They Call Me Bubbins: Reflections in Time

By Bobby O'Roark

Have you ever danced on a dead mans chest or peeked into a crypt at a dead mans face? Have you ever soared over a valley like an eagle, only without wings; or watched an Indian Chief in full warriors dress thunder towards you on a great white stallion? How about proving without a doubt that Santa Claus is real, or maybe you have played with a live pacific coast rattle snake with your bare hands?
Everyone has their own adventures and experiences to remember as they grow older, and most probably look back upon those memories with fondness. Bubbins was blessed with being born at a time and place in the world where his freedom of movement was virtually wide open, and with parents and a society who allowed such freedom with very few restrictions.
When you peer into a mirror-smooth pond, you discover someone there looking back at you. Is it you? Is it who you were-or is it who you are now? Perhaps it might be who you will become. Take this journey with me; let us peer into the Reflections of Time and discover for ourselves the answers to those questions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462034833

Book preview

Contents

FIRST RECOLLECTIONS

CARMICHAEL DAYS

PECANS GALORE

THE DEEP HOLE

JOHNNY AND THE BUMBLEBEE

THE OLD PEACH TREE

WHAT IS A DIME WORTH?

TRACY DAYS

MY NEW FRIENDS, THE ‘BO’S

BEST FRIENDS

TURBULENT TIMES

OLD HAMMERHEAD

I THOUGHT I WAS DYING!

THEN IT WAS HALLOWEEN

THE BOY SCOUTS

SNAKES ALIVE

YEP! THERE REALLY IS A SANTA CLAUS

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO THAT OLD BB GUN?

MRS. O’ROARK

THESE ARE MY COUSINS?

NAPA DAYS

THE TULOCAY CEMETERY

BURIAL GROUNDS

CRAWDADS, GREEN APPLES AND CASTOR OIL

SWEET POTATO PIE

MY FRIEND BILL

REEDLEY DAYS

THE HOWLING ON REED AVENUE

DON’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT THE CROP DUSTER

THE GREAT CONDOR SHOWDOWN

THE DAY OF THE CHICKENS

MY HERO

SELMA DAYS

INDIANOLA

WAS THAT FRANKENSTEIN?

HIGH SCHOOL DAYS

HIGH SCHOOL AND MR.COOL

HERE KITTY KITTY

RUNNING SHOES

BUSTED

GET A JOB BOY

THE INITIATION

THE MEAN GREEN MACHINE

I WANT TO BE A CHIPY

MY NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE

THIS IS ABOUT THE T-BIRD

CHERRY GAP

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

TO

MY WIFE, MONA LEE, WHO IS THE LIGHT OF MY LIFE.

HER FAITHFUL SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGEMENT WAS THE IMPETUS BEHIND THIS WORK.

THIS BOOK IS ALSO DEDICATED TO MY CHILDREN, GRANDCHILDREN, AND

GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN,

AD INFINITUM.

PREFACE

This book is an anthology of short stories, organized in a chronological order about my life experiences. These stories were selected from my autobiography for their particular appeal to young people and to people whose lives were built upon their life histories in the context of greater history, like mine. The stories were also selected on the basis of what I felt were experiences of a nature commonly shared by many during that special time in their lives between childhood and adulthood.

My style of presentation admits to the minor embellishments that memory allows along with the inclusion of personal feelings and local and geographically imbued language, as understood and commonly used by me and my family, friends and neighbors of the time.

It is important for the reader, in order to better grasp my mindset and that of the people included in this writing, to understand that I was born and raised in the southwest part of the country, during a time of extreme ecological and economical upheaval. The epic days of the infamous Dust Bowl, precipitating the period of the Great Depression, was painfully drawing to a close amidst the nearly global involvement in war with Germany and then Japan. The chronology continues in time through gradual improvement in local and international economical progression, bringing about great advancements in technology and communication. This period of time was barely two steps ahead of the horse and buggy, the telegraph and the wonder of the day, the radio. Television was still 15 years in the future for me and my family; the Model T Ford ceased production in 1927; the Model A continued through 1931, just barely eight years before the beginning of my life. The important thing to note here is that all the little high-tech toys that young and older people immerse themselves in today did not exist when the stories contained in this writing were penned.

It is my hope that those who read these short stories may allow themselves to be transported back to what is sometimes referred to as the simpler times. The reader may discover a world much different than that of today, but not necessarily more simple. The world I describe is one where humor, joy, pleasure and happiness may brighten the day, but also where the reader may feel a kinship with the people of those days; the pain and agony of tragedy, despair and loneliness that were a part of the days of their lives. I especially hope that young readers may be able to recognize and appreciate the values and principles that influenced the people of that day and helped to shape their lives and wonder if those values and principles are still in place today in their generation.

