All writings here are copyright John Woldridge. Please contact Johnnie for permission to use in whole or in part. (If anyone wants to add to these memories, E-Mail and we'll add them here and give you credit. Or you can write your own story and have a page of your own!)

Do You Remember?
copyright John Woldridge, 2001

Perhaps a cruise to Hody's? Maybe down Bellflower Blvd., with the top down, on a warm Spring eve? Pull close, it's Friday night. The football game is over, and we won! Every rod and lowrider is honking, chicks hanging out the windows, screaming, "Bellflower, Number One!" We're throwing eggs and water balloons at anyone who disputes us!
You stand up, leaning over the windshield, as our good friends in the back seat make out passionately. You throw a water balloon at a Mayfair rod, a '40 Ford coupe, yelling, "BOOOO, Mayfair! Yaaayyyyyyy, Bellflower! You hit the bullseye, the driver's open window! The balloon bursts inside the car, drenching all four kids! We cheer and laugh, and you give me a hug!

We make the loop in my lowrider Olds ragtop, turning west on Rosecrans, over to Lakewood, then south to The Lakewood Clock.

As we scrape bottom pulling into the Clock, the horns honk, and my buddies' obscene shouts embarrass me. But you just look at me and smile, a gesture that fills my soul. Don and Judy in the back seat are oblivious to it all, still making out.

We just cruise through, wanting to continue on to see who's at Hody's. And we continue south, turning left at Candlewood to cruise the Super drive-in. Hody's is always "where it's at," and we know every other super-kemp there!
We back in next to Don Davidson's '51 Vickie, and we see the three couples in his short are really wild! "Hey, Don! What's to drink?" I ask. "Vodka, my friend. The Russians are Coming!" as he passes a fifth over to us.

We spike our cokes, listening to Hunter Hancock until he signs off, then we switch to Johnny Otis. We watch all the kids we know cruising through in the coolest rides ever built. We're sipping our spiked cokes, flirting with each other, brushing lips, touching cheeks with fingertips, looking up at the open sky, loving each other, if even just for now. Gazing into each other's eyes, I find your lips with mine. It is only now.

And then the waitress is here, and it's time to go. But the night can only be over when you say...

Johnnie

Grunion Hunting

(This is from a post on Delphi... but even this brief note makes memories come flooding back.)

I almost forgot why we went grunion hunting. Hee, Hee.

We would bring home loads of them, and mom would clean them and fry them. Yep, she actually cleaned them. Yep, we would get our friends together and head for the beach to go grunion hunting. What a blast we all had
(Ed. Remember the rules? No fishing gear, no nets, no scooping implements... just buckets and your bare hands. Just trying to catch some of the thousands of glimmering, slippery, wiggly fish while laughing your hiney off with your friends.)

Isn't it a shame that today's young people can't experience a lot of the good ole days. No cruising allowed.

Okay, gang, thanks for the memories.

Johnnie

Beach Party with L.A.'s White Fence Gang
copyright John Woldridge

It was a warm, hazy October Friday in 1955. The thin clouds and smog could not conceal the Sun, but the muted light gave the campus a half-shadow atmosphere. I was probably the only 15-year-old who thought about such things, as the morning break brought the entire student body, shouting and laughing to the lunch tables at the BHS snack bar.
I carefully looked at each snack bar line of kids, and who was behind the windows, until I saw the window that Barbie was serving, and I got in that line. I had never dated her, but I promised myself that I would. Asking for dates usually was easy for me, except from some girls, who just seemed to put a lump in my throat, and a stutter in my tongue. When I reached the front of the line, I managed to feebly blurt out the words, "berry pie and chocolate milk." I gave Barbie my 19 cents, and received my pie and milk, and that gorgeous, sexy smile that I had waited in line for. I went to the table that Glen Jones, Gene Wallace, Ronnie Morris, and Jim Baker were already sitting on. That's on, not at. We never sat AT the table, we sat ON the table.

