I Stepped out of my house this December morning under a bright California sun pasted against a deep blue sky…. “Pasted,” I like that, except it’s not mine. I stole it from T.S. Eliot, I think from one of his biggies, maybe Prufrock or the Wasteland. No matter. Writers steal from each other all the time. What the hell. There are only so many words in the dictionary, and even fewer in each of our personal vocabularies, so why not lift one or two metaphors when we need them.
I think of my childhood, winter and summer breaks, the sun nearly always there to greet us, kids, whenever we left home. L.A., the land of sunshine and cool ocean breezes. That’s the thing about living in the same general area where I was raised, a lot of memories around each block, down the street, or even a few miles away. They come flooding back, as I age, especially childhood memories, what Joyce saw as, "The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."
We were a motley crew of suburban youngsters, and if we didn’t have to go to work with a parent or relative, we’d meet at someone’s house, like budding outlaw bikers, but instead of choppers, our Schwinn cruisers, in different states of modification, parked along the curb, the cool ones, without kickstands, dropped to the ground.
Like Brando in the "Wild One," we usually wore jeans, white, or multi-colored t-shirts, and “tennis shoes” (the word “sneakers” absent in our vocabulary). In fact, one time a nurse asked me to remove my “sneakers” during a physical exam, and, shyly, I started to undo my belt and lower my pants, whereupon she cried, “No, no, no. I meant your shoes.”
How was I to know? Martin’s Shoes on Santa Monica Boulevard, in West L.A., only carried what we all called “Tennis shoes.” Keds’ high tops were king. The shoe store owner, Marty, a short Jewish man, a real charmer, never used the word “sneakers”. I think it was more an East Coast moniker for rubber soled, canvas shoes, and caught hold in California as more New Yorkers came west and began settling in the area. Later, a few kids started buying the slick-looking Converse, the ones whose parents could afford them. Keds was the official tennis shoe of the working class.
Depending on circumstances at home, like chores and work, there might be anywhere from five to fifteen kids on bikes parked along the curb, planning our morning excursion. In our more imaginative moments, we’d get adventurous and take a long ride up to Sunset Boulevard, into the Santa Monica Mountains, take the trails down to the creek at Camp Josepho, a Boy Scout camp in a wide canyon. That was an all-day hump and took our parents’ permission.
Sometimes, we’d ride through industrial streets and alleys, looking into dumpsters behind factories, to dig up whatever treasures they were throwing away, like slightly defective ceramics, electronics, even model airplanes, Winmack and Magnavox just up the street on Bundy Drive, not far from the Olympic Drive-in Theater.
In less creative times, we’d head to the neighborhood park, just up the street and play a pickup game of whatever sport was in season, usually enough kids for two teams. If it was summer, we’d always end up in the pool, or what our parents called the “plunge.”
But nothing compared to the vacant lots sitting there waiting to be invaded. We'd ride to one and play war, Germans vs. Americans, Cowboys vs, Indians, pretend we were Tarzan in the jungle, or just run around, and if havoc can be raised, we'd raise it, the dust and dirt filling the air.
There seemed to be vacant lots everywhere, just barren plots of land filled with piles of dirt, uprooted trees, weeds, and debris, like old lumber and chunks of concrete. We’d choose sides and build forts, find a cache of dirt clods for weapons, and go at it for hours. I have no idea why we never had a serious accident, no eyes poked out or broken skulls.
The beauty of playing in vacant lots is that each one was different, some bigger and shaped differently than others, each with its own character, perfect for games or make-believe worlds. In some, we’d find soft dirt and dig tunnels and caves, crawling through on our knees from one end to the other. A few lots had been vacant for a long time, so there were trees and shrubs, perfect for hiding and pretending we were in the jungle or the woods.
Once, we played war and decided to bring Daisy BB rifles. Of course, we had rules, our own Geneva Convention. I remember one rule was something like no shooting above the waist, so as not blind anybody. This particular vacant lot had trees and shrubs, tall mounds of earth, and deep holes, perfect for war. Everybody on both teams moved fast, running and diving from one hiding place to another. We'd fire but never hit our moving targets.
Then, in the heat of battle, I saw my friend Bobby stick his head out from behind a tree, his neck a juicy target, Geneva Convention be damned. Bobby stayed that way. I took aim but didn’t think I was a good enough shot to hit him, but I pulled the trigger, anyway. Next thing, I hear a yelp, “Ah!” Then sobs. “You hit me! You hit me.”
We stopped the battle and ran to his side. The tears were rolling down, his face scrunched like a prune. I apologized, saying I never thought I could hit him. It was an accident. Besides, what was he doing sticking his head out like that. “Let me see,” I said.
We all gathered around and looked. There was the BB, just under the skin, a small bubble, no blood, so it didn’t break the flesh. Bobby ran home. I followed, wanting to get my version of events to his mother before I became the villain.
His mom who spoke only Spanish but understood English, wanted to know everything. We started with the vacant lot, to which she replied, like many of our parents, “I told you to stay away from those places. They’re dangerous.” She took a pair of tweezers and quickly removed the BB from Bobby’s neck and placed a band aide over the red spot. After everything calmed down, I went home.
I confessed to my mom, told her everything that happened, fearing the worst, corporal punishment, banishment to my room, or the dreaded, "Wait until your dad gets home." Instead, she started laughing at me, a pathetic child waiting to receive a death sentence. She called Bobby's mom to make sure he was okay. She said she hoped I learned my lesson, and she didn’t want me hanging out at vacant lots, anymore. They weren't only dangerous, but they were private property.
At the time, there was only one farm left in town, a lone survivor among the WWII stucco homes and new apartments popping up everywhere. Mr. Giannini would be out on his tractor each morning to plow the field. For a week, we saw he wasn’t out there. My dad told me Mr. Giannini sold his farm to a real estate developer, who was going to put up a bunch of apartments, but not for a few months. The farm took up an entire block. It would be the best vacant lot in town, like our own Western Front.
When the guys said they were going to old man Giannini's to play war, I knew I had to decline, remembering my mom’s warning. She let me off easy the last time. So, for me, my vacant lot days were over.
Still, as I drive through town each morning, my ritual, I keep my eye out for vacant lots, the kind where we used to play. I don't see any, not a one. When developers demolish a building, today, fencing quickly surrounds it, and within weeks, new construction begins, and in a few months, a new monster building rises from the ashes. There are new buildings everywhere, some really gigantic, mostly office buildings and condos, stylish, way too expensive for the average person's budget, but somebody's got money because they're rented out pretty fast. Gone are most of the old wood frame homes, a lost generation.
One time, I drove around, specifically, looking for vacant lots, the kind where we once played – nothing, not a one, not in Venice, Culver City, or Santa Monica. They don’t exist anymore, neither do large groups of kids on bikes, or kids at the park, playing pickup games of football, baseball, or basketball. Even the fields at the park say "Reserved" for private schools, during the day.
It's like everything is organized, rules, rules, rules. If kids want to play, they have to pay a hundred-or-so-bucks to join a team, institutionalized, like everything else, planned, little spontaneity, everything about the almighty buck.
I still have hope, as I drive through town, I'll find one vacant lot and a gaggle of kids running around widely, free as the proverbial "wind."
