TOO LATE TO BE BUSTED!!

“GONG!!! BONG!!! GONG!!!” went the old church bell.

LOOK BACK IN OJAI by Drew Mashburn

Contributed on behalf of the OJAI VALLEY MUSEUM

Would this bother you, say, around midnight?

Back in about 1964 my buddies and I were hoping it might. We were mischievous young teenagers just out havin’ a bit of fun. We had snuck into the Ojai Presbyterian Church’s bell tower from its former back door. We ran like jackrabbits after committing our dastardly deed! It wasn’t the first time we’d pulled this stunt. It was the third. We’d clanged the bell earlier in the evenings on our first two attempts, not quite achieving the results we were aiming for. Now at this later time, we hid ourselves a short distance away and waited in anticipation. We had succeeded … an Ojai Police cruiser came to investigate, then quickly departed.

We were never found out. I’m just hopin’ the statute of limitations has taken full effect now that I’m sharing this peace-and-quiet infraction in print, and a few other, let’s say, a tad less-than-legal activities.

I hate to have to admit it, but I began my life on the not-so-Little-Angel-side before 1964.

When I was a kid in the 1950s, my parents owned a home that backed up to the main baseball diamond at Sarzotti Park. A few old-timers might remember the old, wooden, two-story announcer’s booth. The diamond’s backstop — similar to heavy hog-wire fencing — was fastened along the front eaves of the announcer’s booth and swept outward about 15 feet from the base of the building where the fencing was attached to about a 4-foot-tall wall made of thick wooden planks. The gap was closed in on the sides too with fencing. Therefore, there was a sealed area that was inaccessible directly in front of the building. My good next-door-neighbor buddy, Mark Kingsbury, and I thought, “Surely, somebody musta dropped some coins or other good stuff into this closed area from where the announcer’s did their announcing on the second floor. We need to get in there!” I must admit, it was me that got Mark to thinkin’ along these lines. After all, I was the brains of the outfit because I was about 7 years old and Mark only about 6. We borrowed a pair of Mark’s dad’s dikes, then cut our way through the hog-wire. To our dismay, we came up emptyhanded. I really liked and appreciated the park caretaker, Elmer. Even after all these years, I’m sorry we created more work for him. Can you believe that I wound up being a park ranger for 41 years? Stinkin’ vandals! Oh, but, this was a great learning experience for Mark. As a firefighter, he got properly trained and paid to break into tight-to-access areas!!!

In 1965, my parents took my siblings (Mitch, Blake, and M’Lou) and me on a month-long road trip to visit relatives in Missouri (Dad’s family) and Indiana (Mom’s family). I think it was in Oklahoma when Mitch, 12 years old, and I, 14 years old, bought fireworks — and lots of ‘em! When we got home, we set up a fireworks-shooting evening at Carmen and Jack Robertson’s E.

Matilija Street home. A bunch of their neighbors came. We had a blast-fest! After it was over, Carmen and Jack’s eldest son, 15-year-old Nick, told Mitch and me that he could make the spent pyramid-shaped cardboard fireworks shoot again with gunpowder because he knew how to make it. Whoa, Nellie- Belle!!! Really??!!! So, the next day, several of us trooped off with Nick to the pharmacy that used to be housed in The Arcade where Bonnie Lu’s restaurant is now located. We went up to the counter and Nick asked the pharmacist for the three ingredients. Nick didn’t tell the pharmacist what we had planned, but any gol-dang decent pharmacist should know what’s used to make crude gunpowder. Nowadays, I’m sure a pharmacist would hit the little red button that’s concealed under his counter and S.W.A.T. would show up in a matter of seconds!

But not back then. In short order we had the fireworks reloaded. They weren’t nearly as good as new, but they did work, and Nick was on his way to being a living legend among the neighborhood kids. (No … none of us ever blew ourselves, or anybody else, up.)

In 1963, my parents had a brand-spanking-new home built at the top of the only real steep rise on S. Rice Road in Mira Monte. We moved in during the summer right before I began seventh grade at Matilija High School (Go Eagles!). The home was directly across the street from the former Ventura County Sheriff Department’s Honor Farm. My neighborhood buddies

and I hoofed it up and down that steep road next to the Honor Farm many times. We did the same with our bicycles, skateboards, and anything else that rolled. We spent a lot of hours on that hill. There was a barbed-wire fence that ran between the road and jail property. From the fence down the hill into the Honor Farm, the vegetation on the hill was kept clear so the inmates held there could not easily escape. At the base of the hill were agricultural fields that the prisoners maintained. They grew all kinds of crops, including corn. Say, wouldn’t it be cool to have a corn-fight??? So, my buddies (Doug, Rick, Ronnie, Joe, and a few others ... last names omitted because I’m not a stoolie) braved the denuded hillside between the fence and corn, and jammed down it as fast as our legs would carry us. We spread out within the tall stalks that concealed us. We weren’t even able to see one another. We ripped off corn cobs and began bombing each other with them. When one of those heavy, green cobs comes whipping through the stalks at you, you sure can hear it. And when you get thumped in the head with one, you sure do know it! Explains a lot about me doesn’t it?!!?? Amazingly, we never got busted.

My cohorts in mischief all grew up to be fairly decent adults. I even learned some common sense along the way.

Ojai Magazine writer, Drew Mashburn, on behalf of Ojai Valley Museum.

OJAI MAGAZINE | SUMMER 2021