PART ONE

FIRST RECOLLECTIONS

CARMICHAEL DAYS

My first personal recollection of life starts at about the year, 1942. Back then, I was known as Bubbins by only my immediate family members. No one seems to remember exactly how I acquired that nickname, but, my mother thinks it was probably my Uncle Preacher Weeks, who first started calling me that. He was like my first baby-sitter, taking care of me when my mother needed a reprieve.

My first memories take me back to when we were living in the country near Carmichael, California. My father was working at McClellan Air Force Base as a civilian employee. The war was on but my dad was not able to be called into active duty due to the nature of the work he was involved in at McClelland. He was locked into his job along with his older brother, William Terrell.

Dad received a beautiful certificate of appreciation for his service during the war from the United States Government.

Shortly following the attack on Pearl Harbor by Japan, we kids began to practice air-raid drills in school. When the siren sounded, if we were on the playground, we would grab our assigned classmate’s hand and run for the trenches that had been dug all around the school grounds. Or if in the class room we would dive under our desks. Each teacher knew immediately who was missing at the beginning of the class and would make new pairs of students for that day. We knew this was serious business, but it was a little exciting too.

There was gasoline and sugar rationing, and everyone had to get some kind of food stamps for certain items. You could only get what was allotted to you. My sister Charlsie, remembers how the bubble gum changed after the war started. Before the war, she avowed, it was so sweet and delicious, but afterwards, it lost its savor and was just never the same. She compared it to the taste of cardboard. I wondered how she knew what cardboard tasted like.

We would have scary blackouts at night, where everyone would have to turn off their lights, and even the cars had to have tape over the headlights. We would all sit around in the dark and listen to the radio or just talk. Sometimes Mom or Dad would tell stories or even try to read to us by the flickering light of a single candle.

We lived in a small white house about a hundred yards from a county road. It was on a bit of a hill and the driveway was dirt, running between pastures boarded by electric fences which were there to hold in some cows owned by our neighbors and to provide entertainment for my older cousins. I especially remember the electric fences because while they did provide entertainment for my two older cousins, Martin and JT, their entertainment became the basis for my nightmares.

These older boys would hold hands in a semi-circle, with me between them, and then the two on the ends would grab hold of the electric wire at the same time, thus completing a circuit. They would receive a little tingling sensation, but the guy in the middle (me) would really get a jolt right out of his socks, if he had any on… . My cousins thought that was great fun and would literally chase me down, attack me and drag me kicking and screaming back to the electric wire fence for more fun and thrills at my expense.

Another fun thing I did while we lived at that place was learn to ride a bicycle. Most kids have someone to help them: someone who places them on the bicycle, holds on to the back of the seat and walks or runs alongside until the kid gets the hang of it. And most kids have a bicycle built for someone their size, perhaps even with training wheels. Not me. There was no one to help and there was no bicycle built for someone my size. I was still quite small for my age at that time, and the only bicycle around belonged to one of my sadistic cousins, who, of course, was much larger and a lot older than I. When I stood next to the bicycle my shoulders just reached the bar between the seat and the handlebars. I could barely reach the left handlebar with my left hand while hanging on to the seat with my right hand, but I could get it going down the hill on the driveway, then jump up onto the pedal on the left side of the bike and coast down the hill to the road, riding the entire distance balanced on one foot on that left-side pedal. I probably rode that bike a thousand miles like that. The hard part was pushing the heavy contraption back up the long driveway.

We had a dog when we lived there in Carmichael. Actually, he was my Uncle Benny’s dog, but Uncle Benny was not a ‘dog person.’ One day when Uncle Benny was shopping in town, a big old black dog jumped into his pick-up truck; No, not in the back of the pick-up, in the cab. No matter how Uncle Benny tried, the dog absolutely refused get out of the truck, so Uncle Benny just brought him on home. He quickly became the protector of anyone under the age of 15. Whenever any one of us kids was about to get a spanking, the dog would gently grab hold of the spanker’s arm, and give them a look that really meant business.

As one would guess, we kids really loved that old dog. He was part black lab and part fence jumper, and tough as nails. I remember one time when we were driving away from home, Old Nick, (as we named him) wanted to go too. He started running after us, and we watched through the rear window, with apprehension, as he desperately tried to keep up with the car. Finally, another car coming from the opposite direction, hit him. I saw him go flying and skidding across the road into a ditch. When we finally got stopped we went back to see how he was, but couldn’t find him. We were all devastated. We just knew he must have crawled off somewhere and died. But much to our surprise, when we got home that night, Old Nick was waiting at the end of the driveway, tongue hanging out and tail wagging, with just a couple of small scrapes to show he had lost the battle with the car. We were so happy to see him.

