HALLOWEEN BURBANK, 1962: “A Perfect Storm” EDITORS NOTE: This story is 50 year’s old and, due to time and the number of people involved, some of the events and some who participated may not be correctly remembered and given credit, or non-credit, where due or not due. We will entertain all updates. Contributors to this story: Tim Hovdahl (Class of ’63), Bill Ady (Class of ’64), Ike Makinson (Class of ’64), Fred Erdman (Class of ’65), and Pat Robinson (Class of ’66). ***** Best as anyone can recall, the Halloween egging started somewhere around about 1960. We’d pick up a carton of fresh eggs at Frankie’s (Ray’s Chevron Service & Groceries)—charging them to our home account as normal--and then cruise the town throwing them at anyone from the under-classes. Never from the upper-classes. That could get you hurt. The idea being not to actually hit anyone with an egg; just to loft it from hiding, landing and shattering close by on the pavement by the intended victim(s), splattering raw egg everywhere and hearing the yelping. All in all, great sport. By ’61, the “eggin’” started to get amped up as groups started forming for “protection & retaliation.” A dozen eggs—all transported in their original delivery cartons for shell protection—was not nearly enough to make the night. We had moved into a 3-carton minimum and Frankie, in response to demand, was bringing in extra stock. By ’62, the groups reformed themselves from “at large” to “classes”…classes with a lot of talent. The ’63 Class was the battle-tested veterans, all seniors, and well represented by Jim Miller, Marvin Kellison, Ed Welch, and Tim Hovdahl with George Crary running support. The ’64 Class (my class) was heavy on “tactical positioning” with Steve Darnell, Ike Makinson, and Bill Baker with John Best and Harry Smith running support. The ’65 Class was carried by Doug Ward, Larry Ady, Kent Grimsley, Ed Butts, Fred Erdman and Frank Scott. While somewhat low on overall “take no prisoner” talent, Ward, by himself, would make up for any three “regulars.” The ’66 Class was provided by my brother Pat Robinson, Tom Doran, and Ron Darnell, often with Kent Grimsley (‘65) as a “floater.” While not yet fully battlefield tested, these three—by themselves or with any kind of backup—were a force to be reckoned with. By Halloween night all three classes were loaded with talent, coordinated, and heavy with the prior week’s taunting. Cartons of eggs from Darigold had been delivered to Frankie on a pallet rather than a dolly. Frankie had them all stacked by the front counter with the family charge account slip pad open. You could run in, sign the slip, grab a carton and be out the door in less than 30 seconds. All was in place. The night started like normal with the classes formed into teams, egg-loaded, and cruising, on-point for the other classes. Not unlike a paintball team rally today. Then things started going awry... Members—and boyfriends--of the “W” family had made a trip out south of Burbank where there was a watermelon patch, gathering a bucket load of underdeveloped, fist-sized, melons and started driving around town looking for targets. Like Mom always said, “It’s always fun until someone gets hurt.” Getting splattered or hit by an egg was one thing. Getting nailed in the skull or the middle of your back by a bad-aimed fist-sized melon thrown from a moving car was another. And, go figure, someone—actually everyone-- got “offended.” The teams all head to the watermelon patch. Loaded up, all three “majors” begin an “egg & melon” assault on the “W” home where the “car bombers” have retreated to for refuge and have taken south and west defensive positions behind a 4’ wood surround fence. Eggs, melons, and insults are flying in all directions. A pickup truck, loaded with team members slides up to the fence and, with the added height are able to “melon & egg” the defenders hiding behind in basically, hand to hand—civil war style--combat. The Goudge family up the street had an old pickup truck bed that they’d converted into a trailer. The trailer is “obtained,” loaded with a bucket of melons, and packed with personnel. Several grab the tongue and head it backwards down the street crashing it into “W’s” fence--not unlike a beachcraft landing at Normandy on D-day--to start a second support offensive line on the SW perimeter. Steve Darnell leaps out of the trailer bed and as he clears the fence is struck in the forehead by a broken melon filling his eyes with rind, essentially blinding him. Like the Marines with a man down on the battlefield, we guide Darnell out over the fence ducking and absorbing live