A Side Trip Down Memory Lane

 

I remember the first time, as an adult, I swung through the neighborhood and drove by the house I grew up in. Though little had outwardly changed, I was amazed that everything now seemed so different, so small.

 

As a child, I always thought our house was pretty spacious. But through grown-up eyes it appeared to have diminished it in size.

 

Same for the big elm tree in the Haglund's front yard. That’s where we gathered as kids, gabbing with the gang on summer nights, it was like huddling under a redwood. But though it's today still large and healthy, that old elm is an average sized tree at best. I wonder why I always thought it was so much bigger.

And our road? It sure seemed longer than a mere stretch of the legs, but in reality, that's all it really is.

You grow up, perspectives change.

 

So when I found myself recently in the same general vicinity as my first real punch-a-time-clock paying job, I wasn't quite as surprised to see it in the same shrunk down point of view.

I spent about a year there, laboring as a "laborer" at a new Larchmont Homes condominium project cut out of, what was then a small patch of vacant land near Watt and Whitney Avenues in North Sacramento. And though the job was hardly glamorous or exciting and I only made a dollar fifty an hour, I thought it was the coolest job in the world. 

 

Actually, much of the work was boring and mundane, and there was little about the time I spent there that's very memorable. But on the other hand, you never forget your first job either. So as I drove through the tiny subdivision again the other day, though the place had weathered and the once lively neighborhood now seems on life support, for a few minutes I was 18 again; the area was once more vibrant and the complex, again brand new...

Right after graduation, I started pounding the pavement looking for a job. My search was interrupted two weeks later by the last family vacation I’d ever take. I fought like hell to stay home, too, but when it was over I’m glad I went. I would’ve missed seeing New York, Montreal and Chicago and three baseball games at the original Yankee Stadium, old Jarry Park in Montreal-when they still had the Expos- and Chicago’s historic Wrigley. They never said we’d be doing anything fun; it was a business trip for Dad, but he expanded it to include all those other places, which I thought was cool. They should’ve told me that before we left and I might not have put up such a fuss.

 

But the vacation ended, I was home and still didn’t have a job or anything substantial to earn some money, either for college or to get out on my own. The employment cupboard was still bare. Things were so slow, I even considered the Army.

The Vietnam War had ended in January; at least the United States had begun drawing down, sending troops home and not sending anymore over. This put an end to the military draft, although on my 18^th birthday I still had to register for selective service and be issued a draft card. (Maybe having to sign up for the card was in case they changed their minds. Who knows?)  But without the draft, the Army was suddenly all-volunteer and all over any young healthy male with no job or concrete plans about their future.

At the recruiting office, I told the buff and neatly pressed Sergeant about my interest in communications and radio. By the way his eyes lit up, it was almost like I'd rubbed Aladdin's Lamp. My vocational wish, apparently, was his command because Uncle Sam had plenty of those positions just waiting to be filled and, he added almost giddily, by someone just like me. All I had to do was sign on the dotted line.

The meeting ended and, hand around my shoulder, the smiling Sergeant walked me to the door. Holding it open, he gave me some forms to take home to discuss with my parents. "This is a big step son, so make sure Mom and Dad are on board". Then after vice-grip shaking my hand, he sent me on my way with one last reminder to get back to him as soon as possible "so we can get your career with us off and running".

And I thought about it, too. Heck, they were going to pay me to just train me. It sounded pretty tempting.It was a lot to think about. And the Sargedidn’t make it any easier. He called the house a couple times, skillfully applying pressure without seeming to apply pressure,while gauging where I was in the decision making process. I wanted to say yes, sort of, because he was being so nice and it really seemed like he- the Army- wanted me- which they probably really did. But between calls, Mom and Dad- especially Mom- made it real clear how un-thrilled they were at the idea of me joining the military. 

 

Mom thought I'd get killed, even though the war was over. And while the Army was an honorable pursuit, Dad believed I should exhaust all other occupational alternatives first. And to be completely honest, I knew in my heart I wasn't boot camp material- the haircut itself was enough to scare me and my long locks off- so 5 days later, I politely turned my Sergeant friend down.

I still didn't have a job though.

