The glory days of growing up playing at Perry Park

Pete Whalon

This is the first of a two part series

A few months ago I decided to pay an overdue visit to Perry Park, my home-away-from-home growing up in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Sitting on the grass under a picturesque willow tree, I was amazed at how little the landscape had changed over the past four decades. I silently sat watching three energetic young boys playing catch as their scruffy dog barked at every toss. The scene sent an unexpected wave of wistful nostalgia throughout my mind and body. Had it really been almost fifty-five years since I first entered the rusty gates of this treasured boyhood sanctuary?

I apathetically discovered Perry Park on Grant Avenue in 1959. With little regard for my protest, our family had recently moved to Redondo Beach from Connecticut. With no new friends and feeling a little sorry for myself I spent the first few weeks sulking around the house driving my mom nuts. One sizzling summer day, as I kneeled in the back yard shooting marbles at my plastic Army men, my mom called to me from the kitchen.

“Peter, put your sneakers on and get your baseball glove and get in the car.” My mom had grown weary of my daily moping routine and had come up with her own plan to motivate me. Before I knew what was happening, we were heading down McKay Street and turning left on Grant Avenue. She pulled our gargantuan ‘55 green Dodge to the curb and quickly provided me with directives for the next two hours.
“Peter, get your butt out and go play baseball with someone. Make some friends and cheer up. I’ll pick you up right here at 1, okay.” She handed me a dime and continued, “Call me if you get in trouble. There’s a pay phone over there.” She pointed to a phone booth on the corner. “Have fun, we’re having your favorite spaghetti and meatballs tonight.” I slowly exited the car, heaving my glove against the fence in protest. I intentionally ignored my mother by staring at the ground and not waving as she pulled away tooting her horn. I skulked to the nearest park bench and plopped down. Demonstrating a more pronounced act of dissent, I decided to go sit under the mammoth oak on the other side of the park to serve out my sentence. Passing by the Little League field I heard someone yelling:

“Hey, hey over here. Wanna play some ball with us? We need another guy to play over-the-line.” The freckled faced kid was pointing at me as the other guys began waving for me to join them. That began my love affair with Perry Park that would carry on well into my 20s.

Perry soon became my second home. Several of the incredible friendships I forged at this one-square-block oasis remain alive and well to this day. It proved a remarkable period of time in history with vastly different parental concerns compared with the pressing societal issues of today. Parks, playgrounds, open fields and backyards were considered an extremely safe haven for unsupervised children and teens to play. These venues were the community settings where parents confidently dropped off their kids while they shopped, cleaned house or peacefully watched their beloved soap operas, free from the incessant chatter of children. There were no electronic devices to babysit restless youngsters and allowing kids to watch daytime television was unthinkable. During this bygone era, the housewife’s battle cry boldly echoed throughout the neighborhoods across America, “Go outside and play!” And play we did.

Many of these childhood recollections remain vivid in my mindseye today. Our motley band of Perry Rats (a name we called ourselves) generally played whatever sport happened to be in season. These sports primarily consisted of the big three– football, baseball and basketball. For many years the City of Redondo Beach employed a unique system for determining just when the lights would be shut off in the evening, forcing us to prematurely return home. There lived an elderly woman across the street, close to the open grass area where we played football. Apparently she was hired by the city to turn the park lights off before she went to bed at night. Basically the park went dark when she got tired. So, on Monday night the matronly Mrs. Morris might amble out her back door at 8:13 p.m., carefully making her way across the road heading toward the electrical box located behind the picnic tables. Leaning on her wooden cane, she would then remove the paddle lock and pull the switch leaving our dejected, protesting hoard in total darkness. On Tuesday it could be 7:45 p.m., Wednesday 6:57 and so on. We never knew when our game would end; however, her unbending routine remained the same. First Mrs. Morris would turn on the backporch light to her modest home. Next came the high-pitched screech of her screen door opening then violently slamming shut, alerting us the end was near. Then she commenced her slow descent of the weathered wooden stairs, accompanied by horse-like coughing and wheezing, followed by the methodical march of Grandma Morris stoically advancing towards the dreaded doomsday switch.

Pete Whalon, author of “The Siagon Zoo” has called Southern California home since age five.