The Ocean of Grass
Life was great back in 1962. I was living in a suburban paradise, 16 miles east of LA, with no real personal problems, stress or worries concerning homework, health or anything! Then Allan Raggio appeared.
Big Allan Raggio lived in the corner house on Carley Avenue, one street over from Mavis. A silver-haired endomorph, this bully rode the streets on his “wicked” Sting Ray bike, beating up on and spitting king-sized “lugies” at us kids who were obviously younger and smaller than he. This boy was especially talented at breaking coke bottles in the street gutters and throwing rocks at houses, not to mention setting fires to trash cans and generally just being a public menace. My first encounter with this fearsome kid occurred that summer while playing bike tag with Dennis Nelson at the “Ocean of Grass.” I had just been tagged by the thrown bean bag, and I had gotten off my 3-speed to retrieve it. Like the Cowardly Lion in “The Wizard of Oz,” suddenly without warning, out jumped Allan Raggio and his henchman, Brent Traft, from behind a large camellia bush. Brent, who was well-known around Mavis street because he once set fire to his parents’ garage, was a scrawny kid with a “butch” haircut and wide slanted eyes.
With insidious intent, he stepped behind and put a bear hug hold on me, while Allan, with a matchbook in hand, approached me threateningly, lit one match, threw it at me and said: “What’s your name kid? Is it Shit Boy? Yeah , that’s your name. It’s Shit Boy.” I didn’t answer, but instead, screamed loudly, started crying and managed to extricate myself from Brent Traft’s tight grasp. Running as fast as I could, I headed straight for my friend, Dennis Nelson, who, being the same age and size, had no fear of Allan Raggio. “My bike! Two boys have my bike!” I sobbed to Dennis. And so, we trudged back to the camellia bush to retrieve my 3-speed. Meanwhile, crouched down like an aborigine, Allan Raggio was lighting matches and trying to set fire to one of my bike’s rubber tires. “Nothing better to do Allan?” my rotund, freckle-faced friend said as he fearlessly walked up to the big blond bully and rescued my Royce Union from a fiery demise. No doubt respecting Dennis Nelson’s poised bravery, the pusillanimous Allan Raggio stood up, took two or three steps back, continued to light matches and was now throwing them at my red-haired friend.
“You’re not so tough. Bobby Chandler is tougher than you. He can pound you Raggio,” my friend intoned with a slight smile on his face. Bobby Chandler lived four blocks away over on Messagrove and was recognized as the “toughest kid” in our tract. No one could run faster or hit a baseball farther than he, and no one, in his right mind, would dare to get in his way. Not even the redoubtable Allan Raggio. “I’m not afraid of Chandler,” Allan Raggio laughed. “He’s a wus.” “I’ll tell him you said so next time I see him.”
And with that, Dennis Nelson told me to get my bike, and together we went back to my house on Mavis street. As we walked our bikes up the shady sidewalk, tears were streaming down my cheeks, for I had never been ambushed before and had lit matches thrown at me. Dennis Nelson put his big freckled arm around me and said: “It’s okay. Allan Raggio’s a big jerk. Don’t let him bother you.” Being so rudely accosted that day by Messrs. Raggio and Traft was an event I would not soon forget, and the insouciant suburban paradise called Mavis street would never quite be the same, for whenever I returned to play at the “Ocean of Grass,” I kept a wary eye out for Allan Raggio and Brent Traft, stealthily riding their Sting Rays in the shadows.
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