Tom Moore:
CLASS OF 1976
Point Loma High SchoolClass of 1976
San diego, CA
Tom's Story
It was a dark and stormy night. The wind was howling. A dog was howling. The wind AND the dog were howling, together--at each other. Mr. Howell said,"Oh Luvie Dear, where is that Gilligan with my off-ternoon Martini? It was the 60's, the TV was on, and I...I was watching! At that moment, no one could have imagined what was about to become, my life.
It came as no real surprise to many that Jiffy-Pop would out sell most of its competitors of the day. Even Ray Crock, the bas-tard that would eventually put Oscar's Drive-in out of business, said that it was better than sliced bread. But then, sliced bread didn't come in an aluminum foil sheath that, when rubbed vigorouosly by hand, would grow and grow, in height and girth, simmering, until it reached its ultimate six inch glory, spewing delicious, white, steamy joy out from a hole in its top. What rapture! What excitement! What could microwave convenience possibly hope to offer present day snack enthusiasts when compared to this stove top wonder? (uh, please pass the salt).
I found myself floating in a sea of dust and gravel. Spheres came whizzing past me at tremendous speeds. A loud bell was ringing off in the distance and I became aware of plaintive cries all around me. This was the playground at Barnard Elementary and recess, was over. Michelle & Rick, Tod, Scott, Mary Ann, Kathy? Where have you gone, my little ones, little ones? As the end of the school day drew near, I took off my safety patrol uniform and hung it up in the Patrol Boys Lounge/Janitors closet. Once again I became just a civilian. After school, it was over to 7-11 for a cherry & rootbeer slurpy, or to 31 flavors for a double scoop chocolate-chip on a rocky road, on a sugar cone of course. Then, with the speed and agility of Batman, and stench of a week's old, rotting banana still oozing out of my torn windbreaker's pocket, I scrambled up the "cliff-way" which was a shortcut back to Marquette Street, and home.
I walked in the house through the open front door. The scene seemed peaceful enough. My mom was sitting on the purple couch folding clothes and watching Perry Mason. Baby Katie was locked in her rolling table-chair covered in sticky Beachnut baby food. Douglas was in the playpen by the TV and brother John was nowhere to be seen. "Hi, Mom," I said, not paying attention to her reply. I spilled, then drank some Carnation Milk, grabbed a hand full of marshmellows and headed for...Expand for more
the garage. The words,"How was school toda..." faded in the air as I picked up my bike. It was a blue stingray, bought used, from the Mission Hills Bike Shop up on Washington at about 4th or 5th. No clothes pinned playing cards in the spokes today. It did, however, have a new silver, ribbed vinyl banana seat with chrome brackets supporting the rear end. This was my trusty servant--my own flying carpet--capable of transporting me to school, or down to Robb Field and OB, or over to Bazzar Del Mundo in Old Town for a Churro, then up to the Presidio to ride down the bumpy grass hills, or even all the way to the Zoo. Any where I wanted to go. I had wheels...and they were mounted on a shiny, metallic blue frame.
Today I was aiming a little closer to home. Across the street and down below the neighbor's houses was a huge vacant strip of land. It started half way up the cliff behind the Frontier Drive-in Theater and wrapped way around, over looking both Midway and West Point Loma Blvd. In future years, this would become the Towers Apartment Buildings where I would ride this same bike down the inside hallways delivering the San Diego Union and the Evening Tribune. Our father worked at these papers for many years.
But no apartments stood here today. Only rows of concrete footings with massive webs of rebar, muddy ditches and scraps of plywood were present. Of course what the construction crew considered scrap wood was a bounty, a treasure, a fort or bike jump ramp ready for the taking..and making. The construction site was always open (to kids who knew how to shinny around the gates and fences.) We raced around, past the long, pitted foundation forms, past the scattered machinery and rusting rebar sculptures. Our bikes flew off of the self made plywood jumps and we skidded in the dirt, keeping well away from the trecherous, steep cliff's edge. Life was free and easy. We were on some great adventure. Warrior, explorer bandits were we. All was gold! All was great!
And then, as our happiness was about to take us to some other plane of unparalelled joy and pure being..., we heard it. From on high the sound traveled across the house tops and down to where we all were playing. It came in a steady stream. A long, corse blast from a throaty horn unmistakeable from any other. The meaning was clear and the consequences were undeniable. Our unfettered time together was at an end. It was dinner time. (To be continued)
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