Memorial Day Memories
When I was a kid growing up in Fresno in the heart of California’s San Joaquin Valley, the arrival of Memorial Day meant two things.
Freedom, and the Indy 500 auto race.
Don’t get me wrong. I knew that Memorial Day commemorated the brave soldiers who had died to secure and keep freedom for these United States.
I appreciated that — truly I did.
But the freedom I really valued back then involved what was about to happen.
Summer vacation. No school for 13 weeks or so.
Yes, after nine grueling months of going to classes with only a few breaks (for Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter), the guys (they were all guys) in our neighborhood were about to engage in what we considered The Best Time of Our Lives.
Three months of freedom to do whatever we wanted — and what we all wanted was to play baseball.
And Fresno was, indeed, baseball-crazy back in the early and mid-1960’s.
After all, the Giants had moved to San Francisco just a few years earlier, and their games could be heard on the mighty KMJ Radio here in town.
The Dodgers had also moved west a few years earlier, and we could hear their games at night on the mighty KFI Radio from Los Angeles.
Fresno was mostly a Giants town back then, but I was a Dodgers fan because of the announcing team of Vin Scully and Jerry Doggett on KFI.
Night after night, I’d take my transistor radio to bed and tune in to KFI to hear Vin and Jerry describe the extraordinary exploits of Koufax and Drysdale and Wills and Perranoski.
Almost all my neighborhood buddies were Giants fans — but no matter. Baseball united us, every summer night in Fresno for years.
After our families had watched the network news each weeknight — either CBS’ Cronkite or NBC’s Huntley-Brinkley — we’d gather outside to start a game.
Sometimes everyone would show up — among them, Kopi, Bob, Larry, Clancy, Pete, George and Claude — and we’d spring into action.
Sometimes only a few would show up — and we’d still start a game.
Didn’t matter what kind of game. Could have been softball, hardball, wiffle ball — you name it. We didn’t care.
We just wanted to play baseball.
And we did — every night, until it got too dark to see the ball, which meant not only that we could not hit it, but that it might hit us.
The only interruption during those grand and glorious summer nights came when The Ice Cream Man drove his truck up Arthur Avenue (always from the south.)
We’d hear the truck’s musical signature from a block away. That gave us time to stop our games and get our nickels and dimes out of our pockets to buy a bit of ice-cold heaven.
My favorite was a flying saucer on a spoon. Space-age stuff back then was big in the news, of course — we all knew that one day we’d go to the moon.
So buying an ice cream bar that looked like a spaceship — chocolate on the outside, vanilla on the inside — seemed quite “with it” to me.
Very modern.
That concoction cost 5 or 10 cents — I can’t remember. And once you ate that delicious creation, you got to see a number that was on the rear of the spoon.
If it was a certain number, you got a free ice cream the next time Mr. Ice Cream Man rolled around.
After all these years, I can’t remember the magic number that got you the free ice cream. But I recall — oh, yes — getting that number once.
I was the envy of the neighborhood guys that night.
Summer meant more than baseball, of course.
It also meant eating hot dogs and drinking ice-cold Coke (Pepsi was not on anyone’s radar) and swimming in someone’s cheap plastic backyard pool (our parents had no money, so no one we ever knew had an actual in-ground pool).
That was pretty much how we spent our summer days. Nights were, as I say, reserved for baseball.
All of this, kicked off by the arrival of Memorial Day.
Now, bear in mind, Memorial Day used to be on — yes, different days of the week.
For decades, it was observed on May 30th — which, of course, could and did fall on every day of the week.
But in 1971, Memorial Day was changed to be on the last Monday in May in order to create a three-day weekend.
That means Memorial Day could be — can be — any date in late May — yes, such as May 25 this year.
I’m not sure how I feel about Memorial Day not having its date “fixed” — but let’s face it, it really doesn’t matter how I feel.
Somehow I’ve managed to live with a floating Memorial Day for the last half-century.
And then there’s the Indy 500 auto race.
Until 1971, it always ran on Memorial Day — whatever day of the week the holiday fell on — unless it fell on a Sunday, in which case the race was on Monday. (Are you still with me?)
It was known, back then, as the Indianapolis Memorial Day 500.
But when Memorial Day started “floating,” the race anchored itself on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend.
The Indy 500 was a very big event, indeed, during my childhood. It aired, prior to 1965, only on radio, on the massive special network that legendary 500 announcer Sid Collins set up every Memorial Day weekend.
Dad never had any interest in auto races — but he tuned in to Sid Collins every Memorial Day.
And that broadcast was so popular — it aired in Fresno on, yes, KMJ Radio — that I remember walking through my Fresno High neighborhood on Memorial Day and being able to hear Mr. Collins describing the race all the way down my block and beyond.
Yep. Dads were working in their garages, with the doors open, and their radios were tuned to the 500.
Fresno had an emotional connection to the 500 in my early years. A big one.
Bill Vukovich Sr. (right) was raised in Fresno. He grew up to become one of the most talented drivers ever at Indy.
He won two of them — in 1953 and ’54. He was going for his third in a row in 1955 — and leading the race — when he was forced to swerve to avoid an accident.
His car was hit by another one and burst into flames. Vukovich died.
His son, Bill Jr., also became a racer and finished second at Indy in 1973.
And Bill Sr.’s grandson, Billy III, also went into the family business — auto racing.
And like his dad and granddad, he raced at the 500, highlighted by a 12th place finish.
And like his granddad, Billy III died in a racing crash in 1990, this one in Bakersfield.
Yes, the Vukovich family name — and legacy — remain emotional and strong here in Fresno.
Sharon and I did not watch many Indy 500 races after we married in 1975. And over the years, the race faded in importance in American culture.
There were too many other races — too many other events — to grab people’s attention.
Including ours.
But — all these years after I first became aware of Memorial Day and the Indy, memories of both continue to burn brightly.
They took place, after all, during a truly great, innocent time of life — when none of us neighborhood kids had any clue about our futures.
And we didn’t care.
All we wanted to do in summer was play baseball and drink ice-cold Coke and eat ice cream from The Ice Cream Man.
More than 60 years later, that still seems like a pretty good plan.