We lived in Bakerfield for five years. After South Dakota - and North Dakota and Iowa before that - it seemed like the Promised Land. Close enough to the ocean for a weekend trip, two hours to Disneyland, and hot as hell in the summer.
Lots of neighbors had Doughboy pools and we knew where they were. We ranged the neighborhood taking advantage of every invitation and when the potato chips ran out, we'd move on. The summer between sixth and seventh grades, before the transition to exceptional adolescent female grooming, I managed to go three weeks without a shower or hairwash. Chlorine cleansed.
Mom must have really needed a respite by August, because unbelievably, she'd drop us off for the whole day at the Union Avenue Plunge, a gigantic pool with three diving boards and a 24' high platform. Teenagers and preteens scarfed slippery french fries and flirted between cool-off cannonballs. Pretty Woman crackled into Do Ahh Diddy Diddy. It was the place where I fell in love with The Beatles, the Beach Boys, Martha and the Vandellas, and Jimmy Farler. He was in the 8th grade and he had a silver front tooth.
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