Quail Crossing Frank liked me because I dressed well even for a teenager.  For instance, I wore a real African pith helmet when I rode my bike through town to the post office, to the drug store, to the book store, everywhere ... even up to Mt. Baldy road.  When I returned from town, I would sometimes cut through the colleges and then shoot down through the area by the football field to pick up the small walking road through "The Jungle" and then hit it! when I got to First Street and I'd follow the tracks to Mills Avenue.

I felt like Elizabeth Taylor in Africa when I rode my bike wearing that hat.  Rested perfectly on the head with small fingers that suspended the helmet slightly so you could get the breeze through the holes, and there was a tan sash for a hat band, neatly sewed by the armament company who made it, and a swoop that kept the sun off the back of my neck.

The guy whose National Fan Club I ran once gave me a ride down that street after a tour of town.

"Watch out for the quail!" I said.  I knew how they'd run out of the bushes by the walkway into "The Jungle" as if to race a car, and he gave me a weird look then his eyes went back to the road.  Then the quail ran out, a covey, and scuttered along the curb.  He gave me another look.  ("Told you so!" I thought to myself). People lobbied in town and soon there was a yellow caution sign there with a picture of a quail that said "Quail Crossing." 







  ¶ 9/25/2013 04:01:00 PM