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ROY EPSTEIN
My Stories:
I was born on August 8, 1915 in Los Angeles and enjoyed Journalism in high school. I joined the CCC after high school and later attended Jr. College. I worked in the Department of Parks and Recreation. I was a volunteer trail maker in Griffith Park and have always loved working with the earth.
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"We have our first automobile," Papa announced. It was 1923 and I was 8 years old. "And we have a specially designed body for the truck!" No more Horse and Wagon. No more backing the wagon into the wooden garage.
Papa used to come home after a long day, down the alley, and back the wagon into the garage. He'd unleash the horse from the harness, and the horse would walk into his private barn that Papa had built for him. Papa wiped the sweat from the horse's head and shoulders. He'd fill a basin with water for the horse to drink, put down fresh hay, and give the horse a leather bag filled with oats. And for desert, a fresh carrot with the green leaves still on. There was a smell in the barn from the manure, dirty hay on the ground and the sweat of man and beast.
No more walking to the Blacksmith's shop on Compton Avenue. Oh, did I get pleasure when the Blacksmith made new iron shoes for the horse! I watched him do his work. He wore a leather apron. He heated up the coals with a blower and hammered out the horseshoes, then dipped them in a trough of cold water. The steam would sizzle. Then the Blacksmith pounded the heated iron horseshoes on a big anvil. He'd remove the old iron shoes from the horse and file the horse's hooves smooth. Then he checked the fit of the new shoes. Holding each bent foot of the horse between his legs in a grip, he nailed on the shoes.The nails were pretty big and there were already holes for the horseshoes on the hooves. Oh, it was hot and steamy on the dirt floor of the Blacksmith shop.
Then Papa would walk the horse home, a few blocks away. Sometimes I sat on the wagon seat with Papa when he peddled fruit and vegetables in several Los Angeles neighborhoods. He'd yell, "Oranges, apples and potatoes. Fresh strawberries!" Papa had a hand bell he rang for his regular customers. There was a rhythm to the horse's trot, going to the Wholesale fruit market, and music to the ride home. The horse knew when the day is ended. Papa loosened the reins and the horse trotted home without any coaching. Papa was gentle with the horse. He pet him by using his hands and wiping the horse's nose that collected dust from the city air. Goodbye horse.
Papa bought the Model T Ford from the Nadeau Ford Company. The little four-cylinder engine had lots of power. Papa had to turn down the spark and crank the engine to get it started. One time Papa forgot to turn down the spark lever and got a hernia. Also, you could also get a broken arm if you forgot to turn down the spark lever. There were two levers by the steering wheel shaft he pushed up or down to race the motor slower or faster. On the floor were three pedals: The left was a gas pedal, the middle was a clutch for going backwards, and the right was a brake. There was also a hand brake to stop on a slope.
Papa made removable shelves for the fresh boxes of fruit and vegetables and the empty boxes. He filled the truck with gunnysacks for potatoes and onions and strawberry crates for 36 boxes of strawberries stacked in two layers. Freshly lumbered boxes contained the fruits and vegetables. There were cabbages, ripe peaches, apricots, plums, cantaloupes, watermelons, apples, and oranges Valencia and Navels. Papa had an old-fashioned thermos bottle with hot coffee. The wheels on the truck had hard rubber tires, 2 inches thick. A new way to travel.
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I want to fly a kite like the bigger boys do. I'll go get the stuff I need to make my own kite. I walk to the store and get two five cent balls of white string wrapped on a round cardboard paper with a hole in the middle (like toilet paper has). A glass jar of white paste is at my house. I get two thin sticks that are strong but you can bend them and they do not break. I rewind the string (that was on the cardboard paper) on a smooth piece of wood, so that there will be a handle, lengthwise to twist like a circle. I'll gather a newspaper and the white paste and a length of cloth that I tear to size and tie the pieces with a knot. I'm going to make my own kite! I tie the sticks together into a cross. And tie the pieces so they don't become loosened. I make the pattern like Momma does for making clothes on the Singer sewing machine. I get on my knees, cut the paper a little bit bigger than the sticks, put paste on the cut edges. Okay.
