I grew up in the 1960’s in Santa Clara and my memories of that time are vivid and full of wonder. It was such fun to play on our lawn of clover, and so interesting to see the bees buzzing among the blossoms of cherry, pear, plum, and prune trees in the orchard just across the street. At the end of a question and answer session with my loving mother, I said, “I understand how the bees make the honey, but how do they carry the jars to the store?”
Our house was on the dead-end block of Benton, near its non-intersection with Lawrence Station Road. A row of houses was on one side of the street and an orchard was on the other, stretching to and past Calabazas Creek all the way to El Camino Real. Across the creek and facing Lawrence was the Jugo-Slav Napredak Social Club, founded in 1925 by my great-grandfather and others. I remember going there during the summers for the annual picnics. There were huge trees providing welcome shade in the hot July afternoons. There were live bands playing polkas and waltzes. There was a huge open-air pavilion for dancing. And, of course, there were mountains of all kinds of food.
First grade began for me at Pomeroy Elementary School in 1960, and I continued there through sixth grade – six wonderful years. Those years were filled with challenges that I created for myself, to test what I was made of and to expand the boundaries of my capabilities. It was all about becoming. One of the things that I loved about Pomeroy was the slick outdoor hallways. We used to ride our bikes there on weekends. The trick was to ride fast down a hallway to gather momentum, then to hit the brakes and go into a controlled skid. The ideal was to end the skid facing down the mouth of a perpendicular hallway and resume pedaling without stopping, falling, or crashing into a wall. As with any ideal it was difficult to achieve – and I have the scars to prove it.
The Napredak Social Club moved to Montague Expressway when Lawrence Station Road was widened to become Lawrence Expressway. The house where I was raised still exists, but the orchards were torn out. A retail center and apartment buildings were built along a new street, Flora Vista Ave. When that retail space was being built, I got in trouble for scratching my name in the sidewalk’s fresh cement. When the Exxon service station went in on the corner of Lawrence, I got my brother in trouble by giving him a metal “slug” and telling him to go get us a cold soda from the vending machine.
A skateboard mishap left me with a swollen and droopy eyelid that turned yellow, green, and then vibrant purple. The tall, handsome, and collegiate Bernie worked at the new “7-11” convenience store. He gave me my first nickname when I came into the store a few days after my accident. Bernie took one look at me and nicknamed me “Rabbit.” He claimed that I looked exactly like his pet rabbit, having the same shade of purple eye.
Sixty years later, I still keep my joyous memories alive. I’m thankful for every moment of my Santa Clara childhood. And, yes, I still have the droopy eyelid.
Mission City Voices
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