​From:

Lee T. Bashore ("Junior")  [son of LTB]

In addition to mother, father, Bud and myself, we acquired an effervescent puppy, Huffy, and thus our family was complete.  Father worked for the Pacific Electric Railway, the Big Red Cars, out of Pomona, mother mothered and boys will be boys.  With wage and hour laws as yet unheard of, father worked up to 16 hours per day and usually 7 days a week.  We saw him infrequently although there were many family gatherings at the Roberts’ (Aunt Hazels’) dairy in West Covina which was adjacent to Grandma Ayers’ house and farm.  Sometimes Mudgie [Lee's name for his mother, Myrtle] took us on the P.E. car to West Covina to visit.  We all had passes on the Big Red Cars and could travel free anywhere on the extensive system.  We had an automobile, a Studebaker touring car I believe, with side curtains and isinglass windows.  The problem was that Mudgie was an “inexperienced” driver to say the least.  For example, when Daddy worked out of North Pomona and needed a ride to work, he drove us up in the car.  Since Mudgie was afraid to shift the gears, Daddy jumped out while the car was moving and Mudgie drove home without stopping.  There were no stop signs nor traffic light but there were cross streets and railroad crossings—and we were lucky!  Once when we arrived home—in one piece—she drove into the driveway but forgot to apply the brakes and we tore out a portion of the rear of the garage.  I began screaming to make her aware that she had done something wrong.  After that we parked in the driveway. . . .

Somewhere near the time when Lucky Lindy flew the Atlantic Ocean we took a drive to Glendora to see the town where we were going to live.  It looked neat, with lots of full grown shady pepper trees, and I for one liked it much better than Pomona.  Mother, however, continued to sob about leaving her “new” home and friends and this has never ended to this day, even though Pomona has become somewhat less desirable than the Pomona she remembers.  What’s in a memory?

Since Daddy had bid successfully on a run from Glendora to Los Angeles we had to live near the terminus of that run.  We were fortunate to locate a house at 140 N. Vista Bonita, 3 doors from the railroad track and a block from the end of the line.  How close can you get, really?  C. A. Radenbaugh owned the house and since he had no telephone, my job was to pedal the 4 blocks to his house each time the water heater went on the fritz, and that was often, to tell him that we were out of hot water.  He was not a pleasant man, but then he had learned to associate my face with bad news.

To the north of us was the “vacant lot,” scene of most of our mis-adventures.  To the north of the vacant lot lived the Galamores, Ma and Pa Galamore, their daughter, Effie Blankenship and her son, Clark Gene Blankenship, who was much younger than we.  The Galamores had no telephone so we were constantly sent running to their house to tell them they were wanted on the phone.  Our number was 485-22 if that has any significance in this treatise.  Pa Galamore had cancer and we were the procurers of special bandages and medicines on our frequent red car trips to the “big city.”  Ma Galamore always complained when we tried to play ball on the vacant lot—she said it bothered Pa.  So we played other things.  Once we gathered used lumber from miles around, built a full-sized club house with a wood stove for heat, covered it with tar paper which Daddy bought for us, dug a huge cave with tunnels leading in several directions and shored it all up with lumber.  The entrance to the cave was in the floor of the clubhouse through a secret trap door.  It was quite an accomplishment.  I believe the city made us tear it down after several weeks of pure unadulterated pleasure.  “Not up to code” they said, and Daddy could not talk them out of it.  The cave and tunnels remained long after the clubhouse was demolished. . . .

These were the Depression years, and although Daddy had his wages cut, he was never laid off.  In fact he felt so fortunate that he used to load up the car with bags of groceries and we would drive along the railroad tracks to the hobo camps to share with those who were travelling from place to place trying to find work which was non-existent.  This was Daddy’s way of teaching us boys to appreciate what we had.  To teach us to be law-abiding he took us to the Pomona jail and had them lock us up for 5 minutes in the padded cell so that we could see what it was like.  I was scared, believe me. . . .

We still went to the dairy for family reunions on holidays although the overnights became less frequent.  Several summers were spent at Uncle Dick’s house in Hermosa Beach.  Daddy would take us down, along with Grandma Ayers, and we would enjoy the beach for a couple of weeks.  We always got tar on our feet and could never seem to get it all off.  We walked to Redondo Beach to ride the merry-go-round and to get an ice cream cone for a nickel.

