Vignettes - Life's Tales Book Three. William M.D. Baker

      Bill Baker

      A Thadeus T. Throckmorton III Production

      VIGNETTE NO. I

      WAR IN THE STORM DRAIN

      Oakland, California

      The year is 1938, or thereabouts, and I am living in the family home on Mauritania Avenue off of Seminary Avenue, a block away from Mills College in Oakland. Mills, as we always referred to the college, was the playground of our neighborhood. The large lawn areas were great for football and the many trails among the forest of towering eucalyptus trees offered super bike riding challenges. In this forest was “Green Lake”, so named because of the color of the water, which sat in a bowl surrounded by many levels of trails running like rows of seats in an amphitheatre, and offering launching pads for our dare-devil bicycle jumps. It was our practice to tie a rope to a tree, and the other end to the bicycle, then climb to the highest trail allowed by the length of rope. From that starting position, we would pump hard and jump from one trail to another in a downhill plunge into the lake, bike and all. We’d retrieve the bike, climb the layers of trails and go again.

      In the summer months it was our night time challenge to climb fences and gates to gain entrance to the outdoor swimming pool where we would spend our time swimming under water to avoid making any noise that would arouse the guard. Part of the fun in playing in Mills was hiding and escaping from the security guards.

      It was during these days that the City of Oakland completed a storm drain system beginning in Mills, adjacent to the chimes, which ran underground through connecting systems to the estuary. Once it was completed, it too became a part of our play ground.

      The diameter of the storm drain pipe was large enough to walk through or enter or exit by way of manhole covers. The fact it was just being completed gave us the benefit of its newness and cleanliness. We’d choose teams, four or five of us to a side, arm ourselves with our home-made rubber guns and enter the drain system. One team would be allowed sufficient time to get positioned in the pipe before the other team would advance. The object of the game was to be the last person not hit by a rubber band thereby declaring your team to be the winner. Upon entering the pipe it became pitch black for several hundred feet until light from a curb drain or manhole cover gave some visibility. To reduce the chances of being hit we’d tie a flashlight to the end of a long pole thus

      Soon after the drain system was completed, and before its final inspection, our gang of “sewer rats”, as we liked to call ourselves, found a hole in the top of the pipe that gave entrance into the storage room of the drug store on the corner of Seminary and Hopkins Blvd (now MacArthur Blvd). We soon figured out a way to climb into the storage room and filled our pockets with candy bars. I’d guess that in today’s world we would have been after cigarettes or drugs. But, no, candy was good enough for us, and the hole was sealed before we could again raid the store room. Shortly thereafter, a wire mesh was constructed over the entrance to the drain system and our rubber-gun wars came to an end. There was always some one putting a stop to our fun!

      END

      VIGNETTE NO. II

      GAS RATIONING

      Oakland , California

      The year is 1943. World War II is going at an all out rage. Rationing of everything from shoes to gasoline is being strictly enforced. Our ration of gasoline is three gallons a week, the amount allowed a family with an “A” sticker. More of that later. My circle of buddies at the time extended to Pleasanton where Dick Koopman lived and, with whom we spent as many

      I can truthfully say I expected Earl or Bob, my other buddies, to come up with an “A” stamp, but they didn’t. It was not easy getting illegal stamps, although it was done. Our across the street neighbor was a traveling salesman with a “C” sticker which gave him all the gas he could justify. On occasion he would offer us a “C” stamp and we would get an extra 15 gallons of gas, providing, a gas station attendant would take the stamp which had been detached from the ration book. Back to the story.

      I picked up Earl and Bob and we drove to Dick’s, swam, had our fun and headed home with all of us glued to the gas gauge which had to read 1/4 full when I got home. We coasted at every opportunity, eased ourselves over hills and watched the gas gauge a it fell below 1/4. Now what?

      The first decision was that Earl and Bob would have to walk home from where I’d drop them off and the second decision was to top off the tank to 1/4 full by adding a “little bit” of kerosene which was not rationed. We reasoned, that should work. We’ll only add a little bit. With it done, the guys dropped off and the car parked in the garage at the bottom of the steep driveway, I quietly entered the back-door and went to bed without disturbing anyone.

      In the morning, my step-father was late in getting up and to avoid missing his bus to San Francisco he chose to drive the car to the station thus saving the walking time of about ten minutes. I vividly recall his bounding down the stairway from upstairs and dashing out the back door to the garage, sliding the

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