Now what do I do next? I bend the side stick and tie the ends together so I have a place for the wind to pull the kite. My hands are sticky from the paste. I don't care! My pants get a hole by the knees. I am barefooted and I rub the skin off my toes and it hurts. But I must make my own kite. I get some old torn cloth and make a long tail. I wonder, is my kite balanced? I tie the string on the wooden handle of the string, to the bent cross-stick in the middle to catch the wind like a sail on a boat. Not too much pull, just enough. I hook the tail on the bottom of the straight stick. Tie my roll of string to the middle of the bent piece of wood. And I'm ready to go fly my kite.
Will my kite fly? I run into the middle of the street. I hope the kite is in balance. I'm on 42nd Street. I don't worry about the autos. I'm excited, my heart is beating faster. I run down the street, but the string loosened from the spool on the handle. So I make my own wind to get the kite into the air. I'm puffing.
My kite zigzags and twists from side to side. I stop, out of breath. My homemade kite plunks to the ground, top side down. I cut off some of the tail with my pocket knife. I try again. Same thing happens. Kerplunk. I feel bad and empty inside my body. My kite doesn't fly.
So I watch the bigger boys who know how to fly kites. They have lots of string and their kites go way up in the air. I watch and enjoy seeing the kites get smaller as they fly high and away. These guys are feeling good inside. I can tell by the cocky looks and smirks on their faces.
I'm gloomy and tired after all that work. I tear up my kite but keep the two sticks. "Hey," the string on the high-flying kite breaks. The kite, without the bigger boy pulling on it, slowly begins to come down. A bunch of us start running after the kite. The kite flies a couple of blocks away onto a roof with the broken string still tied to the kite. So now we guys are blowing our breath hard. I feel better inside as his kite plunks to earth. Chasing the kite has been fun.
We boys don't think too much about anything else. We walk back to our block, 42nd Street. I am a dirty, sticky boy with torn pants at the knees, sore toes and darn wore out. Next time I'll by a store kite with pretty paper for 10 cents. I'm hungry. "Momma, what is there to eat?"
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I walk into the barbershop. My heart is throbbing. I'm excited. A bit tense. I don't shave yet maybe I have some fuzz. I'll act like the grownups, as though I'm an important person, even though I'm 14. Most of the other customers also wear that look of "I'm somebody." The price is 35 cents.
The barber came out our way, to 84th and So. San Pedro Street, from downtown because it's the Depression. President Hoover is in office. This barber is high class, so dignified and polite. You can tell he's a professional. He wears a white shirt and a tie and a clean starched white smock. He's got a pair of dignified glasses and also a light pleasant smile. I sit in a soft chair against the south wall. The place is small but there are several seats on this south side. There are two barber chairs cushioned with black leather with a place to lean back on for the head and a metal step above the floor. The barber has a handle on one side of the barber chair so he can sit you up or down. In the back of the barber chairs, is a huge mirror above the mantel piece where all the smelling bottles are neatly placed with a hot and cold water basin kept clean and rings around the porcelain sides. There is a shaving cup and soap to make lather.
I feel like an elite guy who has made it. On a small side table by the partition are magazines and a newspaper. I am sitting in a customer chair along with two other grown ups waiting our turn and observing the barber doing his job or delving into some reading. A plate glass window is on the west front facing San Pedro Street. I pick up a copy of the Police Gazette. I look stern and worldly on my facial expression.
As I gawk at the half-dressed women in the spicy picture, my face turns crimson. Wow. I have naughty thoughts and sensuous feelings. My heart is beating fast. I place the monthly magazine on cheap paper in front of my face. Now the barber signals it's MY TURN. I put the magazine down by the Colliers and Saturday Evening Post. Stand up straight. The barber helps me to sit in the cushioned chair and adjusts it for me. He asks, "How do you want it done?" I make a low-toned voice, "Medium cut."