The last memory I have of 140 N. Vista Bonita was trying to become a parachute jumper by packing a bed sheet into a knapsack, climbing on the garage roof and jumping off while pulling the ripcord.  Nothing happened, I mean nothing except that I lost my breath and decided that it was not such a smart idea after all.  It was with mixed feelings that I received Daddy’s announcement that he had made a deal for a 10-acre orange/lemon grove with a 50-year old house on it.  It was ½ mile east of town on Live Oak Ave. and we were to move there soon.  Mother cried.

As I was now old enough to do some work, this became an ideal turning point in my life.  I began by weeding, irrigating, fertilizing and later on cultivating our 10 acres.  Later I drove the horses on other people’s groves as part of our grove care operation.  We had a hired hand, Walter Nicholas, who mostly drove tractor and the truck.  My wages increased to 25¢ an hour.  Our neighbor, Mr. Campbell, hired me to irrigate for him.  The water would start at 6:00 a.m. but to save 75¢ he told me to start at 9:00 a.m.  By that time the furrows had filled and overflowed and water was out of control.  I worked my head off trying to keep the water from running away.  Daddy finally convinced him that he was not saving any money that way.  I also cleaned chicken coops for Mr. Campbell for 25¢ an hour even when I was in high school.

We loved riding the work horses around the ranch until the summer when we pastured the string of riding horses from Harding Military Academy and kept two or three at the ranch for we boys to ride.  Once when Daddy was plowing our potato field with a single mule, Pete, he asked me to ride on Pete’s back and guide him down the rows.  He forgot to ask Pete if that was to his liking and he bucked me off, skinning me up in the process with his harness.

We used to save our money to go horseback riding at the stable in the Covina Hills.  Once Daddy raced by me and my horse took up the challenge.  I lost the reins and grabbed the saddle horn and we headed for a deep ravine.  At the last second my horse changed course and headed for the barn.  The stablemen blocked the path between the stables and caught the flying reins.  I finished my hour on a crippled old nag in the pony ring.  Enough was enough.

We had a dog named King (Fluff had been killed by a car.).  King was a pointer, a stray that we had trained to pull a cart to the mailbox and bring back the mail.  He was never gone from home, except that when Daddy’s nephew, Lawrence, moved from next door to Blythe, King was never seen again.  I often felt that King had also moved to Blythe to hunt birds.  Perhaps he was happier there.

One day after Daddy had been elected to the State Assembly, a bunch of pickets came and began to parade in front of our house.  Old Sam Baxter, the Glendora police chief, had a field day riding his motorcycle up and down the street to keep order.  After arguing with Daddy about some legislation, they finally retreated.  One of their signs read, “He makes his father sleep in a chicken coop,” referring to Grandpa Bashore’s apartment in the barn loft.  Actually it was more a manger than a chicken coop.

Daddy wanted to raise everything that could be grown for food.  We had ducks, geese, chickens, a cow, pigs, pheasants, pigeons, turkeys.  He ate squab (baby pigeons) and said he liked them.  I couldn’t stand seeing them without any feathers and then eating them.  We also had a garden and when Mr. Vander Sluis’s horse, Dex, got loose and trampled our garden, Bud, without telling Daddy, sent him a bill which Mr. Vander Sluis angrily paid.  I can understand his anger since our pigs had invaded his yard and we had also ridden Dex on many occasions.  We sold milk from our cow, Starlight, to neighbors and on Sundays Bud and I took field boxes of big navel oranges to the corner of Live Oak and Foothill Blvd. which we sold to Sunday drivers for 10¢ a dozen.  Some Jewish folks from Los Angeles came along and tried to get us to sell the whole field box for a dime.  We were a lot smarter than that and got 20¢ for the box instead.  I think there were about eight dozen oranges in a field box.

We subscribed to a magazine for children.  I think it was the Junior Home Magazine.  They were running an attractive ad for salesmen and it sounded so easy that I signed up.  I could hardly wait to get started and when my first order arrived I eagerly filled the canvas shoulder bag with magazines and pedaled away on my bike to begin my new job—sell, sell, sell! I headed for the Janeways on Foothill Boulevard to the east.  Why I picked the Janeways I’ll never know except that they had tow kids that we didn’t know very well.  With knees trembling I pushed the doorbell and asked Mrs. Janeway, “Do you want to buy a copy of the Junior Home Magazine?” forgetting to explain the hundreds of reasons why she would want to invest a dime in her kids’ future.  Her answer was a simple, “No, not today.”  I hopped on my bike and raced home sobbing that I would lose my job because I didn’t want to call on anyone else.  After several days of crying, Mother and Daddy decided that we could probably use 11 more copies of Junior Home Magazine that month.  Daddy sent the money in, along with a letter announcing the resignation of the super salesman for this territory.  We gave away the extra copies to anyone who would take one.