"Hey, you guys," said Glen. "My Dad's gonna be gone on a truck run until Sunday, but he gave me the key to his hotel room and said if we met there he could take us to a great dove hunting place in the Imperial Valley." Glen's Dad stayed at a hotel on PCH, across the street from the Huntington Beach Pier, and we all agreed to meet there tonight. We all knew this meant the five of us would rule the beach for two nights and a day, without any silly adult rules! This would mean I would have to get to Ben's Welding early this afternoon, as I had planned to have my '47 Ford ragtop lowered today. A seagull then interrupted my thoughts with his personal gift to me.

Of course, I wanted to devote every minute that I could to my academic achievements, so I stayed for my 3rd and 4th period classes, which was Phys. Ed. and Art. But while it hurt me deeply, I had to cut my 5th and 6th period classes, which was American History and English III. But one must make these sacrifices, and I cut out right after my Art Class.
Ben was not busy on this hazy, hot Friday afternoon, as I wheeled my Ford up in front of his barn-like shop. "What can I do fer ya, Johnnie?" Ben asked, not even getting up from where he was sitting on the asphalt, leaning against the shady side of the building. "I need you to lower this kemp, Ben," I said. " All I can do for you today is just heat the springs," he said. "If you want it done right, you'll have to leave it few days." "I don't have the bread for doing it right, Ben. Besides, I need to drive it tonight," I replied.

Ben reluctantly got up and wheeled his gas-welding cart out to where the frightened '47 sat, much like how I often sat in the dentist's office. Ben rolled his creeper up to the front bumper and reached under with his torch. "I just want it lowered about three inches, Ben," I said. Ben gave me a disgusted look, shook his head, and said, "You git whatcha git!" Then I watched in fascination as each fender dropped, one at a time, to finally settle the little ragtop less than three inches from the asphalt on all four corners. "Geeze, Ben....Is there any spring left?" I asked. Laughing, Ben said, "Oh, don't be a square, Johnnie! Just be sure you slow down for any bumps!"

I gave Ben his $2 and slowly pulled the now lowrider ragtop out on Alondra, which was Center Street in 1955. The concrete slabs which were the street served as little waves, bouncing the little Ford along like a motorboat through tiny swells. My 'Rebels' plaque clinked along on the concrete street from the little chains that held it to the back bumper. I would have to fix that, I thought, but I loved this ride, the bouncing, and the rad look of it reflecting in the windows as I drove by the shops.

When I got home I looked at the short as it sat nearly on the asphalt, itself. It was cool! The 'Rebels' plaque, though, was lying backside down on the asphalt. But with the help of my Dad's tools, I shed the plaque chains, and remounted the sacred icon on the top of the bumper. "Rebels," it proclaimed, proudly and with no explanation.

I had just finished the job as I saw my Dad pull up from his job on Alameda Street in L.A. I knew he would be in a good mood, getting home on Friday night, and looking forward to the Friday Night Fights on TV. I needed him to be in a good mood tonight, and I rushed to open the garage door for him to pull in the family '53 Olds. "Hiya, Johnnie Boy," he greeted and hugged me.

"I had to cut school today, Daddy, " I said. "I'm going to spend the weekend with Glen in Huntington Beach, and go dove hunting on Sunday with him and his Dad. "Okay, but why did you have to cut school, today?" "I had to fix my car, Dad," I sheepishly answered. "Yeah, right," was my Dad's sarcastic retort. "Tell your Mom. She'll write you a note, but this better not affect your grades!" My folks were the best any kid could ever have. And I knew it. And I never abused that trust they gave me. Not since my earlier indiscretions.

After the ritualistic shower, shave, and shine, I was about to shove off when I was stopped by my Mom, as usual, asking, "Aren't you going to eat first, Johnnie? We're having homemade hamburgers." I was just about to say no, when my Dad said, "Yeah, he's going to have a hamburger with us, right, Johnnie?" "Yeah, I guess I will, Daddy. I am kinda hungry." I sat down with the family at the table, and started to fix my burger. When I reached for the onions my Dad said, "I don't think you really want those, Johnnie."

He was right, of course. And when I looked at him, he was looking right into my eyes. Maybe this was the first time I realized that my Dad knew everything about me. He had gone through all the same things I was going through. He had thought the same thoughts, done the same things, and felt the same deep yearnings and emotions I was feeling now. The very same joys and pains of discovering the world and life. I was to think of this often in the coming years, but now I jumped into that low-ridin', top-down '47 and headed down the coast to Huntington Beach.

