Peter Leibert's Page

During the late thirties, we were often visited by hobos requesting to do some work in exchange for a meal. They would come to the back door, were usually alone, and seemed very friendly. Mom always had some task that needed doing – chopping a pile of wood, fixing a fence. When these guys were working, we were not allowed to bother them, but I remember many a time talking to one of them as he sat on the porch steps eating his meal. I was often told by Mom to leave them alone and let them be.

One evening as it was getting dark, I took a shortcut by running through the orange grove heading directly for home from Grandma’s house. As I hurried by, I passed a large number of hobos spread out under the trees – probably a couple dozen. Each one of them had a tree by themselves and most were lying on the ground trying to get some sleep.

As I was running through the deepening darkness in the shadows of the trees, I must have scared the dickens out of some of them as a number of them yelled at me to “get out of here” or some similar thing. I know I was scared myself, and boy, did I get a lecture when I told Mom about what I had just done.

Once we had a hobo come to the front door. He had a group of little dogs and he wanted to entertain us kids for some food for both him and his dogs. And entertain us he did, with the dogs jumping through hoops, standing on the hind legs, etc. We sat out front under the big walnut tree during their performance. This was the only time that I can remember them coming, but my siblings have told me that he and his dogs came almost every year. If so, where was I when that happened?

Usually, a hobo would be passing through and we would never see him again. But one day, a guy came to the back door looking for work. Standing off to the side was his wife and baby. As usual, he was soon at work. I wasn’t privy to any of their discussions, but by early afternoon, I noticed Dad and the man were moving the bales of hay that we had stored out by the rabbit hutches; so I went to offer my help, of course.

What they were doing was rearranging and stacking bales of hay so that they formed four walls so as to make a room for the family to stay. They even put some planks up over part of the top to keep the dampness out. This family stayed with us for quite a while repairing and cleaning almost everything. After a few months, I started noticing that he was spending his evenings cleaning our old car or trying to get it to run.

I found out from him that Dad would let him have the car in exchange for work, but he had to get it running. I offered my expertise and after a few days we finally got it going. Then one morning, he loaded his wife and baby and their meager belongings into the car, said goodbye to Mom and Dad, and to each of us kids, and they were gone. We all were sad to see them go and often wondered out loud how they were and what they were doing.

Birthdays at our house seemed to occur quite frequently. But, with a couple of exceptions, they actually were celebrated in bunches. Dad, Patsy and Nathalie had their party in late September, Theresa and Agnes had their party in May. And John’s birthday was only a day before mine, so we had a single birthday party.

Mom would set up a card table outside under a tree and a few of our friends would celebrate our birthdays together. I don’t think I ever having a birthday party all to myself – even to this day. Well, at least I don’t remember one.

And speaking of card tables, one of the regular social events occurring in the Leibert household was the Thursday night bridge game. As long as I can remember, Mom and Dad played bridge with some neighbors on Thursday’s. In the early part of the evening, two or three of us kids would be the official kibitzers, as long as we didn’t talk. However, it did not take long before we would head for bed.

The game would go on until about midnight. It was a very regular ritual. Whenever one of the regular players could not make it, Theresa or John would get to take their place. Later, after my Dad died, when I was 12, I got my chance. I even surprised myself at how well I knew the game by that time.

I mentioned earlier that I attended Saint Francis Elementary School during my 3^rd and 4^th grades. I do not any personal knowledge about WHY, of all the Leibert kids, that I was so honored as to be allowed to attend this school operated by the notorious, strict, “White Dominican” sisters.

It is family folklore that I tended to be a mischievous child and that my Mom had been requested to send me in another school. Yes, I had an inquiring mind, and perhaps I was often in the middle of things, but mischievous – never. I just wanted to loved and involved with the group. So I have always rejected the premise that I was mischievous.

But the experience did leave me with some fond memories and some other types of memories as well. Traveling by streetcar was exciting in itself, and the delays of waiting for the next car to come gave me some great opportunities to explore the city. My favorite place was to take a stroll through the Mission Inn. They had a lot of things to do and see.

Did you ever see the flyers wall? It is in the patio just outside the chapel in the northeast corner, up on the 2^nd floor. They even have a theater in the southeast corner where there are all kinds of great furnishings, and they never lock that door. I used to spend some special moments sitting in that big chair in the lobby – the one they built for President William Howard Taft when he visited Riverside.

