunk, pulled out the front wheel, mounted it to the front fork, tested the brakes, lifted the bike off the rack, removed the rack, and stored it inside the trunk, closing it with a muffled thunk. He zeroed the small speedometer-odometer mounted to the front handlebar. Taking one last look at his wristwatch, he tossed a leg over the crossbar and set out across the parking lot and down the slanting concrete ramp that traversed the steep cliffside and led to the paved bike path which cleaved through the sand. The long steep ramp was lined with signs that said "No Skateboards, Roller Skates, Bicycles on Ramp." But he, like all the other skaters and bikers, ignored the signs.

This path extended all the way to Will Rogers State Beach in Pacific Palisades. There was a time when he would have ridden its whole length, a round trip of around forty-four miles. Now he often turned around earlier—especially if the wind became adverse, the crowds grew too thick, or some part of his body began to warn him that it was unhappy.

The cloudless, light-blue sky stretched from the Los Angeles skyline in the east clear out to the Pacific Ocean horizon in the west where it dipped softly behind the deep, dark-blue water. The wind hadn't come up yet. When it did, he would smell the sea and taste the salt spray. But for now it was silent, except for the occasional call of a gull or the splash of a diving cormorant or pelican. There were no sailboats out on the water. Sails would appear later when the wind came to life.

The first mile or so went easily. The bike path sloped slightly downhill, and with no wind to interfere, the bike rolled effortlessly. Up ahead, where Avenue C ended its run through the city of Redondo Beach, a concrete flight of steps was filled with chattering little children. A school bus had just emptied a large group of children for one of the many field trips so common in the Los Angeles Unified School District. He braked gently to a stop and watched as the teachers herded what appeared to be second or third graders across the path to the wide sand beach.

A young man on a shiny new Schwinn pulled up next to him. "Lucky kids," he said. "They get to spend a school day at the beach."

The Old Man nodded in agreement. Leaning on his handlebars, he turned to speak. Just as he did so, the other man spotted a break in the line of children and sped off, leaving him with his unspoken thoughts.

He spoke anyway—to himself, in his head—as the children ran, shrieking and laughing, down to the sand-lapping wavelets.

We didn't have day trips when I started school. We never got to visit a museum or a beach. We had recess. That was it. File outside, play for a while, and file back inside. The three Rs: `Readin', `Rittin', `Rithmatic. Art. Music. Gosh, that was over seventy-five years ago. It was a different world. I recall that first, exciting day ...

And all the memories slipped softly out of their hiding places.

CHAPTER 2

Brandegee

September 1937 was the start of an especially colorful autumn. Tree leaves had begun turning to outrageously beautiful shades of red, auburn, yellow, and brown—a fireworks display to announce the beginning of the fall season.

We talked excitedly during breakfast—the usual bowl of hot milk, colored with a touch of coffee, filled with chunks of Italian bread, and sprinkled with sugar.

Mama washed my face; her hands, so soft and gentle, rinsing the soap away with silky smooth palms. She helped me get dressed and combed my hair, still wet, while delivering admonishments, primarily about being a good boy and doing what the teacher told me to do. Today she would take me to be enrolled in kindergarten. I gripped her hand tightly as we left our apartment, knowing that as long as she had hold of me, I was going to be okay. Barely four blocks from our small apartment building was the strange and intimidating new world of Brandegee Grade School.

The two-story building covered half a city block. Dark red bricks with light-colored cement trim around doors and windows gave the structure an imposing, authoritative look. Tall windows glared menacingly down at us as we walked the narrow walkway to the immense double doors that were propped open that first day.

Administrative offices and kindergarten through fourth grade occupied the first floor. Grades five through eight were upstairs. A wood shop and drafting design classes were held in the basement. Also in the basement was the boiler room where a furnace generated steam heat for the building. This was also where children clapped blackboard erasers to get rid of chalk dust. Without realizing it, we would be taught a metaphor for life. Physical labor was at the lowest level and higher education took us to higher levels.

Kindergarten

We entered the kindergarten classroom. Mrs. Woolis, a white-haired, well-dressed woman greeted us warmly, shaking my mother's hand. Crouching down to my level, she placed a bracelet-clad arm around my shoulders and gave me a brief hug of welcome. It was strange to be hugged by a complete stranger, and warm feelings flooded my small being. She and Mama chatted while I stared in awe at the small dark wooden chairs and tables.