Oh I'd earned a little money through mowing lawns and conscripted babysitting jobs that Mom always seemed to "volunteer" me for. Whenever Mrs. Johnson or Mrs. Jackson called our house- after Nancy Haglund, Glenda Vogel, Mary Tait or even my sister, Sue, had turned them down-  from the other room I'd hear the dreaded,“Oh, don’t worry, he'd be happy to help.”

Of course, he was me and I was never happy about it.

 

For some reason, Mom thought I‘d enjoy these tasks. Not asked, either, I was always told. It made feel like cheap labor being “farmed out” to jobs that nobody else wanted to do.

At the Johnson house, I had to work like crazy to keep up with 4 year-old Mark, whose soul function in life was apparently to remain in constant motion. Either caged up when I wasn't around, or just naturally super hyper, by the time his mother returned home it felt like I'd run a marathon.

 

However, watching over 8 year-old Tom Jackson wasn't quite as challenging. He mostly kept to himself and read books, while I watched TV in another room. Still- and I hate to say this- but whether it was the Johnson's or the Jackson's kid, I didn't like either one of them. At least I didn't like being forced to keep them company. But I guess picking up a few dollars to be held captive with them for a few hours wasn’t the worst thing. However on my list of things I enjoyed doing the least in those days, babysitting would be high on the list.

Yet only a few days after turning down the Army, my child care days were over too. Of course, Dad had to open a couple doors for me, but once in, I had the laborer's job.

 

I didn't ask how or why a position had opened up so suddenly, either. I was just glad to be working. My first day on the job was Monday, July 23, 1973. It was all mostly outside work, which was cool, with tasks that included sidewalk sweeping, some weed pulling, picking up discarded building materials in construction areas and hosing off the driveways. Inside, in unoccupied units, I also got to do some touch up painting, wash windows and sweep out the dust.

 

There were a few afternoons I even got to help lay cement. Doing clean-up work in an area where a new sidewalk was being built, just for kicks I decided to ask the foreman if I could help. I had some extra time and it certainly looked more interesting than sweeping and carting wood scraps to the trash bin. But the foreman, Joe, told me the cement guys were all Union workers and I wasn’t- which meant I wasn’t supposed to touch any of the equipment or even be on the job with them.

 

But seeing it was Friday and close to quitting time, Joe said I could help smooth out the cement if I didn't ask to be paid for it.  If that was okay with me, he said he’d “look the other way”. Hell, I didn’t care about the money part. I was getting my buck fifty an hour no matter what I was doing. But it'd rock to actually participate in the construction process, of only for a few minutes, so I jumped at the opportunity.

 

Besides, after I checked in in the morning with my supervisor, Dave, to get my days' assignments I was on my own. As long as stuff got done, I don't think he really cared what I did all day. I probably could've gone down the street to Tower Records, browse records and check out chicks for a few hours and I don't think Dave would've noticed I was even gone.

So that day, I helped smooth cement.

 

And I must've done okay because the next time the same crew and Joe the foreman were in the same proximity laying cement, they let me help again. I was jazzed. Okay, so none of the work was brain surgery or require a ton of skill. But it kept me busy and happily away from the domestic front.

 

As the summer of ‘73 changed to fall, I signed up for classes at American River J.C., which cut my work day in half. And by the following June I’d moved on to the restaurant job at Mama Mia's. So it's been almost four decades since I was first traipsing through that condo development all day, going from task to task and earning my initial paycheck with my whole life in front of me. Nevertheless, so much of the area seemed just as it'd been when I was 18. 

 

But some things are not.

 

Trees that were planted in front of the property as saplings in 1973 are now huge oak trees. The neighboring houses, which were five to ten years old back then, are still standing but now well past a half century old. The years have taken the shine off the Watt and Whitney residential area, too. Once middle class, the neighborhood has gone through a steady decline. And like the big world I was about to journey into that summer of 1973, this once expansive area of Sacramento now seems small and shrinking. 

 

Which makes me kind of sad.

And those once cool and contemporary Larchmont Homes condominium units? Well, on first glance a few appear to be falling apart,now, and the rest just look dated and well-worn. Of course, depending on how I feel, some days- with the best years behind me and a long ways from 18- I guess I am, too.

 

But, like comparing the street I grew up on now with how I remember it as a kid, it’s just a matter of perspective. It’s all how you choose to look at things.