Either shop with your eyes or go to the car son!

For we East L A Okies, the springtime dress-up Easter fashion parade ritual began Saturday before Easter. The Easter slog officially started when we headed westward up Olympic Boulevard towards our shopping emporium of choice.

It was just a day of spring time fashion magic. Tawdry in full bloom with a rare blend of plaids and stripes. The latest fashionable phosphorescent colors. Okie mix and match. Oh so simple.

But anyway, driving away from our East L A home going all the way to Sears Roebucks is how it started. Yes, Sears the real people’s fashion couture located in East L A in the Boyle Heights district. My Mom, Dad, sisters, brother and myself all squeezed in to our gray 1950 Ford 4-door sedan and drove up Olympic Boulevard to the big white ten story Sears tower at Olympic and Soto street. The hollowed temple of Lay-A-Way. This was the shopping Mecca located just east of the often empty but mighty concrete L. A. river. Even though Sears was only about ten miles west up Olympic Boulevard from our little East Los Angeles adobe house, driving to Sears and back was an all morning and sometimes all day long marathon shopping event. Usually yielding very little for we Okie boys. Maybe yellow and blue suspenders. Or a pastel orange clip on tie. Resulting in our own kind of fashion statement. Okie!

Nonetheless, it possibly could be compared to today’s kids hanging out at the mall. But, not really. The difference was, our overly watchful Okie parents closely supervised our every move like hovering CIA drones. And I know this is hard to believe but we kids were hanging out without the benefit of cell phones and thumb tapping texting. However, what we kids did have, as a parent manipulator was theatrics and melodrama. Our quickly learned acting methods of whining and looking most sorrowful and deprived aided our wantonness. Brooding about with practiced grim faces. “You keep looking that way and your face will freeze and fall off.”

Once we finally arrived we always parked in the east parking lot and were greeted by the outdoor and lawnmower shop. Push type reel mowers, motor driven reel mowers, and motor driven rotary mowers. And enough yard gadgetry to make any Easter lawn happy. Plus there was an already assembled round above ground aluminum swimming pool filled and with floating beach balls atop the water. Gosh, how did they do that? And nearby colorful metal swing sets and portable aluminum outbuildings that also surrounded the pool. Enough outdoor stuff to make an Okie boy pause and think. Hmm.

For a better perspective of all these wondrous backyard accoutrements we got to climb seemingly a hundred steps. Steps up to the main Sears entrance. A pretty good work out to climb for sure.

Now, just inside the East door of Sears, were the men’s, women’s, and children’s shops. My sisters were just amazed with the splendid fashion choices. “Are you sure this isn’t the senior ladies department mom?” My mom would immediately take my two sisters and herself to find new dresses, hat, and shoes. Leaving my brother, dad and I roaming unconsciously through the store for endless hours. Looking and touching all of its alluring hardware and gadgetry. Now and then there would be a free live demonstration of a half horsepower garbage disposal. Demonstrations that would keep our fleeting attention for a half second or so. And it was always cool to watch the blowing vacuum cleaner suspend a beach ball endlessly in midair. “Wow! Just like on TV.” This search and destroy exploratory went on until my mom was finish with my sister’s Easter fashion selections. Maybe buying them each a new dress and Easter hat. More than likely, a new pair of glossy white or yellow patent leather shoes.

As for my brother and myself, my dad had no clue what to buy for we attention defecate Okie boys. We Okie gentlemen folk chose an alternative course of action instead.

So, the only thing we could possibly do to pass the time would be to wander aimlessly about the different appliance and hardware departments like nomadic mountain goats. Touching, poking, sniffing, dropping, and sometimes breaking. Put that down son!

At the outset of our mindless exploratory, we would slowly and deliberately pass the candy and nut counter. Watching and smelling the warm roasting nuts. Maybe the candy lady would have pity on our sorrowful expressions and toss out a peanut cluster or two. But the candy ladies were much smarter than we thought. They just ignored our stupid contorted Okie faces of woe.