Other children stood, staring around with curiosity. Along the windowsills were small pots with little plants, reaching for sunlight. Several tall vases, filled with water, held pussy willow stems bearing small, gray, furry willow buds that felt like rabbit fur to my tiny inquisitive fingers. I was drawn to these, and though I had seen them many times, growing wild in the marshes surrounding the outskirts of East Utica, I had never thought of them as indoor plants. I immediately connected Mrs. Woolis with these soft willow buds and would recall them with fondness the rest of my life. She, like them, was soft, tender, and comforting. It was several months before I stopped calling her Mrs. Willow.

One by one the mothers left. I felt a profound sadness when Mama left, but Mrs. Woolis seemed to sense this and took me in her arms ever so gently. I felt warm and safe. That empty feeling of abandonment faded away as I became engrossed in the children and sounds around me.

Of the many little boys and girls I met that first day, I recall most vividly little Lucy Santos, freckle-faced, teary-eyed, runny-nosed, and with naturally curly dark hair. She cried inconsolably that first day despite our teacher's efforts to comfort her. It was a sadness that seemed to shadow her in the coming years. A couple grades later, when we were being introduced to pen points and ink wells, Lucy suffered a severe scratch when a passing child accidentally scraped a wet ink pen across Lucy's forearm. I remember the bleeding and the tears and the long permanent tattoo it left on her arm. It was Lucy's home, just a few years later, which bore a Scarlet Fever seal on the front door, warning others away from this highly contagious disease. She was not allowed to come back to school for some time. The stigma followed her for a while. Over thirty years later, I received a newspaper clipping in a letter from home. A barroom brawl had resulted in gunfire. One Lucy Santos had been shot and killed. No details were available. As I read it, I pictured again that teary-eyed, freckle-faced, curly-haired, agonizingly sad little girl who sat next to the pussy willows and cried.

Later that first week, a photographer showed up and took pictures of us in groups of three. My group included Salvatore and Felix. We sat side by side, me in a red-and-white, horizontally striped, long-sleeved sweater. Next to me was Salvatore in a blue sailor suit with large white buttons and white beading trim and Felix in a white shirt and tie. All three of us wore shorts and full-length, heavy cotton stockings that started under our shorts and went down into the tops of our high-top shoes. It would be several years before we were considered old enough to wear knickers instead of shorts and a few years more before we graduated to long pants.

Looking at that old photo revealed, in the way we sat, our individual personalities. I was leaning back, a wistful look on my face, feet apart, toes up, shoes resting on their heels, loosely clenched fists lying in my lap. Salvatore, rigidly posed, stared dutifully straight at the camera, feet flat on the floor, knees and legs tightly together, hands lying flat on his lap, palms down, one on top of the other. Felix held both of his hands tucked under his thighs, feet and legs were splayed, the bottom of his father's long necktie was tucked into his shorts. The three male muses of East Utica.

First Grade

Our days in kindergarten passed quickly, and we were excitedly ushered down the hall to our first grade class. Now instead of small chairs lined up at tables, we had our very own desks. The lids were hinged and lifted to reveal a storage space, though we still had nothing to put into them. In the front of the room, behind the teacher's desk, ran a clothes closet the full width of the room—like a hidden passageway—with a door at either end. In here we encountered the wonder of our very own clothes hooks. Clothes and lunches were stored in this dimly lit alcove.

Our teacher encouraged us to bring interesting things to school to share. I thought of my uncle Bob's World War I souvenirs. Uncle Bob had fought in that war. He brought back a French bayonet and a pair of German aviator goggles. Dad inherited both when Uncle Bob died. I begged him to let me take the bayonet to school. He wisely declined and offered to loan me the goggles instead. I promised to "take good care of them." My class was impressed. I let some of the boys try them on and hung them back on my clothes hook afterward. They disappeared by the end of the day, along with my innocence.

I don't recall the name of the first grade teacher or any of my classmates, except for one. She sat at the desk to my right. Lovely Katherine had long, honey-colored, Shirley Temple curls set about a very pretty, fair-skinned face with dark eyes framed by long eyelashes. She was smart, polite, and exuded a self-confidence that exceeded her years. I was entranced by her poise and intelligence. I was discovering puppy love.

On certain days of the week, our teacher passed out colored crayons and sheets of heavy drawing paper. She put up a sample drawing or an object for us to copy—some days a still life, others a landscape or pictures of animals or people. Katherine's drawings were always colorful, flowing scenes closely resembling what the teacher had on display. By contrast, everyone else's work, including mine, seemed simplistic and crude.

One special day, our teacher gave each of us an unusually large sheet of drawing paper. It covered my entire desktop. This was to be a humungous drawing. She told us to use our imaginations and draw whatever we wished. I was excited. I scoured my mind for an idea but kept looking out of the corner of my eye to Katherine's paper. I knew she would do something outstanding. I decided I would try to draw whatever she chose to draw today. It would, it seemed to me, draw me closer to her.