Through his railroad connections Daddy acquired the lumber from an abandoned freight depot which he hauled to our back yard.  Uncle Dick arrived to begin assembling the lumber into a 3-room building attached to the garage.  After several days, Uncle Dick (Michael H. Bashore) fell from a stepladder and left the project to return to his home in Hermosa Beach.  The hired hand finished the rooms in his spare time.  It was a neat building because it had strange writing all over it in the language of the hoboes who had slept in it.  We could never solve their lingo and unfortunately did not know what the writing said.  The plumbing was never finished but it did have electricity.  Once while “experimenting” with the electricity I took two uninsulated pieces of wire and stuck them into the light socket.  I blew a fuse—it’s lucky I didn’t electrocute myself.  Years later when mother was trimming the hedge with electric clippers she accidently cut the cord and couldn’t let go until someone knocked the appliance from her hand.

During my sophomore year in high school Daddy acquired a 1929 Chevy Cabriolet and gave it to me.  I’m not sure why as I was only 15 and didn’t have a driver’s license.  I drove it to school anyway with no problems until the day the police blocked the school driveway and began checking everyone for licenses.  Fortunately I saw what was happening and parked about ½ mile away and walked to school.  After that I drove less often until I got my license.  The car had a cut-out that would bypass the muffler and make tons of noise.  That too was illegal so I used the cut-out only on selected occasions.  As was the custom I want to lower the top so I had friends in shop class do it for me.  Earl Scheib painted it a bright blue with red wheels and a black top for his usual $29.95.  It also had a rumble seat and a Motorola radio.  I bought gear shift extensions and knobs and steering wheel covers from Pep Boys to customize the interior.  I drove this car all through high school and during the second semester at San Diego State.  It did not seem sophisticated enough for Pomona College so it was replaced in 1940 with a 1939 Ford Tudor V-8 sedan which had listed new the previous year for $650. . . .

High school for me was a frustrating experience as I felt as though I could never reach my goals.  I was active in sports, music, drama, debating and organizations but was never elected to a class or student body office.  When I ran for student body president the ballot box was stuffed and I was defeated.  The final count was never announced.  I played in the All-So. Calif. High school orchestra and was elected baseball captain and that was some consolation.  I batted .400 in my senior year winning the batting championship.  I played trombone in Bill Potter’s dance band and took an after-school job at the dairy in West Covina driving milk truck during my senior year so that I had to miss most of the baseball practice games.  It was with genuine surprise that I was selected as the outstanding male student for the prestigious American Legion award at graduation.  But I was anxious to leave Citrus to make some new friends and have some new experiences.  Floyd Hayden, Citrus’ principal, left me with a negative feeling toward Citrus when he tried to convince me that I should attend Citrus J. C. by refusing to sign my letter of transmittal to Pomona College.  Daddy convinced him that it would be in his best interest to sign the letter. They were desperate for students at Citrus J. C.—they had only 150 in the entire school.

I was encouraged by Daddy to take the Pomona College scholarship exam after my junior year where I quickly learned that I had a lot to learn.  I was accepted at Pomona on my G.P.A. but could not enter because of our family finances—tuition then was about $175 per semester and I wanted to live on campus.  A solution was found at San Diego State where tuition was about $35, and the living costs were more reasonable.  So we loaded up the Buick with furniture and clothing and headed south to San Diego where Daddy knew the president, Ben Hepner, an old Covina acquaintance. . . .

Everything after D-Day was anti-climactic in that we spent 11 months doing ferry duty between various ports in Southern England and various locations in France.  The big ships left the area within 2 or 3 days leaving only cargo ships and landing craft to finish the job.  In late June [1944] while sailing in the [English] Channel I was handed a radiogram from the Red Cross informing me of the unexpected death of my father in St. Louis, Mo.  I ws devastated and applied immediately to Capt. Dale for emergency leave.  Without hesitation he denied the leave stating that our operation was critical and that he could not spare any personnel at this time.  Having seen him operate before, I knew his response would depend more on the person asking than on the circumstances at hand.  I was unable to play his game of favorites for the sake of favors and this was one of his ways of showing me who was in charge.

(Lee T. Bashore, Autobiography [entitled The Life and Times of Lee T. Bashore, written in January 1991)