prune picker

This is the blog of a prune picker. (Native born Californian) Retired oilfield. I am an old man. I blog a lot about my body and getting old. As I approach death life gets more interesting. More interesting is not good. I still drive. I attend sports, music, and civic events. I am writing my memoirs. I attend swim class three times a week. Some of my blogs might be interesting. A lot of my blogs are silly and trivial. None are very long.

Friday, February 21, 2014

(Boy 2) Rolled oats, baked potatoes, and dried apricots

I have very few memories of the house on the south side of Kingsley. Probably because I was only six years old. I remember going to my second year of kindergarten. I remember saying and memorizing the Pledge of Allegiance. I can almost see my classroom.

I remember that most of my family was still together. My older brothers were fighting over a garden hose. The end or metal part of the hose hit me in the head and knocked me out. Boys will be boys!

The Monsons believed that you should clean your plate. I was a finicky eater and some things I just would not eat. They said "alright you just sit there until you clean your plate". I outlasted them every time. They would finally give in and let me down.

I remember spending some time with Bert and Beck. They were Dad's team of horses. I remember chewing on rolled oats. I have liked oatmeal ever since.

I remember being around a campfire. We covered potatoes with a layer of mud and raosted them in the coals. They were good if you missed the mud.

Dad dried apricots in the backyard. He had a contraption with grated shelves with a fire underneath. He sprinkled sulphur on the fire. Dad put them in a big gunny sack. The sack was stored under the stairs. Before I went out to play I would fill a pocket with the delicious fruit. Just in case I got hungry.

Our house was in Northeast Pomona, almost in the orchards (all city now). We moved from there to East Third Street, a couple of miles east of downtown. I am seven now and start to remember more.

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