He knows the score. But he makes me feel like I KNOW WHAT I WANT. He works with a sharpened scissors so the hair cuts easily and a comb with a handle. His fingers are deft and relaxed. He gives me a light trim with the electric clipper that has two speeds and is on a long cord. He brushes out the loose pieces of cut hair. And now I'm waiting for him to take a shaving cup and soap and with hot water make a thick lather with a shaving brush.
Ah, now comes the pleasure. Like a first romance. First he takes a thick clean towel in real hot water from the basin and folds and applies it around my neck and face. Feels great! I have light fuzz on my face. After a couple of minutes he sharpens and hones the straight edge razor on a black leather belt dangling from the chair. With a classy motion, he mixes the soap in the cup till it lathers. He dips a shaving brush in it and lathers it around the back of my neck and ears. I am lathered up and in heaven.
He makes me feel like a movie star. With delicate hands the barber makes the finishing cuts over my ears and back of my neck. He takes a dry towel, dampens it a bit and wipes up the lather. Oh boy, it feels good. Then he takes some good smelling stuff in a bottle and wipes up off the apron around my shoulders with a wave of the apron. Then lots of talcum powder, sweet smelling.
Finally he gives me an electric massage on my neck and shoulders. Relaxing. Pleasant. I put on my dream feelings of being a man now. He holds up a hand mirror for me to approve of his job. I look as though I'm in approval. He touches up the razor's nicks with an ointment spread in his hands. It burns temporarily. He helps me out of the cushioned barber chair. I reach in my pocket and hand him a quarter and a dime. That's my total coin asset. I feel like I've been to a Beverly Hills-class place. I play like I'm a man and politely say, "Thank you." I got the full treatment.
I'm leaving the shop walking on air. Smelling good. When I get home the cut loose hairs itch, so I scrub my hair and neck in the basin. Take off my shoes, and I'm a plain skinny kid again. In another year the barber is gone. A beer drinking, older sloppy barber cuts my hair and we chat a bit. The price is now 15 cents, Depression time. He lives behind a partition in the shop. The new barber does a fast clip job. No massage. But he still uses the sweet bay rum with a smell like in a Burlesque theatre. And we talk street talk. But he is friendly and has a German accent. We enjoy each other's company. The hair cut takes half the time as the classy barberís. It's back to being poor again and knowing it.
The dream world was great. I'm used to the Police Gazette by now and get thoughts and longings for the pictured half-dressed dames. And I felt like a man about town before. Now I'm just a normal adolescent but with dirty thoughts and cravings for a bawdy woman. The nice girls I'm afraid of. Even though the flirting continues. But inwardly I'm still an innocent child and feel not good enough for the pretty middle class or gals with class. So I feel more at home with my peers, other young boys where we can talk and swear and go toward athletic interests.
Now that I'm 86, I still look at the young pretty gals, but in the mirror I see my age. The reality I want to close my eyes to. But the emotions are still fine and the thoughts pretty devilish!
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At 8:00 p.m. it's cloudy and cool outside. I hear a low-flying, noisy helicopter over Hollywood Blvd. and two other windy bladed ones above and behind. What's going on? I wonder. Must be a crime scene. I turn on the news and see the camera from the "flying machine" is showing the scene below. I follow it to Cahuenga Blvd. on the T.V.
Of course, now I remember‹they are relaying the Olympic Torch from Greece to Salt Lake City for the Winter Olympics next month. A few minutes later, Pat, the station announcer comes into the studio dressed in a warm jumpsuit, carrying a torch in her hands. She had been chosen to keep the flame going from one runner to another. Now the runners are heading for Universal City, to end the night of torchbearers. A flame torches a large container so it will last the night. I wonder, Why all this hoopla? Winter Games? Of course, it¹s to get our minds onto something that gives us pleasure.
My memory goes back to the Summer Olympics in 1932 at the Los Angeles Coliseum, where the torch had been atop the Coliseum Peristyle. I was 17 that year and the Depression was in full swing. In high school I liked to watch sports, but I could never do a back flip or soar in the pole vault.