But the best place to explore were the tunnels down in the basement of the Mission Inn. Just off the gift shop, underneath the lobby, was a whole series of tunnels and little alcoves where they had statutes and pictures and a lot of things to see. According to the sign, you were only supposed to go down in the tunnels when you had a reservation, but it was easy to get by the saleslady operating the gift shop without being seen. Just go in there acting like you want to buy something, look at some of their books, and wait until the saleslady got busy with a customer!

I guess that I should face up to that other part of going to St. Francis. First, I do remember running through the playground and falling. Most of the playground was covered with three to four inches of sand. But somehow my wrist was bleeding all over the place. I was sure that I would die.

I remember being surrounded by many, many faces, and all of them were saying, “what happened, what happened?” There was a lot of blood squirting out of bottom part of my hand. I remember a young nun, whom I didn’t know, taking me somewhere and pressing something upon that huge gash in my wrist. She attempted to settle me down and told me that I had fallen onto the bottom part of a broken coke bottle. Today I might say, let’s sue Coke. By the way, I still have a scar on my left wrist. Can we still sue them?

That probably occurred during my 3^rd grade year. During my 4^th grade year, I have another memory that doesn’t exactly fit in. My main teacher was named Sister Basil. Out of the blue, with no justification, without any possible rationale, Sister Basil telephoned my Grandmother (who lived next door and had a phone) and requested that my mother come to school because of a problem with her son – yes, a problem with me!

Mom came to school, and before I was even given any chance to find out why she was there, or to explain what might have REALLY happened, I was being spanked with a 18 inch ruler “by my own mother” right there in front of my class. After a half dozen smacks, the ruler broke, but she continued to BEAT me with the remaining portion.

Now, is that fair? To me, that was it! “I am out of here”, I must have said. On the other side of the coin the records are quite clear that I was accepted into the Liberty Elementary School for my 5^th grade schooling without any recorded objection.

So what is this big deal about me possibly having been kicked out of Liberty School? Why would teachers at Liberty ever accept me back into their fold if I had been their classic example of a mischievous kid? Huh, huh? “Your honor, I rest my case!”

Back to Liberty

During the 5^th grade, I had a very pretty lady as my homeroom teacher. For the life of me, I cannot remember her name, but, I am sure my sisters can. I do not think this teacher was married, but that might have been wishful thinking already starting to occur during this early part of my life. The key thing about this experience is that she made me quite proud whenever I did something like being one of the finalists in a spelling bee round. Yes, I actually did that on a number of occasions (as I remember it).

Another little special entry in my memory is regarding some of the non-school adventures that I had during this period of time. My first cigarette was an example. It was a Thursday when one of my buddies convinced me – he actually forced me - to not go to school that day but to accompany him and another buddy to check out a few things.

After hours of his twisting my arm, I reluctantly went along with this scheme. The single thing that I remember about what we did that day was when we were at this guy's home, he “borrowed” a pack of cigarettes from his parents. Yes, we smoked them and I did not appreciate them at all. Thank goodness!

But the story within the story is that two of us returned to school the next day and about an hour later the two of us were called into the office to explain our absence of the previous day. I am sure the other guy must have squealed because by the time the principal talked to me, he knew everything!

But I kept my lips sealed and I still got a spanking. (A spanking by school principals DID occur in those days regardless what you may have heard from other people, and regardless of whether you deserved the spanking.)

Now here is the crowning blow. The next Monday morning here comes the third culprit (the leader) to school. He had also cut school on Friday. What happens to him? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! He doesn’t get called into the office. Neither the teacher nor the principal quizzes him. He doesn’t get spanked. He gets off Scott free! Gosh, was that a lesson or what?

Bert Edmondson! That’s his name. Bert Edmondson! I remember that rascal now!

My Father

I have a lot of memories about my father, but they usually are “snapshots” of him leaving to go to work, or of him off in the distance plowing a field. I remember sitting with him on the side of a flume up near the chicken coups. Dad had a gun and he was going to get that Tom Cat that was chasing our cats. That is all. That is all I remember about that situation, so I guess I will never know what happened to the that Tom Cat.

One memory about Dad has stay with me that is a totally different. We were on either Central Avenue or Chicago Avenue, but anyway we were riding in the car with Dad and he pulled off the road and told us kids, “I want to show you something.” He had stopped right next some very large boulders, and when we got out he led us in among the rocks to a place just 20 or 30 feet away from the car.

