Awaiting a New Friendship

by George Zidbeck

Leaving the American Canal Zone in June of 1944 meant leaving my first real friend, Bill Dorgan. Arriving in California to live in the countryside north of Corona, the area aptly named Norco, I entered unfamiliar territory, both physically and emotionally.

Culture shock fully describes the anxiety felt during September, when school started. Not over anything specific while living on my aunt and uncle's farm, just a general uneasiness in not knowing what the following days might deliver.

I found out the first day when I lined up to catch a school bus taking me to the Corona Junior High about five miles south. Just before the bus stopped, a boy stepped to the front of the line. That's not right, I thought, going up to tap him on the shoulder to let him know he was out of order. Bam, I suddenly found myself on the ground – my mortification magnified by hearing this one girl laughing over the incident. Whatever happened to first come, first serve? More to the point, where was the proper challenge and to picking on someone your own size? Further, what did that girl see that was funny about my being knocked to the ground by someone bigger when my cause was just?

And then getting to school and not finding myself in high school. Had I not graduated from the 8th high school, not continue a junior status. Somehow I acclimated and met a couple of guys in the 9th they taught me to inhale cigarette smoke; to swear with improved inflection, and  their fellowship allowed me to explore the countryside. But, they were not friends  so much as schoolmates who offered opportunities for diversion.

Before my official 10th another young guy my age living in Norco, and with whom my younger brother, Bill, and I took public transportation to Corona on Saturday afternoons to see the cowboy matinees labeled "B movies" by cogniscenti. You will soon find out why I choose not to name that companion.

On one fall day, we three decided to hitchhike north back to Third Street from downtown Corona and save the ten cents bus fare. On the south edge of Corona, I good naturedly put up my thumb to a young Latino -- about my age and size -- riding his bicycle north on the down sloping Main Street. For some reason, he u-turned without smiling or saying a word. I placed no significance to his action.

(I suspect close to 95% of the slocoastjournal.com readership will have no recognition of the word, Pachuco. For those people, please put this tale aside and  check the internet. Type: Spanish dictionary + "Pachuco." Read the summary and then get back to me. Thank you.)

Not having anyone give we three hitchhikers a ride, we kept walking, reaching a lumber yard on my right about a block shy of the railroad station. Even without hearing a car coming, I kept looking south now and then to see if any automobile headed our way. I soon spotted the bicyclist returning with a buddy atop the handlebars. As soon as the two reached us, the passenger jumped off and quickly went up to my brother to punch him in the face, knocking him to the ground.

Goaded by familial ties, I went to my brother's defense. The guy on the bicycle had to get his bike off the road before then picking up a rock. Even while busy fighting my brother's assailant, I knew I couldn't handle two plus a rock. Being proximate to a lumber yard accounted for my spotting a 2"X4" board nearly two feet long lying close. With the board in hand I faced the two, and said, "Go ahead and use that rock
you son-of-a bitch."

Good for me that a car stopped across the street, the adult male driver stepping out and hollering, "Okay you guys break it up or I'll get the cops."

His command worked. My two antagonists soon remounted the bicycle, riding north to turn right on the great circle drive that defined Corona. My shell-shocked brother recovered and we resumed walking south. That's when I spotted our partner, who not only refrained from helping us, but had kept walking and was two hundred yards from the fray. By abandoning us, he thereby encouraged me to cross him off my list.

When Bill and I reached home, my mother expressed great alarm, coming close to not wanting us to see any more matinees. I assured her that we would, for sure, take the bus from thereon. Some adjuncts attach, but only one additional incident followed by brief commentary will have to suffice for this issue.

Come Monday morning, and getting off the school bus, I headed for the ‘boy's rest room at the rear of the school's front. When I turned the corner, there stood the guy who had ridden the bicycle. I stopped to look at him, and he pointed at me and said something to his three fellow Latinos. I sensed somehow he was paying me a compliment – no doubt for my standing up to him and his friend. Call it guts; call it moxie, but I never had any more fights on or off the campus from thereon.

My Second Bona Fide Friend, Richard Hall

It's too bad, but far too many words that deal with human relationships call for qualifiers. Even Elizabeth Browning's couplet, "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..." fails to define love. In addition, we use qualifiers to explain what foods we like, what books we read, and our choice of hobbies. When I wrote about my friendship with Bill Dorgan, I presented him as my first friend. So now, when I introduce you to Richard Hall, do I tag him as my second best friend, thereby giving him a second rate status? Nope, not gonna do ‘er.

