YourHub.com \\ The Valley \\ Blogs \\ Family & Community \\ Home & Family

Blog Entry 23 of 27 How Green Was My Valley

“How Green Was My Valley” is a nostalgic look at the San Fernando Valley during the 1940’s and the 1950’s through the eyes of a young boy. From orange groves, farms, horses and street cars we explore the explosion of change in the Valley. Along this journey we visit many places that no longer exist in addition to those that have survived. It is my hope that these stories and recollections will help to jog your memories with reminders of the past. The tour is now leaving—enjoy!

Blog Url: http://valleynews.com/~HowGreenWasMyValley

Bicycle Adventures, Part Three

e-mail to a friend | print this | link to this

NEXT › ‹ PREVIOUS

Contributed by: Robert Greene on 9/25/2007

"Hi, I'm collecting for the Daily News."

How I hated those words. The worst part of being a paperboy was collecting the monthly subscription fees. People had no problem complaining if the paper couldn't be found or it was damaged or whatever. But when it came to paying for it, that was a different thing.

"Oh, could you come back later? My husband isn't home."

"Ya know, I get paid next Thursday, could ya come back then?"

"Hey kid, you have change for a twenty?"

"Oh, don't mind that dog. He's usually very friendly."

"Knock, knock, knock, knock...." "I guess nobody's home."

So I had to go back and back and eventually get most of the money. I kept it in a small khaki sack with a draw string at the top.

One day a friend of mine whose father owned a bakery in Panorama City came by to play. He asked me about my paper route and I told him about all the problems with having one.

He was impressed that my little cloth sack had $35 in cash in it. In those days, if someone made$100 a week that wasn't too shabby.

A couple of days later, I went to get the cash bag so I would have it for my boss the next morning. It wasn't where I usually kept it. I checked other places. No luck. Soon there was a mess on the floor and my closet was empty. Two hours later I still had no bag. My life was over.

My "friend" denied knowing anything about it when I confronted him. I couldn't prove anything. My father finally loaned me the $35 and I had to pay him back over the next six months.

Paper routes suck!

One of my favorite bike trips took a little planning. A few friends and I would pack a lunch and then put the bags and a canteen of water in someone's bike basket and head north on Sepulveda Boulevard for about five miles.

As we approached the foothills we'd turn east past an old orange packing factory that had "Sunkist" painted on one side and head for the San Fernando Mission which had been there since 1797.

It was fixed up in the early 1900s. The inside was dark and quiet and cool and there was a musty smell mixed with burning candles.

Once I spent a long time in the Mission gift shop deciding on what I might get my mother for her birthday. I eventually decided on a little vial of orange perfume wrapped in orange cellophane.

It was pretty expensive (my allowance was 25 cents a week), but I handed the lady four quarters and she handed me the bag.

For years after, that orange vial was always on my mother's dresser. I'm not sure she ever used it.

From the mission, we'd backtrack a little and turn west on Devonshire Street.

The road rolled up and down over gentle hills (sometimes they didn't feel that "gentle" on our one-speed bikes). Long driveways with white fences led to large ranches and farms that lined the highway. It was mostly horse ranches and large orange groves.

We'd usually stop about half way and eat our lunches in one of the groves. If we felt like an orange, all we had to do was reach up over our head and pluck one off a branch.

After that we would sometimes stop at Devonshire Downs, a 40-acre fairgrounds on Devonshire at Zelzah Avenue, that attracted a lot of the horse set after it opened in the early 1940s as a horse racing track.

Years later, in June of 1969, Newport '69 was held there. More than 200,000 people showed up - it was the biggest outdoor rock festival in the whole country until Woodstock.

Jimi Hendrix, Eric Burdon and Marvin Gaye were some of the acts that played. In 1959, San Fernando Valley State College claimed the land but in 2001 just about the entire site was torn down for a private industrial park under lease to the college, now called CSUN.

Then, in 2007, it was announced that a planned village-style residential community for Cal State Northridge faculty and staff was being planned on the 60-year-old race track site.

Anyway, in addition to racing horses, they also had harness racing, both pacers and trotters.

My Uncle Jimmy used to have some horses and sometimes drove and trained them there. A paratrooper from World War II, he reminded me of those guys in the black and white movies who always lived in dark, unhappy places with cigarette smoke in the air; kind of a cheap version of Humphrey Bogart.

He had squinting eyes with crinkles around them and a wise-guy smirk. He always seemed to be wearing the same brown boots that he said he got during the war. His big claim to fame was that he once bowled 300.

"Hey, smart alecks! Since when you guys get to play outside," he snickered to my friend and me.

"Hi, Uncle Jimmy. Just takin' a bike ride and wanted to show my friend Jerry what you're up to."

"Well have a look, but don't steal nothin'."

Jerry and I stood by the track railing and watched some of the sulkies as they raced by. The horses looked so powerful and grand. The pounding hoofs, the wheels churning the ground, the sound of the harness straining against the horse, and the powerful snorts coming out of the horses nose, kept our open mouth attention.

"Hey, I've got an idea! Come on Jerry."

Moments later, I emerged from the stable sitting on a sulky and pulling me, somewhat reluctantly, was Jerry.

"Come on boy! Let's get going. Get up there."

My "horse" was starting to complain and the experience was becoming a bit lacking.

Just then, Uncle Jimmy came out of the stable leading a big horse with a blanket draped over its back. A farrier, or a guy who puts horse shoes on horses, was coming.

"Hey mates, ya might want to get your horse there over to the post and tie 'em up so we can nail some new shoes on."

At that, Jerry dropped the cart, lunging me forward and quit racing forever.

A little side note. Uncle Jimmy's son, Chip (who's given name is James Lackey Jr.) is presently one of the top drivers in harness racing. It's a very tough life. Fewer and fewer tracks feature the former grand sport. There's long, hard drives from one track to another and the living conditions aren't very good.

Soon we were back on our bikes and headed further west until we finally reached Topanga Canyon and turned north. We were now about 10 minutes from our destination, Stony Point. This majestic hill/mountain had very large rocks on its face. Some years later it became a favorite place for rock climbers to practice. It's been used in lots of movies.

Just a little up the road is Iverson's Ranch were thousands of movie and TV shows were shot. And, across the street from Iverson's Ranch was the Spahn Movie Ranch where, many years later, Charles Manson and his group lived.

We'd leave our bikes and hike around to the backside where there were trails that led to the top. In a grassy hallow we'd eat our lunch and lie back and imagine what we could see in the clouds.

A recent rain could leave little pools and ponds with temporary sprouting greenery.

It was always quiet and peaceful and we'd think of excuses to delay our departure.

I would feel a little sad as I pedaled the long ride home. For a too short moment I had been in a special place, on my own, at peace and feeling kind of grown up.

In the years to come, those sensations would be hard to recapture.

(To be continued)

< Previous: 'Bicycle Adventures, Pa...' | Next: 'Dirty Rose Colored Gla...' >

[Report this as objectionable content.]

SUBMIT COMMENT

Rate the above blog