As I try to visualize the scene today, I sense that it must have been our old car that we riding in – not the Reo. As his kids gathered around him in among the rocks, he exclaimed, “look at this”. Then he went on to describe the black drawings on a huge rock as being an Indian drawing from long, long ago. I could actually sense that he was excited about what he was sharing with us. That excitement must have taken hold inside of me, but, I still have no better clue as to where these drawings might have been. I just hope that the rocks are still there.

Some things creep up on you. By mid-1941, I knew that my Dad had something wrong with him. The first indicator that I remember was when Mom and Dad rented a little room on the beach at Newport Beach. Mom and Dad evidently had set up some type of rotation system for the kids to stay with him since I soon was down at the beach vacationing with my father.

It was a great two weeks. I was out of the house at sunrise and on the beach every day for hours on end. There was so much to do and see. There were people on the Newport Pier that needed my help with their fishing, and one of them had equipped me with a snag line in order to catch the small fish that were all around the pier. And catch them I did. Then there was the ferry boat to Balboa Island. About once a day, I would be somehow allowed to take a free ride across to the island and back. That was probably because I would helped them tie up the ferry when it came into the dock.

When I was down there at the beach, it was overcast most of the time. But after four or five days, even I noticed that I might be getting sunburned. It did slow me down a little bit, but there were some people there that would stop me and put something on my face and back. This probably kept me going. Mom came to trade me for another sibling after my two weeks was up, and wow. This must have been the first time that I had ever heard Mom raise her voice with Dad.

And so when we got back home, Mom and I visited a doctor. “Second degree burns”, he said. “You will probably be scarred for life. You got to stay out of the sun, young man”, etc, etc, etc.

Come December of 1941, Dad had gotten so sick that he had to go to the hospital - the Riverside Community Hospital. I am not sure I knew what really was up. This was probably normal for most families then, and even today – the kids are the last to know.

One morning, the front doorbell rang, and as would be my usual custom, I rushed to the front door and opened it. There stood a policeman from town. “Is your Mother home, son?” he inquired. By then Mom was there at the door. “The hospital has requested that you come there right away.”

It was a confusing period, I remember some crying, a lot of waiting, but mainly I remember the quiet around the house. Finally Mom came home and gathered us all together and said, “Your father has died”. She continued talking but I can’t remember any of that. I remember dressing all up and going to the funeral at church. I remember being at the cemetery and looking at the casket and flag. But this is it.

Then a week or so later, it happened again. Grandpa had died.

With a few years of aging, like wine, we are appreciated more. That probably applies to girls as well. The first love that I remember was Mary Solasso – sometimes referred to as Mary Slop Hole if I recall correctly. By the time I was attending Chemawa Junior High, my entire attitude about females might have been changing.

If those memory cells of mine are serving me correctly, I seem to recall leaving home early in order to be “standing on the corner” of Van Buren and Magnolia about the time the girls came by, and then walk with them the rest of the way to school. For at least a couple of weeks, that key girl of my interest was Mary; she was a cute Italian gal just coming into bloom. I had known Mary for “all my life” but suddenly she had changed into being a good-looking young lady and could even be friendly.

But then, a few weeks later, my fantasy and attention changed toward a lovely Spanish girl. And then there was that young Irish lass. What had happened to me? As I sit here today reflecting on this major change that occurred many years ago with my thinking process, I suddenly remembered our teacher of the time, a guy named Art Johnson! I do not exactly recall if these are truly real facts or not, but one day out of the blue, Mr. Johnson sent all of the girls out of the room because he wanted to talk to the boys alone.

I think it was in the eighth grade – yeah, eighth grade! That request from Mr. Johnson did cause a little stir among both the gentlemen and the ladies of his class. He certainly had gotten the men’s attention, and when the gals left the room it became quite obvious to us that the gals had gathered next to the windows outside apparently trying to listen in. And Mr. Johnson started out. “Boys and girls are different”! “Brilliant”, I said to myself, “but I think I already knew that”.

As you might expect about me, I do not remember any other part of that session, but soon thereafter I found myself being accused of being interested in girls by my best buddy, Richard Barney. This, I categorically denied to him – probably thrice, like another Peter that I had heard about.