I guess everyone didn’t love Old Nick, however, because one day someone poisoned him and he died. After many tears and much pleading, we were able to persuade Uncle Benny to dig a hole where we, with feelings of loss, laid Old Nick to rest. Someone asked, Don’t we need to pray over him?

As I recall, no one knew what kind of prayer should be offered. Finally, my 9 year old sister Charlsie, slowly and with sincere reverence, stepped to the foot of his grave and with arms folded, offered this prayer: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Amen.

I vaguely remember the end of World War II. We were still living at this place near Carmichael. One day I heard some yelling and clapping of hands coming from inside the house, and everyone was running around acting crazy. I had no idea what was going on, but because they were doing that, I joined in too. My cousin JT, ran wildly out the back door to the chicken coop where there was a box of old fruit jars. I don’t know why, but I ran right along with him, maybe because I thought he was having fun and I wanted to have some too, but more likely, it was because I thought he had totally lost it.

Then, to my great surprise, he started throwing empty fruit jars into the air, and then he would throw other jars at them, smashing them to pieces in midair. Now I was absolutely sure he had gone totally mad, breaking grandma’s fruit jars like that, but I was very impressed at his ability to do it. There seemed to be a feeling of happiness in the air that day and that made me feel warm and secure. Only later in life did I find out what all the yelling and the breaking jars was all about. And do you know what? I noticed that JT never did get in trouble for smashing those jars!

Knowing Grandma, that was truly amazing.

PECANS GALORE

My dad was born and raised in Texas. My mom was born in Idaho, but was raised mostly in Texas. My mother’s mom and dad, moved to a little town called Eufaula, Oklahoma. It was there, during the winter of 1946, that we went to visit them. Grandma and Grandpa Price were really fun to be around and I have just a few very choice memories of the times when we did have the privilege of visiting them.

It was on this trip to visit them that I experienced an uncommon but very memorable Christmas. Who would think someone would celebrate Christmas while traveling to visit relatives? We were traveling the famous Route 66, from California to Oklahoma, and we had to make this trip during Christmas break from school and Dad’s work. This was still during the hard times following the Great Depression, and while Dad had a good job, it still did not pay very well, so we were traveling, as they say, on a wing and a prayer.

I remember, back in those days, whenever we traveled any real distance, we would always have a big canvas water bag hanging on the headlight or mirror of the car to keep the drinking water cool. It was more often used to replenish the water that boiled out of the radiator of the old car. We stopped the first night at something called a Motor Lodge to spend the night. This motor lodge consisted of little, individual, one room cabins where you could park your car right at the front door.

Early the next morning, Mom had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches already made for us and Dad bought a bottle of cold milk. That was breakfast. We hit the road again, and as we drove along Mom said, Santa came last night and left you both something, meaning my sister Charlsie and me. I was really surprised. I hadn’t even thought about Christmas, being that we were traveling and all. My sister’s present was a very pretty little charm bracelet, which pleased her very much. My present was a tiny pearl-handled, fingernail knife, attached to a little gold-looking chain that I could hook on my belt-loop. I thought that was about the neatest gift a boy my age could get for Christmas. I was happy.

The only other event that I remember about our trip driving out to Grandma’s house was when Dad stopped to get us something to eat. He went in to a little roadside restaurant that had a sign on top as big as the building itself that said, Mom’s Cafe. He soon came back out with a paper sack full of hamburgers. Well… nothing remarkable about that, except they were the tiniest little hamburgers I had ever seen. Each one was only one bite. There was a bun and a meat patty and a slice of tomato, but they were only about the size of a silver dollar. They tasted very good and we had lots of fun eating them.

There was one other interesting thing about this trip, not so noticeable at the time, but when remembered years later. I thought it was quite interesting that the entire, very long trip was driven on roads with only two lanes, one lane for traffic going each direction, and the maximum speed limit was only 45 mph. Can you imagine taking a trip like that today?

I thought we would never get there. My sister and I tried hard to not say, Are we there yet? If one of us said that more than once a day, Dad would always reply, One more time and you will have to get out and walk. That was really good psychology. I can remember how I would mash my nose against the window and stare out at the vast expanse of nothing but sand and rocks punctuated by tall, spooky-looking cactus with arms held up as if they were saying Howdy. I was sure I did not want to ever be alone out there.