Beautiful Katherine, who was creative and imaginative and so very pretty, picked up a red crayon. I picked up my red crayon. She put it back down and picked up a black crayon. I put down my red and picked up my black. She placed the tip of her crayon at the upper left-hand corner of the desk-sized drawing paper and carefully, with a steady hand, drew a long, straight dark line down to the right-hand corner. What would this be? How intriguing. Perhaps a hillside in the Italian Alps or a ski slope winter scene? I carefully drew a long dark line, diagonally, upper left to lower right, from corner to corner.

Katherine seemed to think for a minute then placed her crayon tip at the upper right-hand corner of her paper and, with a steady hand, drew a perfectly straight diagonal line down to the lower left-hand corner. I was puzzled. Oh, wait, maybe it was an aerial view of a crossroad in the countryside or the intersection of Genesee and Bleecker Streets right here in our own hometown. I did my best to copy exactly what she had just done.

She set down her black crayon. I set down my black crayon. I sat back and waited to see what color she would select next and what delightful creation she would make of this when she raised her arm straight up and waved at the teacher.

"May I please be excused to go to the bathroom?"

She stood and left the room. I waited for her return, sitting back and looking from her paper to mine. What would it be?

Slowly, as I looked, it seemed to come into focus, and I saw what we had drawn. A very large black X filled her paper and, by imitation, mine too. My wonderful, oversized drawing paper had been cancelled by a big black X. I could have done so much with it. The possibilities leapt about in my mind, but now it was ruined.

When Katherine returned, she set her crayons to one side, folded her paper in half, and slid it beneath her crayons; my disappointment was complete. I vowed never to be misled and disappointed by a beautiful girl again. But of course, I would.

Second Grade

The next year, we moved right next door to second grade. I had looked into that doorway each day and was so very impressed by the spindle back stools the color of blond wood that lined the front of the classroom. They looked so adult. Now we would sit in those stools as we waited our turn to read to the class or perform a show and tell.

It was in this classroom that Katherine completely stole my heart. She consistently got the highest grades and delivered dramatic presentations. Her parents were giving her the best of private tutoring, and soon she was standing before us delivering classical soliloquies. She recited portions of the balcony scene from "Romeo and Juliet," Edgar Allen Poe's poem, "The Raven," and Hamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy in its entirety. And most impressive was her rendition of Juliet's soliloquy from act IV, Scene III where Juliet drinks the sleeping potion. I can still see her, holding the imaginary vial upward at arm's length, before her as she recited, "Romeo, I come! This do I drink to thee." She drew the vial to her sweet lips then, lowering it, lay slowly back across three of the blond, wooden spindled chairs, her right arm across her eyes, her left dangling downward toward the floor, her body in repose. The stage presence, gestures, and inflections were professional. I was thunderstruck. I spoke to her every chance I got. She was politely responsive.

At the end of that school year, her family sold their pretty little home, which was just across the street from our school, and moved to the south side of the city, a more prosperous and higher-priced neighborhood. I was devastated. My little heart ached each day as I passed her old home. I lost track of her.

We moved to the third grade just down the hall. Ms. McCalmont taught us—among other things—cursive writing using the Palmer method of repeated rows of push-pulls and ovals, rolling on the muscle of our forearm. Each desk had an ink well that was filled from a large ink bottle by Ms. McCalmont herself. Our wooden penholders had a replaceable pen tip. When we received a new pen point, we sucked on it for a moment to dissolve some sort of preservative coating; then we wiped it with our little square ink cloth to dry it before dipping and again after each use. It was all so new.

The Violin

I wanted to take piano lessons, as my older brother had done some years earlier, but we sold the piano when we moved to a smaller apartment. Friends offered to loan me a used violin, and I took lessons from our school music teacher at 25¢ a week. Soon I mastered the standards like "Pomp and Circumstance" and could render a mean "Turkey in the Straw." I earned second violin position in the school orchestra. Angela, who took private lessons from an outside teacher, played first violin, the most prestigious seat in the orchestra. We played exactly the same music, but her technique was much better than mine. She bathed in the glory of that first seat while I sat—invisible—in her shadow.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from As I Recall by Joseph N. Manfredo. Copyright © 2014 Joseph N. Manfredo. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Dettagli dell'edizione

• Editore: Trafford
• Data di pubblicazione: 2014
• Lingua: Inglese
• ISBN 10: 149074276X
• ISBN 13: 9781490742762
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 316
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile
• Persona responsabile: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Europaallee 1; Bad Hersfeld; 36244; Germania