Santa Barbara, 1962
Crime and Punishment

Every household had a different way of keeping their kids in line.  The most popular method of discipline was to grab the offending child and wallop them on the seat of the pants until they got the point.  By some sort of treaty among the grown-ups, it was agreed that parents were only supposed to whack their own kids, so one of the worse things to hear from any adult's mouth was "I'm going to tell your mother about this!"   Most of the parents administered punishment as soon as the misdeed was discovered, but the Olsen family belonged to the "wait until your father comes home" school of justice and Mr. Olsen, a big guy who ran a construction company, used his belt to make sure none of his boys had any confusion about what they'd done wrong. 

Pop was at work five days a week, so most of the transgressions were committed on Mom's watch.  She did not have waste any of her time telling the other moms about their children's misdeeds because she was the master of the terrifying LECTURE, delivered to the unlucky culprit in public and on the spot.  I think a lot of the neighborhood, the Olsens included, would have preferred to be walloped by their own parents than lectured by our Mom.  

Whatever the method of discipline was, no one wanted to "get it" and there evolved a neighborhood code of omertà that rivaled that of the Mafia.

The Morgans had some motorbikes that we were very strictly forbidden to ride.  My sister Joanne particularly lusted after doing so and one day talked her way into using one in secret.  She was wearing shorts, didn't realize how hot the muffler got and burned herself badly.   Every kid in the neighborhood knew and NO ONE said a word lest she "get it" in addition to suffering the pain of the burn.

The streets were made of asphalt and the sidewalks cement.  The latter were great for skating, but you had to keep a sharp eye out and step over the bumpy expansion joints that were put there, as far as anyone knew, solely for the purpose of tripping unwary skaters.   Falling down was not only embarrassing, it hurt.   A spill on the rough concrete meant not only pain, blood and gore but at least a week of ugly scabs on the knees and elbows, a mute public testament to the clumsiness of the skater.

Some of the area around the Morgan's and Worrell's house was very steep.  For erosion control, this area was planted with ice plant, a succulent that has bright flowers, spreads easily and requires a minimum of care. 

All ice plant is disgusting, but the kind with large flowers is the most disgusting of all.  Where any decent, self-respecting plant would have leaves, this kind of ice plant has huge fleshy green prongs that would look perfectly natural only on an alien from Arcturus.  Ice plant's sole redeeming feature is that you can break off its nasty pseudopods and use them to write on the sidewalk.

Messages written in ice plant were brown and lasted a day or so before fading in the sun.  Some of the neighbors planted a sort of privet hedge that grew quite tall and that had tasteless purple berries: "tasteless" as in "no flavor". Every kid had found this out by biting at least one berry and no one had died in the process, but if they had, their demise would have been a mystery to the grown-ups because the neighborhood code of silence would have protected the transgressors even unto the grave.  

Berries were only available about half the year, but they were much better for writing on the sidewalk than ice plant: messages written using berries were darker and lasted up to a week.   Serious sidewalk writing was always done in berry; minor matters in ice plant.

It was a matter of regret to the entire street that the Fennerns lived in the house on the corner.  Big Claudette was a bully, Kathleen was a sneak thief and little Kelvin was a positively dire young sadist who threw rocks at anything that moved and who liked to hide in their privet hedge so he could jump out and push over people who were skating.  We were all sure he'd end up in jail and hoped it would happen soon.  Only Joyce, the next-to-youngest, was normal.  Mrs. Fennern was as nasty as all the kids rolled up together: complaining to her that Kathleen had swiped the peach-colored peerie boulder I'd gotten from Uncle Lee was something I should have anticipated would be an exercise in futility, but I didn't expect she'd violate the parental rules of engagement and slap my face for "Calling my nice Kathleen a thief."

Walking past their house one day, brooding on the unfairness of it all, I picked some berries and, in a lightning guerilla action, wrote that deadliest of deadly insults on their sidewalk:

I proceeded on my way, thinking nothing more about the matter.

When Mr. Olsen came home that evening, he found Joyce using a handful of berries to write on the sidewalk in front of his house.  He jumped out of his truck, grabbed her and asked what she thought she was doing.  The question was unnecessary.  Even incomplete, it was clear what the message was going to say:

Mr. Olsen is a Pooh Poo ...

Terrified and crying, Joyce admitted that her mother, furious about finding such a horrid, FILTHY thing written on her sidewalk, had decided that the Olsen boys must have done the evil deed and sent Joyce to write a reciprocal and retaliatory message. 

Everyone on the street witnessed Mr. Olsen marching her home.

He was there for quite a while and it was a matter of lively speculation as to what might have been said.  Sadly, there was an adult code also, so whatever happened in the corner house that evening remained a mystery to us all.

It was probably unrelated, but the Fennerns moved away not long after and everyone rejoiced. Kelvin, I understand, grew up to be a lawyer and practiced in Ventura, armpit of the California coast.

I never did get Uncle Lee's boulder back, but I felt at least partially vindicated.   There were probably a few kids who knew I'd written the original message but I could be sure that, if so, all mouths would be zipped and that I'd be protected by the code of silence.