1949 – 1952 Junior High School Years, Part 1
Bret Harte Junior High School, now called middle school, was about three miles west south west of my home on 89th. My first day in junior high school was like dying and going to heaven. Because I had skipped the A5 I was only eleven years five months old when I started in the B7 and there were girls there who were as old as fifteen in the ninth grade. Boob heaven, Woweeee!
The main guys I hung out with were Jimmy, Roger and me. There were two or three others who would join up with us now and then, but the three of us were buddies through grammar school and junior high.
Jimmy’s dad owned a liquor store and his family was definitely upper middle class. His dad’s liquor store was located midway between Broadway and Figueroa on Manchester, right in the middle of where they would eventually build the Harbor Freeway.
Their house was behind the liquor store and they were forced to move when the freeway plans were made. They moved further east and that kind of ended our ability to hang out together.
Jimmy always knew he was going to be a lawyer as early as I can remember. His older brother was a lawyer and they had decided Jimmy would go to USC. He actually did and he’s a big shot lawyer in LA today, probably retired by now.
At the time, I thought Jimmy’s family were super rich. In comparison to us, they were.
The idea of me going to college was a non-issue in our house because I knew we didn’t have the money for anything like that. We never owned our own home and I never was taken to a dentist. (The first dentist I saw was in the Air Force.)
We almost never owned a car. I say almost because Tony did buy a brand-new Kaiser in 47 or 48. It was repossessed a few months later. A few years later he bought a used Nash, but the gamblers got that too. Later he bought an old 1941 panel pick-up and I can’t remember what happened to it, but there’s more later in the book on the panel truck.
While going to Bret Harte I spent many nights at grandma’s. My grandmother had a fresh pot of beans on the stove every day. She made flour tortilla’s every morning. Scrambled eggs, home fried potato’s and beans with a flour tortilla is what I grew up with. For my lunch bag she would make bean taco’s, meat and potato taco’s or potato, egg and bacon tacos for me to take to school.
Today they’re called burritos, but back then there was no such name. The kids in school had never seen them and would trade me ham or turkey sandwiches for the burritos. For me it was a no brainer, ham, turkey? We only ate those things about once a year.
Then I got the bright idea to sell the Burrito’s at school. I asked grandma to make a few extra and I sold them for maybe a ten or fifteen cents each. I eventually was taking a dozen or more and started giving Grandma a cut. She even promised to not tell my mom we were making some money on the side.
One day I was playing with the girl next door to my grandma’s house when I broke my arm. I had just started the A7 in junior high and I was chasing her up and down a large slide her parents had in the back yard.
I would grab the rails on the side of the slide and pull myself up three steps at a time and on my last pull, I would pull my legs up and over the top. I would then shoot them and me down the slide. The day I broke my arm I shot over the side instead and fell flat on my stomach with my left arm between me and the ground.
My grandmother saw the fall through her kitchen window and saw me as I lifted my arm. My hand stayed on the ground from just above my wrist about two inches. I scooped my hand up with my right hand rolled over and started screaming my ass off.
The same doctor who brought me into this world set my arm in a cast and I was told not to screw around too much while it healed. It didn’t stop me from playing handball, baseball and other things. I would hold a bat with my right hand and swing away.
For the six or so months I had the cast on the bone healed about a quarter inch off center and the doctor had to re-break my arm. He placed my lower arm on a 2X4 piece of wood and snapped it. He had used ether on a cloth in his office to knock me out, but my mom told me she could hear the screams outside the office and two floors down.
This time I didn’t screw around so my arm would set correctly. See, kids can learn, but sometime you have to make them hurt so they will understand.
During the summer my family would go to the beach, but not too often. My mom would pack a lunch and we would get a ride with Uncle Danny or someone. I never was a beach person and the surfing thing hadn’t hit the big time in the late 40’s and early 50’s.
After getting sunburned on the beach or at the Manchester Park plunge, (swimming pool), the next day or so the skin was easy to peel off. All the boys would show off by peeling the biggest pieces of sunburned skin.
