FAIRFAX

I moved in with Grandma and Grandpa when I was three. They had a little house set back 50 feet on Dominga Avenue in Fairfax, the spacious back yard of which butted against the boneyard of a large auto repair garage and service station. All the leftover greasy bits of cars were piled up there which was a boon to me, especially as we had a gate that opened onto this treasure trove which smelled of the magical combination of metal, grease and powdery dirt.

Wonderful stuff.

When I wasn't rummaging through these bits and pieces, I was either on my tricycle (the most dangerous and unstable vehicle ever designed for a child speed demon) or on my blimp, which was a three-wheeled aluminum job with a steering bar in front which directly turned the single front wheel, and was powered by scooting along with one's feet. I also collected a one-off machine called an Irish Male (don't ask me) which I sat on to pump a handle forward and backward to make the thing go. It was a dreadful contraption. I've never seen another one, for good reason.

The sidewalks on Dominga were a patchwork quilt of style and materials, all stamped with the contractors' names. I assume that each house was responsible for its own bit of sidewalk, which made a great roadway for my tricycle expeditions. There was a tricky bit of sidewalk at the bottom of the road, which always landed me in trouble, and then there was this magnificent piece of classy glassy racetrack in front of Anna's house where I could belt along silently, hearing only the sticky, whooshing sound of rubber meeting the slick roadway at speed. I've never seen paving like it since: it was pale blue and shiny, with sparkly bits in it, and perfectly flat and smooth with a minimum of expansion furrows. The contractor who laid that piece of straightaway must have had a little boy; it was definitely the highlight of the street (but deadly in the rain; even high heels aquaplaned on it).

I recently took my 8 year-old son there to check it out....that stretch is still in good shape, though the rest of the sidewalk is falling apart.

Anna and Louie's house was a couple doors up the street from ours and was built over their garage and basement which they converted to a wine cellar crammed with rows of oak casks. The front of the house was about fifteen feet back from the sidewalk and had a straight wooden staircase leading to the front porch. There was a concrete walkway which girdled the house and in the back yard they had built a grape-festooned arbor which shaded a long table complete with red and white checked tablecloth, just as in Italy.

Anna cooked all day, every day, and I could smell her cooking down the block. I could also smell her breath when I got close to her, which was curiously similar to the smell of their wine cellar. Her front door was always wide open and she would invite me in after I finished my Indy time trials out front to help her make pasta and to give me treats of home-made spinach ravioli, always accompanied with a big smile and a big hug. I have never, even in Italy, tasted ravioli as good as Anna's. She was justly very proud of her ravioli and said the recipe was a secret...it must have been.

Louie was in charge of the wine cellar, which always remained a bit of a mystery to me as I was rarely privileged to see it. I think he lived down there. The place was long and narrow and dark, lined on both sides with double rows of stacked barrels and exuded a very powerful, musty odor I never quite decided whether I liked or not. I was fascinated with this place that Grandma and Grandpa only talked about in whispers (knowing Grandpa's consuming interest in liquids from barrels, I'm sure he and Louie were closer friends than Grandma may have thought).

The real beauty of Anna and Louie's house (aside from the ravioli), was the strategic layout of the place: a child could run right 'round the house and hide in numerous places in the back yard where there was more space to run around...and best of all, we kids were always welcome to play on their property. There were water faucets located at critical points about the place. This plot of land provided us with the ideal venue for some of our most memorable water pistol fights.

The water pistol then bore no resemblance to the water pistol of today. Our water pistols were made of a raw, grey metal with a shiny metal notched rod sticking out the back that was bent into a hoop at the end and which was connected at the other end inside the gun barrel to a spring-loaded piston. The gun would operate by dipping the muzzle into a bucket of water and drawing back on this hooped rod with the three notches in it. As the rod was drawn back, water was sucked into the barrel and each notch would click past a ratchet which was part of the trigger mechanism. To fire this thing, you would pull the trigger and the rod would rapidly slide in one notch, sending a stream of water at what you hoped was your opponent's face; one of three total squirts. Not only did each shot really count with such limited firepower between each reload, but we also had to carry our water supply around with us, sloshing all over, in a bucket. In the heat of battle this proved to be very wet-making as one was dashing about trying to find cover, while also ensuring one's bucket didn't spill, simultaneously endangering one's footing and squandering one's precious ammo!

The logistics of this kind of campaign were quite complex as after the third shot we had to be near some sort of cover to be able to reload safely (the most dangerous time of all on the battlefield, when we were completely vulnerable). The strong spring took all the strength a three year old could muster and more than a few times slammed home, trapping the web of skin at the base of thumb and forefinger. In the midst of the chaos that is battle, this considerable strength disadvantage could be positively harrowing at times. We also had to know where all the faucets were, and to get to one which was not guarded by someone twice my age and size was sometimes an insurmountable task. Why none of us ever resorted to simply throwing our buckets of water at each other evades me now...maybe it just wasn't done, though looking back, it seems like an extremely good idea.

Grandpa and I had a little ritual in the evenings: he would sit me on his knee and let me have sips of his Tuborg while Grandma was in the kitchen. This was all very hush-hush as Grandma would have 'had a conniption fit' if she ever found out. Just between us men and all that. Well, one night Grandpa must either have been inattentive to the noises (or lack of) in the kitchen, or else he was more well-oiled than usual, when Grandma suddenly appeared in the doorway of the front room. We were caught red-handed, and that was the end of my beer drinking until I started a rock band.