I mentioned in a previous post that across the street from our house, a school had been built.  It was a typical early 70’s design, single story and sprawling, dark brown with orange doors.  Stylish!  It has a green belt in front of the school with pine trees dotted across the lawn.  These trees are very mature now and probably 50′ high or more.  The kindergarten playground was slightly kitty corner to our house, more in front of the next door neighbors’ and had Wizard of Oz themed swing sets.  The Scarecrow always creeped me out a little because his metal mouth gaped open in a big, toothless grin that suggested a doorway to hell instead of an opening for brain insertion.  Yikes!

So, our next door neighbors – who have long since moved away – were the only family on the block with older kids.  While most of the families had young children, these people had teenagers.  They had muscle cars in the driveway whose engines were tinkered with endlessly by the older boy and his buddies.  They had skanky friends who loitered out front and on the grass of the green belt at the school.  They would sit under the trees at night and talk about the universal subjects teenagers discuss – the opposite sex, sex, music, cars and school.  I assume.  I was only around 7.  I wasn’t even invited to these kinds of parties when I was a teenager, so I am really stretching here.

One evening, I heard my dad grumbling about the teenagers huddled under the trees across the street.  Remember, I was about 7 when I heard this.  “grumble grumble…having a doggone pot party over there!” is all I heard (and it likely wasn’t “doggone” I heard, either).  We were probably getting ready for dinner since I remember sitting at the counter in a barstool at the time I heard that.  My simple mind contemplated what a pot party would be…  Take yourself back…you are 7 years old…your dad has just said something intriguing…

Cue harp music that is overused in TV shows to indicate a dream sequence…

Girl in peasant blouse and bell bottoms holds goldenrod colored saucepan in one hand. “Tracy, I don’t like this pot, give me yours.”

Second girl in Hang Loose tee shirt and cut offs holds avacado green colored double-boiler in her lap.  “No way, Jeannie, I brought this one and I have to take it back ho-ome.”

Third girl in tube top and red polyester pants sighs in frustration.  “Jeeze you guys, we came here to share our pots, now don’t be selfish Tracy!  Pass the pot!”

Fade back into present with obnoxious harp music. 

They weren’t really having a Pampered Chef party, were they?

When I think about where I grew up, my memories of course are somewhat limited to a small geography.  I mean, kids think about things in terms of going to the park, or how far it is to Wendy’s house, and will this trip be on foot or can a bike make it go faster/easier/more fun?  I grew up in a part of Orange County that was going through a development boom during the 70s.  Much of the OC was doing this during the 70s, but where I lived had been an asparagus field until our house was built.  Somewhere there are pictures of the house actually being built.  I loved the smell of the construction materials, the fresh cut wood, the dry wall, plaster, mastic, and other things used in new home construction. I have a small memory of coming around the corner to our street on the last day of moving, just knowing we would not go back to the old house.  I was 3 when we moved in and by the time I was 4 I had fallen down the stairs at least once.  These were not the days of baby gates.  We had a straight staircase with a tile entry at the bottom, e.g. a gangway to head trauma.  Fortunately the falls did not bust my noggin.  A school was built right across the street from our house, which at the time was great for walking to school, but now that many students come from outside the area via bus or Mom-taxi, the traffic is horrendous and is the bane of my parents’ lives.

Around the corner and across the street from our house is Fountain Valley Hospital, but on the same side of the street was a bean field.  It was rumored that the owner of the bean field had a big dog and a shotgun, and that he would either shoot or have his dog maim trespassing children who wanted to cut the corner to get to the other tract of houses “way over there” where Hillary lived. The street was one of those that sort of drifted out of asphalt and up to a dirt path on the sides; there were no sidewalks, curbs or gutters.  There was a margin of weeds between the street and the dirt path, which was probably about 2 feet higher than street level but seemed like the Cliffs of Dover to my youngster’s depth perception.  There were no trees, no shade, and the path was baked in the sun and hardpacked from the people who walked it.  About midway on this path is the spot where some 25 years later a woman will be killed in a “mistaken identity” murder-for-hire while she is out on her walk.  On that other corner was Mile Square Park – a safe park for little kids growing up in the OC back in the 70s.  Back then it was baseball, football and frisbee instead of soccer, soccer and more soccer.  My peers and I remember when “the new section” was built and how marvelous it was!  There were new structures to climb, new paths to explore…  Then some boy had to go and jump fall off the top of the tower there and die, and it was ruined forever, probably long gone by now.  In the center of Mile Square was the landing strip where the land sailers would race and the helicopters from Los Alamitos Air Station would do night landing practices.  We became used to the sounds of helicopters, which was a good thing once the hospital became a regional trauma center.

All around us were fields – strawberry, beans, asparagus, other.  I don’t really know what these other crops were and probably I should but I don’t think I’ll ever bother to find out.  We could see the fireworks from Disneyland early on, but now they have been completely obscured by development and we only hear them at 9:35 pm.  There are fewer and fewer fields and more and more strip malls and indistrial centers (ugh, currently in various stages of vacancy).  Where there now is a Costco shopping center was a field.  The Sam’s Club location used to be the Gemco where we got our school clothes and I bought my very first record (Madonna for those who are interested).  The Market Basket is now a Drug Emporium.  The empty fields around the hospital are developed with office buildings, senior housing and a college headquarters. 

Our membership number at Los Caballeros is a really low number.  I don’t know where they are now in their numbers, but ours is 4-digit and starts with 1.  When we joined, they had a rinky dink building, practically a shanty, 5 or 10 tennis courts, and big dreams, but nothing else.  The industrial complexes that surround Los Cab, even the post office, did not exist.  I recall the building of the Olympic sized pool and the setbacks due to heavy rains raising the water table which was transversed by the deep end of the pool.  It sure was glorious once finished though! 

There were stables along the river trail, acres of open space, fewer traffic lights and much less traffic.  Yes, it was a different time in OC and in my little world where I grew up.  I am going to try to turn this into a repeating theme but for right now it’s too much to boil down.  I don’t even think I’ve captured much of the essence of being 7 in the OC in 1975.  It even smelled different than it does now.  I’m amazed to realize that I remember the smell of OC in the 70s.  It was hot, dusty, flowery, fruity, construction-y.  It smelled of transition, I guess.