I could pull a piece of skin four inches wide and six inches long off my chest or a two by four-inch piece off my arms. Can you imagine a kid doing that today? Someone would go hysterical.
Unlike today, back then we didn’t fear the Sun like the people have been brainwashed to believe. The sun tan lotions at the time were made to help a person get a better tan, not some goop to protect us from the Sun’s harmful rays.
Every time I hear that, “The Suns harmful rays,” I just cringe at how we the people have been so manipulated to believe the most absurd things in the world. That doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as some people being harmed by the sun, but again it’s the percentages and an individual’s skin type.
Imagine the humans of the past who wore hardly anything worrying about the Suns harmful rays.
If things keep going in the direction they are, in the future freckles will be diagnosed as a type of skin cancer. I mean, think about it, humans and the Sun have been interacting for hundreds of thousands of years, but in the last thirty or forty years the sun is now our dreaded enemy.
It certainly hasn’t hurt the sun lotion industry or the politicians and scientists who have an ideological agenda. They use the new pseudo-science of “consensus” to promote their ideology in the form of the environmental movement.
An environmental movement that is propelled by an avalanche of eco-lies made by regulatory pseudo-scientists and lawyers that is used as fodder for more government control via environmental rules and regulations. Think EPA. America is under attack by people who believe in a socialist model for our world’s future.
Socialists learned many years ago that to get a free people to give up their rights, you must introduce a fear that is more of a threat and more disastrous than losing your rights and freedom. During the cold war, the only hope the socialists had for a world controlled by the United Nations was fear of a nuclear holocaust.
In 1962, in a United Nations report entitled “A World Effectively Controlled by the United Nations,” the question was raised on how to control human behavior to accept a world controlled by the UN, if the Soviet Union were to collapse. The only possible solution, that was eventually offered, was the environmental model, but only if the people could be convinced of pending disaster. 1962 was also the year the Environmental Protection Fund was established. Some coincidence.
Another summer vacation fun thing for “us guys” was to go to the Manchester Park Plunge, (swimming pool). I did as often as I could when I wasn’t working. Our main target, at the plunge, were older seventeen and eighteen-year-old girls with big tits. They would dive in the pool from the high diving platform in the deepest part in the center of the pool.
We would stand by the platform at the edge of the pool and pick our target. Just as the girl would start her dive one of us would dive straight down to the bottom at an angle so when the girl entered the water she would hit us while we were on the way up. During the struggle to the top there was a lot of pushing and shoving going on and it was a perfect time to cop a feel.
Once we reached the surface we would yell “Watch where you’re diving” and swim away. We had to make sure we didn’t target the same girls on any given day or they would get wise to us.
I don’t want for you to think junior high was one big tit fest, we were in school to learn, study, do homework, play all the sports and learn to dance. Yep, learn to dance. Everyone had to learn to dance as one of the Phys Ed activities in the B9, the beginning of the last year in junior high. That is, everyone but me.
The area they used to teach dancing was in the gym which was located upstairs between the boy’s and girl’s locker and shower room downstairs. On the day of the event they would line us up and march us upstairs, the boys entering from the north side and the girls entering from the south side of the gym.
I would always make sure I was first in line so when we got to the door I would open it and let the rest walk in. Because I was standing behind the door no one noticed me as it closed. I would fade back downstairs and hide in the locker room. I was really shy, but not when it came to a tit attack. They eventually did catch me on the last dance day and I was forced to dance with a girl. It was a girl who had great looking tits. Oh lucky me. More about her later.
One day a kid brought a copy of a paperback book, titled “I The Jury” by Mickey Spillane, to school and a bunch of us huddled in the boy’s locker room and looked on as he flipped through the pages. He flipped through the pages until he came to the word. There is was, THE WORD!
The word was spelled “f-u-c-k.”
We couldn’t believe our eyes.
“Wow! Look at that!
There it is!
I don’t think any of us had any idea what it meant, I know I didn’t. It was the first time we had seen the word in print and while I had no idea of what it meant, it was exciting just to see it. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know.
