The housewife’s battle cry boldly echoed throughout neighborhoods across America, “Go outside and play!”
by Pete Whalon
A few months ago I decided to pay an overdue visit to Perry Park, my home-away-from-home growing up in the ’60s and ’70s. I was amazed at how little the landscape had changed. I sat silently on the grass, under a willow tree, watching three energetic young boys playing catch as their scruffy dog barked at every toss. The scene sent an unexpected wave of nostalgia through my mind. Had it really been almost 55 years since I first entered the rusty gates of this treasured boyhood sanctuary?
I discovered Perry Park on Grant Avenue in 1959. With little regard for my protest, our family had recently moved to Redondo Beach from Connecticut. I spent the first few weeks sulking around the house, driving my mom nuts. One sizzling summer day, as I kneeled in the back yard shooting marbles at my plastic Army men, my mom called to me from the kitchen.
“Peter, put your sneakers on and get your baseball glove and get in the car.” Before I knew what was happening, we were heading down McKay Street and turning left on Grant Avenue. She pulled our gargantuan ’55 green Dodge to the curb.
“Peter, get your butt out and go play baseball with someone. I’ll pick you up right here at 1 o’clock, okay.”
She handed me a dime and said, “Call me if you get in trouble. There’s a pay phone over there.” She pointed to a phone on the corner. “Have fun, we’re having your favorite spaghetti and meatballs tonight.”
I exited the car slowly, heaving my glove against the fence in protest. I intentionally ignored my mother by staring at the ground and not waving as she pulled away tooting her horn. I decided to go sit under a mammoth oak on the other side of the park to serve out my sentence. Passing by the Little League field I heard someone yelling, “Hey, hey, over here. Wanna play some ball with us? We need another guy to play over-the-line.”
The freckle-faced kid was pointing at me as the other guys began waving for me to join them.
Perry became my second home. Several of the friendships I forged at this one-square-block oasis are alive and well to this day. It was a remarkable period of time. Parks, playgrounds, open fields and backyards were safe havens for unsupervised children and teens. Parents dropped off their kids while they shopped, cleaned house or peacefully watched their beloved soap operas. Allowing kids to watch daytime television was unthinkable. The housewife’s battle cry boldly echoed throughout neighborhoods across America, “Go outside and play!”
Our motley band of Perry Rats (a name we gave ourselves) generally played whatever big three sport happened to be in season – football, baseball and basketball.
For many years the City of Redondo Beach employed a unique system for determining just when the lights would be shut off in the evening, forcing us to return home.
Mrs. Morris, an elderly woman lived across the street, close to the open grass area where we played football. Basically, the park went dark when she got tired. On Monday Mrs. Morris might amble out her back door at 8:13 p.m. On Tuesday it could be 7:45 p.m., Wednesday 6:57…
Her unbending routine remained the same. First, Mrs. Morris would turn on the back-porch light to her modest home. Next came the high-pitched screech of her screen door opening then loudly slamming shut, alerting us that the end was near. Then she commenced her slow descent of the weathered wooden stairs, accompanied by horse-like coughing and wheezing, followed by her methodical march towards the electrical box behind the picnic tables. Leaning on her wooden cane, she would remove the padlock and pull the switch, ignoring our protests.
Occasionally, we convinced her to have a seat on the picnic table bench while we finished our football game, but that was rare. Mostly, she would wave her cane at us, as if chasing away a bothersome fly, and declare, in no uncertain terms, “I’m very tired and I need my beauty sleep.” Then slowly, Mo (one our many nicknames for Mrs. Morris) would turn and begin her arduous journey back to the sanctuary of her home.
Often on a jam-packed afternoon during baseball season, our rag-tag band was relegated to Devil’s Corner, the practice field on the corner of MacKay and Rockefeller lanes. There were numerous downsides to playing baseball in that location. However, one loomed large on our minds – no backstop. We had to institute a scramble drill for the all too common emergencies. If one of our batted balls struck a passing car or took a peculiar bounce on the street, shattering the window of one of the corner houses, we ran like hell. There were valuable life lessons to be learned from such situations. One is don’t leave your favorite bat behind. In fact don’t leave any equipment on the field. Irate homeowners and fuming drivers delighted in confiscating all bats, balls, gloves and articles of clothing scattered on the grass.
During the summer months, I spent more waking hours at Perry than at home. If my parents had permitted it, I would have pitched a tent in center field. Living six blocks away, it took me about five minutes to run and 10 to walk the distance. My mom insisted I return home every day between noon and 12:30 to eat lunch. She imposed a harsh punishment to encourage me not to be tardy. For every late minute I had to sit quietly for two minutes after eating before I could return to my Camelot. Often I arrived for lunch with two or three buddies in tow. My mom was a much better cook than most of the other mothers and thoroughly enjoyed feeding my friends. Also, after lunch we could usually talk her into passing out some candy.
We developed a phone call system to contact everyone when special occasions arose. I would call Kenny and Bob, who would then call Larry, Lenny, Danny and Craig.
“Hey Kenny, it’s Pete, it’s pouring outside; make your calls. I’ll see you at Perry in 10 minutes. Hurry, and make sure Lenny doesn’t wimp out this time.” Football in a driving thunderstorm was better than Christmas and Halloween rolled into one. We could play for hours in the sludge, muck and mire, although many of us would have to tell a little white lie to get out of the house. “Pete, where are you going, it’s pouring outside?” my father might ask. “I’m going to Larry’s to play Monopoly.” Usually that would satisfy the folks. It was critically important to sneak out a set of clean clothes for your return.
In hindsight, I imagine the most memorable aspect of those halcyon days is the cherished friendships and indestructible bonds formed with my Perry Rat buddies.