Cruisin' down PCH, I felt the motorboat bouncing, and began to find a super fun emotion engulfing me, anticipating the night and the weekend. When I pulled up alongside the brick hotel, Hunter Hancock was playing Joe Turner's Shake, Rattle, and Roll, and my imagination was in high gear. I walked up the stairs to the second floor and entered the hotel room. The guys were there already, and the radio was blaring R&B. The small bar had already been raided, and Jim and Ronnie were shouting obscenities out the window at the PCH traffic below.

"Hey, Johnnie! 'Bout time!" was the greeting. "Let's go, you guys. Let's hit the pier and the beach and mess around!" I said. Everybody was in favor; messing around was what we did best. There was an arcade at the end of the Huntington Beach Pier, and we started the night there. I became fascinated with a 'prize machine' in the arcade because of a small cigarette lighter among the many prizes. It was made in the shape of a tiny .32 auto pistol and I was determined to capture it.

I spent about $4, carefully guiding the claw to this awesome prize. My efforts were rewarded — after many tries, the coveted lighter was mine. I later presented this cherished prize to my Dad, as it seemed appropriate. Although I know my Dad kept this two-dollar lighter, a gift from a loving son, and valued it as a priceless treasure. But I was never able to find it in his things when he died.

Back to that Friday night in 1955...

When we had exhausted the arcade fun, we walked down along the beach to crash the many beach parties that were going on, with their huge bonfires blazing, each trying to outdo the other. The bigger the fire, the wilder the fun, was the statement. We headed for the biggest bonfire and the loudest music on the beach. We wandered near the fire and looked around. Some rough-looking dudes gave us the eye, but most of the kids were busy with their own fun.
Glen poked me with his elbow, and nodded to two chicks sitting on a blanket. They were both very pretty, and they seemed to be alone, so we looked around to see if they had boyfriends. This seemed like a rough crowd, and the same dudes were still staring at us, smacking their fists into their palms. Ronnie, Jim, and Gene told us they would see us later back at the room, and they left. But that intoxicating laugh of Glen's said he was staying, and that was all the encouragement I needed. Glen and I threw caution to the wind and walked over to these two beauties, ignoring the stares and fist-pounding of the mean-looking gatos.

Without even removing our 'Rebels' colors, we introduced ourselves and began conversing with the two 14-year old chicks. They seemed apprehensive, but told us that this was the 'White Fence Gang' from L.A. and they were just invited along on a beach party. I glanced back at the half-dozen gatos who seemed to be the security squad of the clan. I knew they could not miss the white skull and crossed orange pistons of our 'Rebels' jackets, and I was surprised they had not approached or confronted us.

Glen suggested to the girls that we move away from the light of the large fire, and one of the girls said she could get another blanket. Surprisingly, she got the blanket from one of the gatos. We took the blankets halfway to the surf and spread them on the sand. It was a moonless night and the only light was the party fire. The only sounds were the radio playing R&B from the Hunter on one side, and the sound of the pounding surf from the total darkness on the other side.
Glen and the pretty dark-haired girl laid down on one blanket, and the sweet-faced blonde, pulled me to the other. She had a bad cold, and as we made out, she would have to pull away sometimes, just to breathe. We would laugh about this, as we found each other's lips again. I knew I would catch her cold, but at this point I would take anything she offered me. Hunter Hancock played to us — Earth Angel, One Mint Julep, Flamingo, on into the night, as we found simple, yet deep, unimagined pleasure in each other. Perhaps three hours passed, as the young venus and I exchanged kisses, conversation, embraces, more conversation, bodies tightly entwined.

All the time, the Hunter played for us his personal R&B love songs. The pounding surf pledged to us all it had to offer. Tonight this lovely girl, just one year younger than me, was all I wanted in the world. There was not a thought of tomorrow. And then the inevitable shouts from their friends, "Hey, we're leaving!" Yes, it was after 1:00 a.m. now, and they left. They were gone as quickly as they were found.