None the less, we would just stand there in spilled scattered popcorn with expressions of want observing other parents and their kids pointing and choosing their roasted cashews and chocolate candy. How oh so lucky they were. And, how oh so unlucky my brother and I were. But Okie boys expect that. Just darn bad luck.

So we would just suck it in and move on. Real Okie men would gather up determination and wander off elsewhere. We would invariably wind up in the large appliance department observing the whirling of soap and bubble spraying already clean dishes and glasses while washing through a clear plastic front-loading door panel. Almost as good as watching color TV. “Wow! Does it really clean dishes dad? Don’t touch anything son.”

Next we might aimlessly browsed the automotive department and stared bewilderingly at car mufflers sawed in half. “Why would somebody cut that in half Pops?” Then there were moving engine see-through models. Dad, what would happen if we stuck a penny down in the cylinder? “Wow dad, look at all these car radios with all the buttons. Here is one that has FM and Am. Son, don’t touch that or I’ll haul you out to our car!”

Then the next department was the J C Higgins bicycle and sporting goods department. Complete with a life size manikin holding a J C Higgins 12-gage shotgun with hunting vest and matching orange cap. Gun Unloaded of course. Over behind the counter were the Red Rider bee-bee guns. “Can I shoot it dad?” Huh?
Don’t touch anything or I’ll drag you to the car by your ear son!”

Finally, to finish our usual tour, we walked down to the basement and looked at horse saddles and portable cement mixers. “Hmm. I wonder how this works? Do I pull this handle down?
Son, I told you not to touch anything. Would you want me to haul you out by the shirt collar to the car right now boy!”

So, after many hours of walking, looking, touching, and threatening we would finally end up back with our mom at the east door and she would already have bought me my Easter outfit. She would show me a pair of black socks or a cheesy looking yellow clip on dress ties. “How interesting?” All would be bought without my prior approval. Something I became accustom to.

“Are all you boys ready to go to the car, my mom would finally ask.” You boys? To the Car? “When do I shop for clothes?
Son! Stop your whining and head for the car now. You hear me? Shopping is over and we got what we got.”

Slowly fade to black while the Okie family walks out the Soto Street east door. Happy Easter and to all a good buy.
THE END.

Growing up Okie in L A: Let's go to the Hop

I was never a dancer. My mom and dad didn’t want me to dance. And I’m talking about dancing at school or any other “Dancing Den of Sin.” Which means no dancing after school in the gym. Dancing with…girls. Absolutely forbidden. Certainly a fundamentalist doctrinaire.

Why not dance? Well, I would be swallowed in to a fiery pit of judgment. Far beneath the surface of the gym floor. Swallowed down into a huge monstrous fire-breathing canyon of smoking black brimstone. Perhaps tumbling down just beneath the scattered pile of boys and girls shoes they tossed off. “What happened to Charlie? He disappeared I guess.”

However, against my mom’s wishes, I did once slip into the side door at a junior high dance in our school gym. And to make this clear, this was just for casual observation. Taking notes for future reference of course. This was 1958 at my junior high. So, this is what I observed from the gym bleachers:
Off up against the gym wall was a portable record player sitting atop a high stool. A record player scratching out a tinny sound of early rock and roll. Then on the dance floor was Boys and girls dancing far apart from each other but holding hands nonetheless. Dancing duos closely monitored by two first year English teachers. Teachers sliding about like referees at a hockey game. And all this noise and shuffling beneath the full power of the gym’s bright lights.

The 20-something year old woman teacher was wearing cat eyeglasses and crowned with brown curly poofy hair. She had at her side, like a magic wand, a one-foot wooden ruler. And occasionally she would approach a fox trotting couple to place the 12-inch rule between their chests. “Remember boys and girls, you must remain twelve inches apart. It’s the rule.”

