It had been a few years since my father took away my first bicycle. His words, "Apparently, you're not grown up enough to be a responsible bicycle owner," still resounded clearly in my head. Finally, in the eighth grade, where absolutely everyone had a bicycle, I was able to convince my parents I had grown up to be a very responsible bicycle owner-rider. There were too many busy streets to cross to ride the bike to school, however Saturday afternoons afforded me and my friends to ride our bikes down country roads to Chino's farmlands. Of course the air was pungent with the odors from pig and cow farms, however coasting down the rolling hills, sitting side-saddle on the bike's crossbar was certainly daring and provided a thrill a minute. One soon forgot all about the earthy smells.
No, never did crash and burn. Watched out for other vehicles and even signaled with my left arm. Very professional bike rider I thought. One afternoon, one of the neighborhood boys caught up with me while I took off down Forth Street. He sidled up to my right side to ask me a question. I noticed his little sister was a passenger on the crossbar. Not paying attention to his own driving, he ran into the back of a parked car and both brother and sister ended up with some nasty scrapes from head to toe. That ended the bike ride for the day.
Well, it wasn't very long, maybe a month or so when I again had the wanderlust. I talked my friends into riding over to Walnut which was a 'podunk' town as people called it, where there were mostly walnut groves and small houses for the workers. Remember, this was 1939 and The Great Depression was still quite apparent. Our posse, out to investigate this strange place, rode close to the railroad knowing it would be easy to find our way back home, and the road wasn't well traveled. Off to the side of the road, in a small forest of wild Oaks, we noticed there was a camp site of sorts. Quietly we walked our bikes under a shady spot and laid them down. Whispering to one another we carefully approached the camp and soon discovered there wasn't a soul in sight. Time to investigate closer.
Mind you, we made a pact then and there never to breath a word of this bicycle outing before we ventured any further. Agreeing that the story would only upset our parents, and the fact that I might once again have my bicycle taken away, we concluded that this was a live or die situation. Believe me when I say our adrenalin was high.
We must have discovered a 'hobo camp' apparently found many places along railroad tracks across the nation, but to us, this was a truly rare find. We agreed not to touch a single item and held to our promise to one another. There were several bed-rolls neatly piled to one side probably used to sit on when not sleeping. Three upturned sectioned wood crates had been utilized as 'kitchen cupboards' where odd plates, cups and various cans of food were stored along with some utensils and a jagged can opener, the kind that you could easily cut yourself while zagging around the top of a tin can.
The ground was clearly freshly swept reminding me of the Mexican houses in south Pomona where grass was not an option so the dirt was almost like concrete having the silt swept away on a daily basis. There was an old broom against a tree that the hobo's must have used for the sweeping. Directly in the center was an earthen pit surrounded with rocks blackened from the fire used to prepare meals. An old metal grate was to one side of the pit and atop sat a coffee pot, the kind that you throw in a hand full of grounds, add water and boil.
One of the boys looked startled: "I just heard something. Maybe someone is coming." Naturally we each froze in our steps then backed out quiet as we had entered. Quickly we had our bike's upright, got back into our saddles and headed back the way we came. We never saw anyone. Probably they were all making their rounds of the nearest neighbors to ask for small jobs and a meal. Our hearts were pounding as we rode back home, probably the greatest speed we had ever mastered on our bikes.
Mother was on the porch in her wheelchair and father was mowing the lawn. "So, how was your ride to Chino today?" "It was OK I guess." Father helped me park my bike up on the porch and I excused myself saying: "Mother, can I please have some of your lemonade?" I didn't even wait to get an answer. I sat on the sofa for a very long time. My little sister was having her nap time so the only sound I heard was father finishing his mowing out front.
I laid awake for what seemed like a long time after going to bed. I vowed never again to wander off to a strange place and asked God to forgive me for not telling my parents. I made an arrangement with God that one day in the future, several years in the future, I would tell the story to my parents. I have no idea what arrangements my friends made on the subject, however I do know that 'mum was the word' for as long as I can remember. I can still see that orderly, simple camp in my mind. Proof that one can be neat and clean on very little income. It just takes the will, teamwork and some energy. I told my parents, as promised, after I was married and living a car drive away. Somehow, I felt they had known for a long time.
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