the first of about 60
first days of school for me
My first day of public school would be my first day in first grade. Rosedale, my neighborhood elementary, was impacted for Kindergarten and Mom was told she’d have to cart me 20 minutes across town to Sierra View which she would not do because she knew with certainty, “All they do in Kindergarten is let kids play.”
So with Roy Rogers lunch pails at our sides, Mom walked Beebo and me to the confluence of Stewart and Bidwell Avenues, there rubbing both of us on our Butch-waxed, slick-backed hair, telling us to walk up Stewart Avenue because it was straight and it didn’t go along the creek which she deemed dangerous even when reduced to a September trickle, and that she’d see us when we got home that afternoon. Adding, “Now don’t tarry along the way.”
As soon as she turned her back, Beebo and I winked at each other ~ me with both eyes ~ decided to ignore Mom’s instruction and ambled along Bidwell Avenue, passing the muddy trail down the Chico Creek embankment ~ the one with the stinging nettles we braved when, during the just-ended summer, we went down there to wade; rounding the big bend and the pool in the creek known as the Log Hole where the bigger boys often drank beer and swam naked and probably peed in the creek; sneaking through the sinister tunnel of black walnuts and oaks that arched over the road and the stream; tiptoeing past Jim, the crazy man’s house ~ Jim, a shell-shocked World War II vet sometimes was found in the middle of Bidwell Avenue on all fours, coughing and spitting up something; turning onto Highway 32 at Chico’s original La Hacienda Mexican restaurant ~ a place that emitted aromas making my mouth salivate and water involuntarily (maybe this explained something inexplicable about poor Jim to my six-year-old satisfaction); crossing Chico Creek on the highway’s bridge ~ tossing pebbles and bits of glass and road debris into the water; descending into the parking lot of the Triumph motorcycle dealer where we placed our noses against the shop window so we could peer into the darkened showroom ~ Mr. Brownell also carried lesser-known brands like Honda and Lambretta; passing Smitty’s Hudson, right next door ~ though Smitty went out of business along with that make years before, his Hudson sign still attached to the old, vacant building; heading west on to Oak Street; spying the alley where the bracero gleaners who picked up culls from our almond orchard lived in ramshackle hovels; and pausing, finally, in front of the Hoobler warehouse where Dad took our almonds to market ~ Hoobler, we were told, once ran sheep on what would become our five acres.
Beebo and I waited there until a big man in a suit and tie on the other side of the Oak Street told us we could cross safely. The big man turned out to be Mr. Self, the Rosedale School Principal who drove a light blue Lincoln Continental and who would later sell a Siamese kitten to Mom for ten dollars.
Over in the parking lot, Mom sat behind the wheel of our ’54 Ford Ranchwagon waiting ~ making sure we’d made it to our first day of school okay.
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Church of the Open Road Press
