When I was a kid growing up in Midway
City, Southern California was a very different place. It
was the 1950's, and large areas of Orange County were undeveloped,
maybe half the county. Midway City was one of the Tri-Cities
along with Barber City and Westminster, small incorporated
residential islets in the midst of agriculture and not much industry.
There were many strawberry fields,
and in the winter the growers put a white paper cap over
the top of each plant to ward off frost. From a passing
car, thousands of little white peaks stretched out in perfect
rows, vanishing toward the horizon. It looked to me like the
turning spokes of a giant wheel, or the legs of a walking giant
who always kept pace with our car. When Spring came, roadside
stands sold fresh picked strawberries; Dad and I bought them, and
Mom made shortcake and whipped cream.
There were large traditional farms
too, such as the Edwards family owned. Some grew
alfalfa, but I was so young I don't recall what else they
produced, if I ever knew. The Edwards' had horses, and when
my sister, Doris, took me for a ride when I was very youngm I didn't
do well. I wasn't a horse person. In the mid - fifties
the Edwards family sold their place, and Westminster High School
was built there, opening in September, 1959, and I was in the first
Freshman Class.
There was no city of Fountain Valley,
just strawberry and bean fields for miles and miles, criss-crossed
by two lane roads, and dotted here and there with cross-roads
stores. That is where Dad taught me how to drive in a
two-tone, '53 Plymouth, sitting on a pillow so I could see over
the hood. I was twelve.
Sewers did not arrive until the late
1950's. We had a cesspool which generally worked
okay unless there were heavy rains; then, the saturated ground
caused the cesspool to back up and overflow in the backyard. Phew!!
After the sewer was hooked up, the empty cesspool collapsed
underground, and Dad had to dig it out and fill it in.
And there was no trash pickup. People
either carried their trash to a collection center or a
dump, or they burned it in the backyard as we did. In
the early 1960's backyard burning was outlawed after home trash-collection
began. But until then, every few days Dad burned whatever
refuse had accumulated. A permanent mound had built up from
years of burning near the back fence. We called that place
"the fire" whether or not anything was burning.
For some reason Dad liked to burn
trash in the morning, and often the ground was wet with
dew as he piled on heaps of dried, cut grass, or weeds with
a pitchfork. the fire disappeared with a hiss and slowly
struggled back to life, crackling loudly, emitting a hot, steamy
smell, and white smoke seeping from the edges of the added material.
The crackling grew more intense; smoke billowed out, and new
flames broke free, engulfing the pile. Then Dad piled on another
heap with the pitchfork, and the process started over until everything
was consumed, including the household trash and garbage.
Dad let me help. He always
let me help, and I tried my best to do it just like he did,
even tapping each newly added heap with the upturned tines
of the pitchfork.
"Good job, Bub," Dad said. That's
what he called me, his "Bub," and I called him "Pop."
Today, when I look back, I can smell
the distinct, sweet odor of a damp grass fire, and hear
the frenetic crackle of the struggling flame, and see the
ribbon of white smoke curling far into the blue morning sky.
And there is Dad in his old style undershirt and baggy pants,
piling more onto the fire with the pitchfork, and I'm heling him.
Funny thing about memories : never
age. Dad is still not fifty, and I am just a boy