incoming ordinance all the while. Then someone lobs some “large” firecrackers into “W’s yard. Then Doug Ward picks up a metal garbage can, charges the fence, and heaves it over into the yard. Then “Mr. W,” likely in response to the firecrackers, steps out of the house with a 12 gauge shotgun and blasts the garbage can, skeet-shot style, just as it leaves Ward’s hands, sending the can back over the fence bouncing and rattling down the street. Then “Mr. W” fires two more accompanying shots up through the cottonwood trees in front of the home. Dead branches and leaves are falling everywhere. Game over. We load up Darnell and head out to our house where Mom Q-Tips the melon rind out of his eyes. While not fully at 100% with blurred vision, we get him back on-line. The ’65 Class retreats to the streetlight (one of the few remaining that Makinson and Darnell hadn’t shot out over the years) over by Francisco’s Market where they remove several shotgun pellets from Frank Scott’s (son of the local Deputy Sheriff Scott) belly skin, the result of the ricochet from the garbage can skeet-shoot. All the teams have now regrouped, all at full-squad, and all are back on the hunt. Likely in response to the “assault & shooting,” a second Deputy Sheriff unit now appears in town. The Deputy catches up with the ’66 Class, rolling his window down to question them. One of our group, about 40 yards away says, “Robinson, you’re a pitcher. Can you get an egg into that group by the car?” Maybe. I launch a “high & tight” fast one, and hear the egg make contact…contact with metal…contact on the door just below the open window of the Deputy’s car…contact that results in raw egg splatter all over the face of the Deputy…splatter which knocks his hat largely askew. Everyone scatters. Deputy hits his lights and runs down the first close group, grabbing Larry Ady, basically throwing him into the back hold seat. The ’65 Class is down one. As the Deputy starts to grab others close by, someone opens the rear door on the opposite side and Ady jumps out and disappears into the dark. The ’66 Class is back at full regiment. We’re not only now “eggin’ & dodgin’” the other teams, we’re “eggin’ and dodgin’” two deputy Sheriff units. Stuff you only read about. The rest of the evening went something like this… A school utility trailer being lifted up on the gym roof flat overhang. Hay bales being dropped, blocking the dump road from town. Several fire hydrants in town being opened resulting in shooting water across the road blocking traffic with a Bellagio Fountain effect. Harry Smith (son of 4th grade teacher, Keith Smith) being nabbed by a Deputy Sheriff after running the 3” aluminum sprinkler hand lines from the football field up onto the roof of the school and turning on the water. But the finale of the evening went to the ’63 Class where, after blocking the incoming road into town with anything they could secure, Kellison, Welch, and Crary (we believe) poured a band of gasoline across the road just down from the blockade, setting it on fire, and temporarily trapping the Deputy Sheriff between the blockade and the wall of fire. The bar just got raised to a WHOLE NEW LEVEL. Looking back at the town where water was fountaining in several locations, where individuals and groups were running everywhere silhouetted in the flashing lights and spot lights from Sheriff’s cars, where streets were on fire in two locations, where 3 0f the 5 entrances/exits into the town were blocked by same, the ’64 Class decided it was time to make a “strategic withdrawal.” Our work was done here. The next afternoon, Deputy Sheriff Scott pulled into our yard, catching my brother Pat to repair the Wilson’s fence. “But I wasn’t the one who ran the trailer into it.” “No matter. Your Dad owns a hammer. Get it and get in.” The next week, Mom left a note on the table. “Talk to me about the bill from Frankie’s.” ***** For Halloween ’63, the county sent in a 3 Sheriff unit and even commandeered a Pasco school bus for a holding unit, positioning it in the center of town by the grade school for all to see. Frankie, at the request of the authorities, limited egg purchases to one carton per family “Not one carton per individual, Michael. One carton per FAMILY.” Thusly, the “Perfect Storm” of Halloween ’62 was never able to repeat, left only to live on in the long-in-the-tooth memories and “somewhat” expanded stories from those who had lived and fought there. …as are all great legends. *********** BURBANK, WASHINGTON: October 1962.
Posted on: Fri, 01 Nov 2013 17:08:18 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015