The guy teacher was also youngish, tall, thin, wore a dark suit with high water cuffs, and looked just like Dennis the Menace’s father. Long pointed nose, black oily hair combed straight back, and with Coke bottle glasses that made his eyes appear like floating prunes. Both teachers giving the impression they would rather be home grading English papers instead.

Now, off to one side away from the larger group of dancers, was a lone couple hanging on to each other’s shoulders dancing cheek to cheek but with their hips at least twenty inches apart. Looking like an A-frame with feet. Seemingly dancing to one beat. No matter how fast or slow the music, this couple maintained a slow two-step shuffle. Quite strange looking I must say.

Never the less, as the dance progressed, several of the junior high kids had cajoled the two first year English teachers into demonstrating how two mature individuals properly dance. Teen dancers knowing full well each teacher was young, single, and most embarrassed to be put together in this horrific teen dance-monitoring job. Both teachers’ faces were beet red and embarrassed. However, they were compelled by teacher responsibility to demonstrate the proper way to slow dance. And again, I must say it was awkward and strange. Both holding each other like they didn’t want to hold each other. More like pushing each other away from the other. All the while teen kids were whistling, cat calling, and hooting it up. A spectacle rather entertaining.

My mom was right. I should never go to school dances. This was most ridiculous. Now you know why I am still alive today.

Growing up Okie in Los Angeles

Outfitted with a brown paper grocery sack and a white dress shirt with tails out from my dad’s closet I began to assemble my horrific looking Halloween masquerade. The final touch was the charred cork rubbed and smudged all over my face. Achieving that frightful Hobo smudged beard look of course. So now, I was ready for the annual neighborhood Halloween haunt and goody-grab. This is what this Okie kid costumed him self in for Halloween October 1953. A fearsome look I must admit.

Nonetheless, it also appeared my best friend Donnie and I had the same make-up consultant. The only difference between Donnie and me, Donnie was from Milwaukee and I was as mentioned, an Okie child growing up in East Los Angeles. Certainly Okie cultural credentials enough that would easily waive any big city sensibility. So, I’m not sure what excuse Donnie used to justify his own costuming. What a combo nonetheless.

It was harvest fall by the big fat moon 1953 and Donnie and I were in the fourth grade. However, Donnie was enrolled at Saint Alfoncis Catholic School and I at Montebello Park Elementary. But anyway, why did we dress the same? What was our excuse for the Hobo look in white dress shirts? Hobos rarely wear their dad’s white dress shirts. Shirt Sleeves were rolled up and tails hanging down to our knees. Looking like penguin turned upside down. But anyway, only teenage sisters wore their dad’s white dress shirt with tails out back then. Something’s was certainly wrong here.

Well, in spite of our questionable choice of costume we marched on. So with great resolve, the two of us headed out to Trick and/or Treat. Two neighborhood buds intent on harvesting a large booty of candy and gum. And, This was a time back when kids actually said aloud and as loud as could be, “trick or treat!” But if frightening barks and growls came from behind the front door, we quickly moved on to the next house.

Now let me mention here, these days’ big and little kids come to the door and hold out with great anticipation their orange phosphorescent plastic Halloween bags. Only to say almost nothing. No “trick or treat.” No “please kind sir, give me candy now!” However, you can hear them thinking. “Just put in a dozen Snicker Bars and let me out of here.” You can see this apparent irritation written on their heavily glittered faces. Finally turn their plastic costume shrouded bodies away to the Halloween candy benefactors and shuffle off in full retreat. Completely ignoring the real carved pumpkin face and realistic spider webs over the doorway. Something someone went to lots of trouble to decorate. Oh my. What a perverse and shameless generation.

Oh well anyway, Donnie and I back then had great fun pretending to scare most everybody. Maybe it wasn’t scary as much as it was a surprise. People coming to the door would be stupefied. “Oh my, what are you boys? Teenage girls with black beard?” Donnie and I would look at each other with rolling eyes and think, “Just load in a dozen Snicker Bars and let us out of here. Trick or Treat!