Every once and a while a kid would bring in a copy of National Geographic and we would get to see bare tits. For some reason or another it was OK to show a black African woman’s tit’s but not any tits of white women. That made wanting to see a white tit even more exciting. But they couldn’t print a picture of a white woman’s tit, it would be considered pornographic. As a kid I never understood why the difference.
Before you think boys were little perverts or I was a little pervert, I believe we were just growing up. Girls also did some “growing up” things too.
When I was around eight or nine the next-door sisters, who were about three to five years older than I, would take me and my next-door neighbor Timothy into one of the garages on the property where we lived. They wanted to play nurse.
They would make up a table like in a doctor’s office and cover it with two sheets. We would undress and get between the sheets. Not at the same time, one at a time.
When it was my turn I would get undressed and get between the sheets and the girls would then raise the top sheet from the bottom and inspect my body. They would touch me and giggle a lot. I have no idea if I even got a hard on, but I knew it was fun. I just didn’t know why.
Another young girl (maybe 13) would baby sit my brother and play a game with me. I would place an imaginary coin in her hand and she would raise her dress a couple of inches. Another imaginary coin, another couple of inches. She would stop when I could see her panties. I still don’t know who enjoyed that the most, her or me.
So unless we get to the point where we call all adolescent behavior perverted, we were just kids growing up and experiencing things. We had no idea what we were doing, we were innocently misbehaving. By misbehaving I mean we knew what we were doing was wrong, but we didn’t know why and we never told on each other. If we did tell, we would get our butts spanked, (not beat) and no one wanted that.
But hold on one minute! Isn’t the school system today charging little kids with sexual assault because they dare kiss another kid, of the opposite sex? Think about it, how many times have you read about some kid who was as innocent as we were, getting charged with a crime? For me, once is too many.
While we had no idea what we were doing, compare it with today where our government run public school system also wants to teach innocent children about all the fun a kid can have having sex with each other as young as ten. And why not throw in homosexual sex acts at the same time. Our government controlled public school system has stolen the innocence from our children and in my opinion have done so with the intent of destroying the American family. Along with the welfare state, they have almost completed the job.
If American parents don’t demand closing the Federal Department of Education they are failing their children. If they don’t demand rescinding the National Education Associations union charter, they are failing their children. Education must be brought back to the local level, as local as local can be. Each school must have a school board made up of the parents, to determine what is taught.
But then if you are a parent you’d have to get involved, wouldn’t you? My mom wasn’t the get involved type. But, at the time I thought, eh! It didn’t matter.
Another episode that sticks in my head was the day I learned two great lessons. Let me explain.
In wood shop the teacher handed out gold stars and black stars. His formula for the stars were a mixture made up of attendance, cooperation, turning in your project on time and who knows what. The gold stars were good and the black stars were bad, (no he wasn’t a racist). The stars also affected your grade.
There was a way you could knock off the black stars if you had the guts to do so. The way was to volunteer for a swat with his hand made hard wood custom swat bat thing. It was as long as a baseball bat and about six inches wide an inch thick with about six one inch holes. Here’s where the lessons come in.
I had, I don’t remember how many, black stars the day before grades were to be handed out. So I did the gutsy thing and volunteered for a swat. What the hell, the swats at home didn’t hurt anymore, how bad could this swat be?
When the moment came, I reached over and grabbed my ankles as instructed and voluntarily received my swat. Let me tell you, when this guy gave you a swat, it wasn’t just a swat, he was trying to hit a homerun with your ass. He actually lifted me off the floor and I fell over, holding my ankles, in utter agony and pain. I couldn’t believe my ass could hurt as much as it did.
After the class I was a hero with all the guys and girls because I had taken the swat. Everyone was congratulating me for having the balls to take it. Now the two lessons I learned.
- Don’t cry in front of the boys.
- Never volunteer again.
Again, what would happen to a wood shop teacher if he did that today? Do they even have wood shop anymore?
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