Bona fide friends are equal in those traits that I admire and desire to emulate. They are people who I, with luck and favorable circumstances, met when young and survived into my adulthood. Yes, most have predeceased me, but such a circumstance has not diminished the value of their association nor subtracted the trove of memories that attached. We did this; we did that – all neatly packaged and treasured in special niches of my memory bank.

At age fifteen, I met Richard Hall when we rode the school bus and shared some classes in the Corona High School's 10th grade. He lived with his mother, two older sisters and a younger brother in Norco. His father had recently died. His mother prepared to move to National City near San Diego where she had family. Thus, Richard -- along with his brother -- expected to soon live with an uncle who had a small ranch in Norco. His new home put him closer to where I lived with my mother and siblings.

Soon after my first visit with him, he said, "Hey, George, it's Saturday, you want to meet a girl tonight?"

"Sure. How you going to do that?"

"I know this girl Mitzi. She lives just a block away. She goes to junior high, but she has an older sister named Fritzi. After dinner, come over to my place, and we'll walk to their house and see if they can come outside."

So I did, and the sisters came outside. I envied Richard. Mitzi was a looker.

Not that Fritzi turned up ugly and indifferent. Nope, friendly enough to where she led me to a pepper tree while her sister led Richard to a barn. Maybe Mitzi didn't look as cute as her sister, but she had a set of lips that not only elated me, but also instructed me on how to use mine for effect. No loss of virginity ensued, but my young adolescent arteries shifted into a higher gear.

Up to that night, I had kissed two young ladies in my Canal Zone neighborhood. Those lip smackings were perfunctory; no elevated feelings attached.

Richard also encouraged me to join him in going out for football. Both of us were too thin and short for varsity football, but we tried out for the "B" squad, coached by the woodshop teacher, Mr. Brooks. Turned out that only three games were scheduled. Richard and I didn't see any action except bench-sitting, but our limited involvement allowed us to join the Father/Son Banquet at season's end. By then, my father had come home, his wartime service terminated. Richard arranged to have his uncle pick up my father and me and drive us to Corona High School where the varsity squad got most of the floor time. Still, "B" team members were called out by our coach and had to stand when our names were called. I had Dad wear his U.S. Naval Reserve uniform, and that made me feel special.

When summer came, Richard and his brother were to join his mother in National City for the summer. Richard asked me if I could go with him and stay for a couple of weeks. No objection from Mom or Dad.

From Balboa Park Zoo to Coronado, including a trip to Tijuana plus side trip up into the hills to visit some elderly relatives where Richard and I were allowed to take a .22 rifle and hunt rabbits, each stop yet lingers in my mind. Special segments pulse even today. For example, Tijuana at that time had many side streets yet unpaved. Down one such calle, rife with small shacks housing prostitutes, some emitted ‘pssssts' to entice me inside. Yes, I kept to the street. Of course, what teen- ager in Southern California of those days didn't have a porno comic-booklet bought in Tijuana that featured popular cartoon characters of the day, i.e. the Katzenjammer Kids; Li'l Abner; Popeye...?

Since Richard and I lived in the country and experienced farm chores, we talked about what directions our lives might take after high school. To both of us, it made sense to try and attend UC Davis, the primary agricultural college in California. Not to be. After my junior year, I went to Colorado with my aunt and graduated from Fort Collins Senior High School. A week later, at age 17, I returned home to Corona, soon thereafter enlisting in the US Army. Richard worked in northern California on a ranch – a job arranged by his uncle.

Coming home on a 30 day military furlough in 1950, I connected to Richard who had a job in Corona. Once more he arranged a date for me. Another classmate and his date made six of us. I drove the family car to the "Long Beach Pike," an amusement park fronting the Pacific Ocean. Y military furlough expiring, Richard and a friend drive me to the Riverside Greyhound Station for my ride back to San  Antonio, TX. Once more he arranged a date for my send off.

Then we lost touch. Not until 48 years later did we reconnect. He had relocated to San Diego, became a concrete contractor, married and had a family.

On a fluke, I attended the 50th (Class of 1948) Corona High School Reunion at the behest of my brother whose class teamed up with four other anniversary reunions, and there met my old friend – our having no problem resuming our old friendship.

Thereafter my wife and I visited him in San Diego with he and his wife later driving north to visit us in Atascadero. When his wife showed signs of dementia and he had Parkinsons, the two moved to Oklahoma to live with their daughter, Cindy, and son-in-law, Mark Light. We exchanged some letters, but in short order both Halls departed into the hereafter.

Sure, the memories live on. Still, it'd be nice to sit a continua at a dining table and break bread with Richard and his wife; to continue filling in those years we did not commune. Moreover, we laughed often as friends do. Ya gotta laugh don'tchaknow?