The Memoirs Of A Rider

chapter 1

Back when i grew up we were taught from an early age, that we weren't supposed to cry, if you were a boy that's just how it was my mother always worked, and we lived just a few houses down from my Nana, in a Varrio that still stands to this day, a neighborhood that is Alta Vista in Northern Orange County not more than a few miles, from the Los Angeles La Habra border line. Back when it wasn't so violent, and you really never had to worry about letting your children out to play, on any given evening before the lights turned on, i remember all the kids scrambling, bikes going every direction, that was kinda like an  unwritten law, peddling your ass off , because if you didn't get home in time, chances are you were gonna do some time, sometimes it would be wino time, maybe sitting in the corner, sometimes Nana would pull a switch down from her favorite tree, and whip our ass, an equivalent of a short stint in the pinta. You know that even if i got the switch, it always followed with a few minutes of no talking then a hug, And that i remember like it was yesterday, i saw my Nana cry, it has always remained so vivid in my memory, it broke my heart seeing her cry, but even though she had just whipped my ass, she always said she was sorry and just how much she loved me, there were 5 of us in that tiny wooden house, including my Nana, i don't ever remember my grandfather living there, by the time i came around he had long been gone for many years, same old story, My Nana left with the children, he had left for his childhood sweet heart, i guess it was easier that way it never hurt, you can't miss what you've never known.