My Own Memories of La Crescenta – Part 4

Continuing from my last column, I’m writing up my own memories of growing up in La Crescenta in the 1960s.

For the kids in the neighborhood – most of whom were boys – playing army was the name of the game. We mostly used sticks for guns. I remember the dearest dream of one of the boys’ was to have a real foxhole on his yard so we diligently dug the hole for him. We never finished it. Good thing, too, as the possibility was very real of ending up in China had we dug too deep.

The second most popular game was tree climbing. Our street was lined with carob trees, which were low and many-branched, making them easy for us kids to get up into. Not only that, but carob pods were flat and heavy, perfect for breaking into pieces and flinging at each other.

And we were obsessed with the concept of quicksand. We saw numerous TV shows in which people stepped onto an ordinary patch of dirt only to begin slowly sinking, trapped and unable to escape until they sank from view. We wanted that! The construction was simple. We dug holes, filled them with water and mud and carefully scattered leaves and sticks over the top to camouflage it. Then we would try to lure someone’s little sister to step into our deadly trap. Of course it never worked, as the water drained out leaving a firm wet spot in its place. Disappointment!

Dean Nelson was my best friend down the street. His dad said “man” at the end of every sentence, perhaps something he picked up from the earlier Beatnik Era. That was just so cool. Dean and I emulated that habit and I still today have held onto that speech pattern. For real, man.

Dean’s next-door-neighbor had a fallout shelter in his backyard, which we were occasionally allowed to play in. It was below ground with stairs leading down into a small concrete room. It had a bed and shelves stocked with food and water. This was the mid-60s, and the Cold War was still hot. Quite a few people mistakenly thought they could survive a nuclear blast by going underground for a few days and had built bomb shelters in their yards or under their homes.

Behind Dean’s house was a huge vacant lot. It was weedy and rock-strewn – a paradise for young boys. At the far back of the lot was an old falling down building. Looking back, I think it was probably a large chicken house of some sort. It was long and low and had feed bins running down the center. Next to it was a large spreading tree that had branches that touched the ground, which created a natural “fort” for us to hide in. 

This tree backed up to a wooden fence and just over the fence was a horse named Barney. Barney would often stick his head over the fence to watch us play. We were a little intimidated by him. Barney belonged to Mr. Figgens, who was a throwback to a bygone era. Mr. Figgens was paid to keep the weeds down on the many vacant lots in the neighborhood and he did so with a horse-drawn plow. I can remember seeing Mr. Figgins leading Barney up and down various streets, on his way to plowing the lots around our neighborhood.

Also going up and down the streets were the “honey dipper” trucks. They were tank trucks with a suction mechanism designed to suck up human waste from the cesspools everyone had. Before we had a wide-ranging sewer system in the Crescenta Valley, most homes had cesspools into which toilets emptied. A cesspool is a rock or brick lined pit, covered by a cement cap. The sewage flows into the pit and the water leeches out it leaving the solids behind. The solids need to be removed, often several times a year. The cesspools would sometimes overflow, causing an incredible stink in the neighborhood. It happened often. That very distinctive smell was a feature of my childhood and an occasional whiff of that smell today takes me back. 

Ah, wonderful memories!