The End?

As I continue to reflect on my childhood and growing up in Natoma I’m faced with an interesting question. When does our childhood end? Is it an arbitrary age like eighteen or something more earthy like losing your virginity? Maybe it doesn't matter because those things both happened to me almost simultaneously.

A friend told me about a girl from Sylvan Grove he’d dated who lead her own band called “The Wild Things”. That was all I needed to hear. I had to meet her. In 1967 there was only a handful of rock n roll bands from our area and none of them lead by a girl as far as I knew. I forced my friend to introduce me to this creature and was immediately awestruck. She was a great singer, piano player and the first person I’d ever met who had perfect pitch.

She owned a pretty crappy Silvertone guitar so I asked her if she’d like to use my Stratocaster for the Wild Things gig the following weekend. She loved my Strat and I loved seeing a girl play it. A full house of puppy love! One thing lead to another and ultimately an honest-to-god shotgun wedding. When her pregnancy became common knowledge her grandfather, on his death bed, called us to his room. He had all his rifles leaning against the wall on both sides of him. It was such a comical sight I would have laughed if he hadn't had such a serious look on his face and a tone in his voice to match. He told us to get married and we did. But it wasn't a marriage made to last. We were kids.

Roy Rogers

This is one of my favorite episodes from growing up in Natoma. Someone (probably my mom) got the article below to Mr. Rogers (there's nothing quite like a cowboy in Spandex) and he returned the photo above. I was thrilled and knew we'd been on the right track. We just needed more perseverance, but I couldn't talk Bobby into it.

The Jitney

          The Union Pacific Depot in Natoma was moved to Codell in the 70's

In 1955, as the final days of passenger rail service drew near, Natoma Elementary's first grade class rode the Jitney to Lucas for a day in the park. Smiling parents had gathered to wave good bye to the excited students assembled on the platform. As the Jitney approached and rolled to a stop I took notice of the conductor stepping from the train. "Look Mom, there's a nigger!", I announced with glee. Garnering no more than a sidelong glance from the conductor, the look of horror on my mother's face told me something terrible had just happened, though I had no earthly idea of what it was.

The incident speaks less to the innocence of a six-year-old than to the prevailing attitudes and social mores of the time. We can only hope all have improved with age. 

The Accident

In response to Scarlet's comments on my previous post: Yes, I do have vivid and very early memories of our grandpa. Natoma was a tiny pace a lot like the imaginary Mayberry R.F.D. From practically the time i was able to walk I had my run of the town. Frequently my agenda was to go uptown, find my grandpa and relieve him of his pocket change. He was usually passing time with the other retirees at one of the barber shops or sometimes at the pool hall playing dominoes.

The day of the accident I found him at the pool hall, a dark smelly place, but I liked it there because of the smoked herring snacks sealed in plastic waiting for me at the bar. Prints from the brewery hung on the walls of dogs playing poker and such. The one that fascinated me most was a depiction of Custer's Last Stand complete with bloody scalpings and smoking rifles. I'd climbed up to stare at the carnage again when I felt the urge. I was only 4 or 5 at the time, post potty training but not that far removed.

"Grandpa, I have to go!" Now Cy was a patient man. Sometimes too patient. I kept alerting him to my situation, but he was in the middle of a game and asked me to wait. Well nature took its course and my pants were soon filled. The accident was quickly discovered and with some consternation and embarrassment on both sides grandpa finally took me to the bathroom. He wasn't happy enough to buy me a smoked herring snack that day.

The Man

I've been looking at this photo, comparing it to Streetview images and stirring memories of growing up in Natoma. Realizing that my physical connection to the town has disappeared like most of these buildings and every last house my family had ever occupied, I'm left with just the memories. I have plenty of those, but I'll tell you about the time when a neighbor kid showed me his homemade slingshot.

I was about 5 or 6 years old and had never seen such a marvelous object. He showed me how it worked and immediately I begged him to let me have it. Five year old Ronnie was used to getting every trinket he desired because his grandpa loved to spoil him that way. The neighbor kid didn't want to part with his handmade beauty, but offered to make me an identical one for 50 cents. Fair enough, I knew just where to get the money and grandpa didn't let me down. He always gave me pocket change without question. Soon enough I had my very own weapon of mass destruction and in short order it led to my first encounter with the law.

I headed uptown happily slinging pebbles left and right. I was on the main drag having so much fun I didn't even notice Art Pfortmiller, the town marshall approaching. Art drawled, "Whatcha got there, Ronnie?"
"A slingshot!", I beamed and proudly held it up for him to admire. At that point Art simply took it from my hand, turned his back and walked away. When it sunk in I was shocked and dumbfounded. How could he do that? I was determined to find a higher authority who wouldn't let him get away with it. In tears I ran home to tell my mom. In so many words she helped me understand. Cops are The Man.