My Childhood: Rialto

When I was four years old, we moved to some apartments in Rialto. We could not bring the animals with us (and we had a lot of them), so we had to get rid of them all. This was a tough day for me, as I had grown quite attached to these little friends.

I remember that we packed the ducks into the car and went to a nearby pond (Seccombe Lake). We released them into a flock of other ducks, whom they greeted with loud calls. We visited them occasionally for a few months, then lost track of them. Maybe they flew away to another pond.

I remember the apartments in Rialto, mostly because much construction was going on, and I used to play in the half-built houses.

I had three friends. Three young black kids, named Paul, Kenny and Tommy. We played together all the time.

We enjoyed building forts from cardboard boxes - you know, those great big boxes that refrigerators are shipped in. We’d partially bury those boxes, and reinforce the sides with mud. We allowed this to dry in the sun.

We would then supply ourselves with lots of ammunition - mostly dirt clods. My favorite was the kind which were entwined with roots had a tuft of grass sticking out from one end. The roots kept the dirt from flying apart, and the grass made it easy to throw.

After all of these painstaking preparations, we’d play soldier. We’d pretend to shoot toy guns, and pretend to get killed or wounded. We were quite graphic in our reconstructions of war. We were always trying to outdo each other in our quest for the better death.

After that, we’d run back to our respective forts, and throw dirt clods at each other. We’d do this for hours and hours; nothing was more fun than scoring a "kill" on the enemy. Nothing was worse than getting hit yourself, especially if the dirt clod happened to contain a rock.

In hindsight, I sometimes wonder if these three little friends weren’t actually acting out a little hostility they harbored toward white people. I cannot recall us ever doing anything but throwing rocks and dirt clods at each other. I certainly don’t remember ever feeling any prejudice towards black people, but they may have picked up some hostility from their parents.

I had two other main amusements at this time. First, I loved to play in the half-built apartments next door. I was fascinated by the open walls, the bare electric wires and the exposed plumbing. I’d spend hours exploring these wondrous houses, pretending I was a knight rescuing maidens, or an explorer searching for treasure.

One day the construction workers poured a new cement sidewalk. I watched them, and peppered them with questions. Why did they do this, I wondered? Why did they use that tool in such a manner? They patiently answered all of my questions. after a few hours they packed up their tools and left.

I snuck over to the new, fresh sidewalk. I tentatively touched it. Wow, it was still wet! I was curious. Would this become hard, like the rest of the sidewalk, or would it be soft and wet forever?

I did what perhaps all young children do in such a circumstance. I left my footprints in the sidewalk. I was very careful to leave one full, complete set of prints. Every day after that, I’d walk by those footprints and giggle - those were my feet!

My other main source of pleasure was the ice cream truck. The dinging of the ice cream truck bells was like magic. We would be throwing dirt clods at each other, or building a fort or whatever. Suddenly, we’d all freeze, and run out into the street, yelling for the ice cream man to stop.

Our mom’s would come out of their houses, smiles on their faces, digging into their purses for some loose change. We’d all gather around and look at all of the selections, and choose our favorites. My mom always let me get one, and only one, item. I’d usually choose Eskimo pies, although I also enjoyed popsicles and fudge sickles.