I also remember standing between the back and the front seats of the car at night, watching for headlights coming toward us from the opposite direction. As I would watch them getting closer and closer, I could hear the sound of their engines, very faint at first, when I could barely see them, then getting louder and louder the closer they were to us, then loud as they passed by, rapidly becoming fainter and fainter as they disappeared into the darkness behind us. I well remember feeling a certain loneliness until I spotted headlights, then, anticipation building rapidly to a warm, comfortable feeling of oneness as the car passed by, almost as if we were kindred spirits passing in the night. Then the feeling of loneliness would return as my friendly traveler’s taillights would finally blink out in the distance. What an interesting introduction for a little boy to the concept of the Doppler Effect that he would not learn about until many years later.

We arrived in Eufaula a couple of days later, greeted by a light snowfall. As we drove down Main Street in Eufaula, which was only about five blocks long, there was nearly no other traffic. Even more remarkable was that some of the traffic that was present was wagons being pulled by mules. This was a step back in time for me; even as young as I was, I recognized that this place was indeed, in a different time zone. I was fascinated with the dirt, gravel and cobble-stoned streets and roads, the numerous mule and horse drawn wagons, the old men sitting in the general store playing checkers, and the laid-back, I’ll-get-around-to-it-one-of-these-days attitudes that seemed to be evident everywhere. Everything appeared to be moving in slow motion, and about fifty years in the past.

Grandma and Grandpa’s home was small, but warm and cozy inside. They had an ancient pot-bellied, coal-burning stove in the living room, resting on a metal heat-shield, on linoleum covered floors. Grandma’s stool, (she preferred a plain, wooden, bar-type stool,) was always waiting for her right next to the stove. It was amazing to me how she could place her feet on top of the stool and squat there, with her knees up under her chin, and not fall over. She had beautiful auburn hair, long enough for her to sit on, but I only saw it down like that on one occasion. It was almost always rolled up in a neat bun on top of her head. What a lovely character she was.

That evening we enjoyed a sumptuous meal of ham, mashed potatoes and gravy and huge homemade biscuits with fresh homemade honey-butter smeared on them. That night I snuggled down into a warm featherbed and covered up by a heavy homemade quilt. This was marvelous, life was good and peaceful sleep came quickly.

The next morning we awoke to a light but steady sprinkling of snow, with a quietness we were not used to. Only an occasional tinkling of spoon against glass or light clank of skillet being adjusted on the stovetop invaded the stillness. At about 7:30 a.m. we all sat down to farm-fresh eggs cooked perfectly to our liking, fresh-side, (real thick strips of bacon), more freshly-made biscuits with red-eye gravy for sopping and ice-cold whole milk, right from their own cows. Grandpa had already been out since before sun-up, feeding and milking the cows and caring for the rest of the livestock. He stomped in with snow-caked boots and heavy coat and hat with ice crystals hanging in his reddish-grey moustache. This truly was a new and fascinating world for me.

After breakfast I bundled up and ran outside to experience snow, actually falling on my head right in front of the house. I had to build a snowman, of course, and every few minutes I would run back in and hold my hands near the pot-bellied stove to warm them up. Then I would dash right back out in the snow. Grandpa brought me an old round-bottomed washtub to sit in and slide down the little slope of his front yard. This place was a fairy tale land for me.

It had stopped snowing during that night and we awoke the next morning to bright sunshine, glistening and sparkling through long icicles hanging from the eves, and the dormant trees and shrubs in the front yard had been reborn and made beautiful by ice crystals sparkling like Christmas tree lights all over them. This was the day we were to go and visit my Uncle Earl and Aunt Opal. They had a boy about my age by the name of Charles. I was looking forward to meeting my cousin.

They just lived a few minutes’ drive across town, and when we arrived they all rushed out to welcome us. Their house was very nice. It was new and more modern than Grandpa’s house. Uncle Earl was a carpenter, and he built it himself. All the old folks went in to the house but Charles and I stayed outside to get better acquainted. Charles said, Come on, I have a fun place to play. With that he took off running toward the back of the house. Even though the sun was shining brightly, it was very cold. My nose and ears felt the nip in the wind blowing off the hilltops behind their property.

We came to a small stream, all frozen over, with a clear and smooth solid-ice topping. Charles yelled, Watch! as he ran and jumped on the ice, skidding clear across to the other side.

Wow, I yelled back, Let me try that. I ran and jumped on the ice like he did, and promptly landed hard right on my back. That just about knocked the wind right out of me, but I didn’t let that slow me down one bit. I finally got the hang of it and it got so that we could skid for quite a long distance right down the middle of the stream.

Well, that was great fun, but now we needed to find something else to do. Charles said, Hey, I know, would you like to see the old mine?

Sure I said, and he led off up the side of the hill. We walked about half way up towards the top and came