Me and Orson: GROWING UP IN THE 1950S

By Paul Gonzales

This manuscript deals with that period in my life I commonly refer to as my prepubescent period. If it were not for my cousin, Orson, this period in my life would have been next to impossible. Maybe not so harsh, let's say more trips to the fishpond, and most definitely an increase in the number of appearances before the inquisitions. Orson and I were most fortunate to experience this milestone in life before man landed on the moon, before cellphones, and most of all a time when mother said go play outside, which translated to "It's 8 a.m. Don't come back till noon." Your assumption is correct. This left two gentlemen a lot of time and space.

Here is what greeted us each morning. From our front yards, we could see the snow-capped sierras. Following your line of sight was a fully functioning log mill with a large pond feed by a flume. From this point on was a mixture of pastureland and open agricultural land. Oh, yes, a canal full of water year-round. To find some activity to fill the day only required the willingness to bask in the glory of the right choice or the willingness to accept the full fury of a displeased mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662478949

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Me and Orson

GROWING UP IN THE 1950S

Paul Gonzales

Copyright © 2023 Paul Gonzales

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-6624-7893-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-7894-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Christmas 1950

Cousin George and Lunch

Tribute to Jacques Cousteau*

Cousin Raymond's Resourcefulness

Not All Water Features Are Enjoyable

Church Can Be Exciting

What's in a Last Name?

The First Solo Bicycle Ride

Midget Racing

The Rooster and the Henhouse

Why Mathematicians Don't Necessarily Make Good Sailors

Orson and the Cabinet

Grandfather's Ride to Freedom

Mom, Why Does Father Speak English with an Italian Accent?

Orson, Me, and the Pit

Serving Mass, a Family Affair

Marble versus Oven

The Importance of Following a Mother's Request

Home Repairs

Project Ben Franklin

Why Is There a Hole in the Center of my Watermelon Slice?

El Circo Escalante (The Grand Staircase Circus)

Orson, Raymond, and I, Plus Slingshots

It Seemed like a Good Idea at the Time

Delivering Laundry

About the Author

Christmas 1950

I was looking at a group photograph of my mother's family. It was taken in my grandparent's home in 1936. Looking at it brought a flood of memories.

I was eight years old and it was Christmas Eve in 1950, the whole house was filled with the entire family: cousins, uncles, and aunts. The whole family was in a gloriously joyful and chaotic spirit, all well on their way to a Christmas full of cheer and family. My maternal grandmother was, as always, in full control. What occurred during these special days of family and celebration would need her guidance; in a Mexican family, tamales are the main holiday foods.

The family would make as many types of tamales that would feed the group for Christmas Eve dinner and Christmas day. The tamales were made of chicken, beef, or pork. There were some special tamales that pleased almost everyone; frankly, I could never understand how anyone who could claim a modicum connection to the great Aztec nation would enjoy them, and the special tamales were made of corn just like the regular ones. The variation took place when sugar and raisins were added to the cornmeal. Tell me, how one can consume tamales made with those ingredients? Yuck…yuck…and double yuck.

My favorites were and still are the regular tamales, which brings us to my experiences as a young man of eight, growing up in a great and loving family.

I remember how I would make a special note on which kettle was the first to be filled. Even at an early age, I came to the realization that quality control went downhill after the first kettle was completed. If my memory serves me, this was my first experience in the application of one of the principal laws in radiographic physics, Inverse Square Law, as applied to production and quality control in tamale manufacturing. Allow me to put this law into application: the quality of tamales was inversely proportional to the consumption of Bergermister and Lucky Larger beer. To put it simply, as the consumption of beer increased, the manufacturing quality control of tamales was greatly affected. In any event, my mother and her sisters were of the opinion that the wheels of production would glide much smoother as liquid refreshment increased.

The contents of the first kettle would have made an Aztec god cry with sheer joy. The masa was spread so evenly that no matter where you bit the tamale, the ratio of masa, mole, and meat was at perfection. What followed after would have made my cousins and me orphans had that same god been the judge. Tell me; how is it possible for one to put the entire rib cage from a modest-size fryer into a normal size tamale? Who in the entire Aztec nation would savor the delights of a tamale filled with a chicken neck with skin attached?

I started to think of Christmas Eve dinner as a prelude to Christmas morning. Just as I anticipated the contents of the neatly wrapped gifts, I experienced the same anticipation of the neatly wrapped tamales.

My grandmother was a very wise, loving, and gifted woman; she stood a towering four foot eleven inches, with the bluest eyes and a rosy pink complexion. She caught on to my vigilance over the kettles, looked at me, and asked Does the first kettle have the best tamales? I looked at her and smiled without a word; she set aside enough tamale to satisfy the appetite of an eight-year-old boy. I will always feel the warmth and love of celebrating Christmas at the home of my grandparents. As a husband, father, grandfather, uncle, and great-uncle, I understand the value of the family I was fortunate enough to be a member of.

Cousin George and Lunch

Growing up in my neighborhood was wonderful and adventurous. I was never without a playmate or a friend. Let me put this into perspective. As a young gentleman, my world was exactly one city block square; the block was divided in half by an alley. All houses were single-family dwellings, and within each house lived an uncle, aunt, cousin, or family friend. My maternal grandmother's house was what would have been, one block away—I say would have been if it were not for the fact that the city ended, and the country started on the other side of the road that ran along the side of my paternal grandparent's property line. This was my world: it was nestled in a universe located in a town with two stoplights and a fifteen-bed hospital; in a town where each spring the sheepherders would drive their sheep past our home on their way to summer pasture—yes, you are correct—a large metropolis such as this was, of course, the county seat.

It was that part of the summer when school seemed as far away as Christmas and grape picking for raisins was in full production. My cousins and I were too young to join our mothers full-time in the grape fields; we were left in the care of our maternal grandmother. Preschool and day camps were still in the future; for our clan, if they had existed, they would have been too far above our family income. Therefore, the only financial solution was our grandmother.

Our grandmother lived in a large white