On Saturdays, I would find some way to get to the Los Angeles Coliseum from my home on 83rd and South San Pedro Street. There, I would sell the Evening Herald for 3 cents a copy outside the Coliseum between Santa Barbara (Now M.L. King Blvd.) and the Rose Garden at Exposition Park.
But the only reason I did this was to get into watch the football games. They would let us in after the first quarter and I boldly sat on the shady side at the 50 yard line. I waited at the opening season to see if little Loyola could whip S.C. with Coach Howard Jones and when Stanford came, I got to see Pop Warner¹s team.
My folks were glad this kept me occupied so I wouldn't get into trouble. (Even now, people take one look at my face and ask me if I'm about to look for trouble, because I'm curious, get bored easily and like to see action.) In August of 1932, when the Olympic games were held at the L.A. Coliseum I really wanted to get in, especially to see track and field. So there I was with a few Herald papers to sell.
A young student was selling the daily program in front of the Science building for people attending the Games of the Olympiad. We talked and I told him how much I wanted to see the track and field. "But I have no way to sneak in. Even the tunnel is guarded." This stranger said, "I'll get you in after I sell my last 10 cent program." So once he did, we walked to the north side of the stadium. He went in the personnel gate, and handed me his official badge through the chicken wire fence. We walked around between the two fences to the Peristyle in the front facing Figuroa and to the south side, where the stadium faces Vermont. He took me to a stand between the fences and introduced me to the man in charge of selling Pictoral Reviews of the game. I filled out some papers and was given a badge for all stadiums.
"You have to sell a minimum of six to keep the job," he told me. I was worried. Could I sell that many? It was Depression time. Outside, there were many foreigners, dressed in suits and ties. I began to shout, "Get your program for the games!" (I lied a bit as the inner program only mentioned the days events) I yelled loudly. I had learned this from my pop who yelled out his fruit and vegetable jargon with a bit of humor and the bargain, "Six boxes of strawberries for a quarter. Make your jelly (The berries were overripe.)"
With my throat a little dry and with some anxiety I began building a spiel. The people entering the stadium by way of the stairs and tunnels were in a hurry not to miss anything. They wanted to see their nationals do well in the events. With a smile on their faces, they would pull out a dollar or a heavy 50 cent piece. They wanted this Pictoral Souveneir to take back to their cities. I sold six copies and got a few more.
In the next days I warmed up to the selling business and became self-assured. When the events began I would go up the steps wearing my official badge, feeling like a big shot of the organization. I would find a seat on the 40 or 50 yard line and enjoy the whole vista. Even buy a hot dog with mustard and relish for 10 cents.
The pole vaulters used bamboo sticks. The high jumpers performed the "scissors" one leg at a time or the "western roll." I remember Ben Eastman, the 800 meter runner from Stanford. I believe he wore specs. Later I was able to take two friends to the rowing events at Long Beach.
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"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye. How long am I going to live and when will I die?" Mama and Papa have passed on. They had their joys and their sorrows. My sister and brother have ended their trail. My cousins are ending their travail. Two left to go. My aunts and uncles have finished their time on earth. How about my time put in since birth?
Today is spring here in L.A. Look outside, the sky is blue. Did you know that the inner eyes see the rainbow? I hit the shower early on. Cleaned and shaved, ate my meal. Took my medication to help face the real.
Going to writing class this very day. Have not much more to say. Oh, I missed so much in my years passed. And now I'm sensuous and energetic but the years have gone by. So be it, as long as it lasts. "I've been single oh, so long! Shall I lament in word and song?" What is right and what is wrong? The long trail-is a-winding and here I am. I can still move my muscles and have dreamy thoughts. I feel great and serene at this moment. Did my meditation and have my sea shell on the table by my side to help me with my thinking. Encourages me to walk and to ride and to find my bliss.
I saw the moon last night as it went over the hill. Beautiful, awesome Nature. It is now high noon and I shall be ready to walk and journey to class once again. Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye.
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