Glen and I walked in silence back to the hotel room, where the other guys were drinking beer. Jim looked 21, and had a knack for buying it. We had a couple beers, and fell asleep on the living room floor. The next morning we watched the traffic on 101 below, and decided that they were all too boring and needed something to excite their lives. We should shock them! We should accost them in the most violent way, and bring them awake to the true cruelty of the world! Water balloons!

We walked to the nearest dime store and bought maybe two hundred balloons.We developed an ingenious plan. Some of us would fill the society-shattering balloons at the bathroom sink, while the rest of us would cast the quivering quenchers out the second-story window, down onto the fashionable folks below. We observed that we could see when the red light on PCH was about to change to green, because we could see the side street signal when it turned yellow. This is when we would let go with our aquatic barrage. We calculated that the victims would be hesitant to stop and investigate the source of their torment in the midst of moving traffic. For two hours we pummeled the unsuspecting public with special splashing specimens of our aquatic animosity.

That is... until we saw a top-down Chevy ragtop full of kids pull up to the light. We could not wait for the green light timing. We threw every balloon we had filled, drenching all six of the teen occupants of the convertible, along with it's upholstery! We knew our location had been betrayed when the thundering feet of six kids on the stairs brought the entire hotel alive! But our balloon-filling crew had never ceased their efforts in their diligent duty. When we opened the door, the six kids met a new barrage of water balloons, and they wisely retreated to the safety of their ragtop, which sped quickly away up 101!

Later that Saturday afternoon we all revisited the pier arcade, and then walked along the beach, bringing back to me last night's beautiful adventure. A melancholy mood swept over me, but I concentrated on the fun ahead. That night, we all went to the theater around the corner from the hotel room. The movie Plymouth Adventure was playing, with Spencer Tracy and Gene Tierney. Great flick!

The next morning we were awakened by Glen's Dad, getting us up to go dove hunting. It was still dark when we left in his '51 Pontiac Catalina for the Imperial Valley. We spent that Sunday shooting doves. My shoulder was getting super sore from firing that 12-gauge. But so were all the other guys'. We traded shotguns, trying to find one that would be easier kickin'. By the end of the day we were all fighting over the one .410 among us! We had about a hundred doves, and decided to have a cookout. As we ate the day's bounty, we would have to spit out the still embedded shotgun pellets. I wondered to myself if the taste of these birds was really worth taking them from their family nest.

We got back to Huntington Beach in the early evening. I got into my '47 lowrider and headed up PCH towards home. I had a lot to think about as I bounced up 101. I really loved the fun. I really loved my friends. But when I'm really tired, as I am now, I really like to be alone. Time to think. Time to evaluate. As I slowed on PCH, I saw the Oscar's sign calling to me. But even the lure of Oscar's wasn't enough; I was too tired to cruise. I turned north on Bellflower Blvd., passed the Long Beach Navy Hospital and thought of when we visited my oldest brother, Bobby there in the 40's. I thought of the doves, and I felt guilty for shooting them just for sport. I thought of sound of the pounding surf in the coal-black darkness, from the the blanket I laid on with that girl... that sweet girl I was with... and how we laughed when she had to pull away, just to catch her breath, because her bad cold had stopped up her nose. I thought how I would have liked to lie there on the dark beach with her for all eternity.

Bostic's Flamingo was playing on the car radio as I pulled the ragtop to a stop next to our house. It was dark now, and I waited for the soul touching sax to finish before leaving the magic lowrider to walk into the warm home. My folks greeted me with a hug, as they always did when I was away for any length of time. It felt good to be home, and I went in to draw a bath right away. The melancholy sax of the 'Earls' Flamingo still echoed in my mind as I slowly eased my body into the steaming hot water. I tried not to think of going to school in the morning. I let the ecstasy of the hot, hot water engulf me, body and soul. It even helped me to put out of my mind the unmistakable feeling of the beginning of a sore throat.

Johnnie

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Website established on 01 March 2001 and maintained by Karen Weston (Linda Whittington - Class of '58), in cooperation with the Bellflower High School Alumni Association and Bill Ste. Marie. Neither Bellflower High School nor Bellflower Unified School District take responsibility for its content, but we appreciate their input and support.  Volunteers are always welcome and always appreciated. Please contact if you have questions or concerns about the operation of the site itself or wish to volunteer to help with the site.