High School Days
Our housing development was built on the grounds of a former Japanese Internment camp called “Camp Kohler.” Initially a camp for migrant farm workers, it was repurposed to hold Japanese Americans before they were transferred to more permanent internment camps, and operated for 52 days, from May 6 to June 26, 1942.
In the summer of 1965 my family moved from Springfield, VA to Sacramento, CA. My father was transferred to the Military Airlift Command to support the movement of aircraft to Southeast Asia. Our house was in a suburb called “Foothill Farms,” a typical suburban development where the landscape was completely revised and the streets laid out to maximize the housing density, so that whatever character the place might have originally had was obliterated.
The original landscape had a lot of Oak Trees with deep roots that could survive the blazing hot dry summers, along with very pungent yellow star thistles growing in the dry dusty soil. The plant’s long taproot allows it to find moisture below the shallow grass roots.
Gray Scott: our Gold Rush invasive weed species from Turkey, via Chile! (believed to have hitch-hiked aboard boatloads of Chilean alfalfa destined for the 49er's horses!). That sharp, pungent smell is indeed arresting to those visiting or returning after a long time away from the Great Central Valley.
In mid-October the rainy season began and it rained almost every day for the next six months. Many of our neighbors worked at McClellan Air Base, as military or civilians. The original families of “North Highlands” resented the suburban influx population that came with the building of Foothill Farms. The original population probably traced their roots back to the '49ers, some of them at least, or maybe some Oakies that arrived in the '30s, and other migrant farm workers. At our High School there were several different demographics—the Greasers and the Hoods and Mexicans, who wore pointy-toed black leather shoes, all mixed up, and for the frosting on the cake...Hippies!
Many of those groups were violent. I had to walk past a house on my way to the overpass to reach school. This house was a dirty tan and had a dirt yard. It was painted tan but it was half covered with dirt, with a dog chained up in front. I'd be walking down the street whistling a happy tune, and the kid from that yard would run up and punch me in the gut, leaving me doubled over trying to get my breath.
In the fall of 65, on my first day of 8th grade in the new town, our homeroom was lined up waiting to go into the building. Mike S. was standing right in front of me. I stepped out of line to see what was going on and what we were waiting for. Mike turned around and told me to get back in line.
"But ... I'm just looking..."
"We don't look!"
The whole school knew that Mike and I hated each other… Finally, near the end of H.S., our gym coach, Coach Negre, had the entire class of boys line up around a boxing ring of gray wrestling mats in the gym. Mike and I put on boxing gloves and duked it out. Pretty soon I lost my footing and went down on one knee. Even though I popped right back up, the coach declared the fight over. I lost the fight, but I had landed a good punch and gained Mike's respect. Afterwards, Mike and I actually became wary friends.
Gray Scott: I do remember that boxing match with you and Mike! I was friends with Mike too (although we had a clash in 5th grade, due to his provoking me similarly). But of course I sided with you since we were really hanging out then, and being a guy who didn't pick fights, but would stand up and fight if picked on. Mike (at that time) was a bully. He mellowed as he matured. Playing Rock music finally got the wiles out of him in a more constructive way. Yeah, you did gain Mike's respect, and a lot of other kids too. "We don't look" — A typical line to put a new kid "in his place", uttered by a guy who "gets out of line" all the time!
On my first day at Foothill High for 9th grade, I went to the cafeteria for lunch, got my tray and walked around looking for an empty seat. As a new kid I knew no one there. When I finally sat down some idiot came over and started screaming, “Stop looking at my girlfriend.” This was all to impress her; I was completely oblivious. For the rest of high school I never went back into the cafeteria. There was an outside window where you could order junk food. My “lunch” from then on was a box of Junior Mints (which we called “Hooniors” in fake Spanish) and a Hostess Apple Pie. After I had my driver’s license I could drive to McDonalds for lunch. I used to take a few friends along and I would hold them up for gas money (gas was 35¢ a gallon).
My friend, Ned McElroy, agreed to play "Stalingrad." I really loved that game! So I would carry it over to Ned's house. Ned introduced me to the original Zappa Album "Freak Out!" Next door to Ned lived Terry Garland. One day Terry and Ned were doing LSD. I was at Terry's house with Ned, and Terry took out a shotgun, started yelling, pointed it at me and pulled the trigger. He had a blank charge in there that sounded like I was dead. I don't know if I went out of body, probably. That fright took some years off my life I reckon. I don't think Terry liked me either. Again, may have been one of those "Sons of the Pioneers." He later fell down running across the street with his hands in his pockets, landed on his face and broke his chin. He had to have it wired in place.
Another guy in our home room that I really hated was Bryce Wood. He was a real bully and was constantly harassing me. I wonder if the Wood family wasn't one of those "Sons of the Pioneers" (like Mike Farr's family, below). I wished that he would die. Then, on the last day of H.S., after the graduation ceremony, he did die, horribly! Killed when his best friend's pickup hit his motorcycle. His last words were, "I went to get the truck, and I got the truck..." a smart ass to the end.
Gray Scott: First body I ever saw open casket. I remember thinking "Looks like a mannequin made to look like Bryce." Kinda freaked me out thinking about the morticians rebuilding his skull from having the motorcycle handlebars driven through it. His friend Don was never the same after that. (Bryce was in Don's lane, rounding that blind corner on Frizell Ave. with his head down looking at his motorcycle carburetor, trying to sort it out... ironically to sell the bike!) That damned line of trees stretching out to the bend in the street is still there, casting a shadow all the way across the street. I remember hearing the report about his last words too, just as you remember them. And I remember hearing that Vic Pryor, one of the toughest guys in the class ahead of us, and a friend/rival of Bryce, was on his knees crying over him in the street. Damn, it was right in front of Bryce's house! I was compelled to draw a portrait of Bryce after that. I was going to give it to his mother, but never worked up the courage to do it. I've still got it.
His death taught me a lesson that I never forgot. Especially as it came pointedly on the last day of high school. A lesson I should have known: don't wish death upon anyone. I swore never to wish the death of anyone ever again. I came to realize something about the power of negative energy in this world.
Sons of the Pioneers. My neighbor’s grandfather Karl Farr (top right).
Hugh Farr fiddles Jack of Diamonds (2:10 on Youtube)
Author’s Note: My great friend Gray Scott attended Foothill High School and was in my class. We shared an interest in World War II battleships. In fact, he had a set of Jane’s Fighting Ships, which we put to use in creating the first number of “Conflict” Magazine, under Gray’s Art Direction. (Some names have been changed.)