Bathed in the soft light of dawn back in the ’80s, say ’84 or thereabouts, my school day routines were etched into the framework of simpler times. Around 7:15 each morning, I’d step out from the quaint ranch house we called home, my dad toiling away as a hand on the Maynard’s majestic orchards. My trek to Pauma Elementary was nothing short of a visual feast, flanked by a riot of Valencia oranges and the towering might of Fuerte avocados, guardians against the relentless summer blaze.
Most days, this serene walk was shared with a few local kids, like the Chavez brothers, Carlos and Oscar, forming a small band of early risers united by the daily pilgrimage to education. However, one day remains vividly etched in my memory, distinguished by the unexpected companionship of three kids from the neighboring Native American reservation. Jason Gillespie was a striking figure, his fiery red hair and ghostly pale skin contrasting sharply against his all-black attire. Topping off his distinctive look was a Raiders hat, beneath which lay a gaze filled with melancholy, punctuated by a distant, blank stare. Seeing him on the reservation, sticking out so much from everyone else, really sparked my curiosity. It became a puzzle I’d think about a lot during my walks.
On that fateful morning, with the school bus’s arrival looming about 15 minutes away, an impromptu suggestion for an orange-throwing game emerged—an echo of today’s laser tag but infused with the organic thrill of our natural surroundings. We ventured into the forbidden territory of the orange grove, where the air was thick with the scent of ripe citrus. Ignoring the Verne’s silent disapproval, we got lost in the fun of our playful battle.
The game initially seemed balanced, with the Chavez brothers and I on one side, facing Jason and his friends. Laughter and shouts filled the air, mingling with the sweet fragrance of oranges. But as the distant rumble of the school bus grew closer, the game took a turn. The Chavez brothers, sensing the time, abandoned their ammunition and made a beeline for the bus stop. Suddenly, I found myself the sole target of Gillespie and his allies, bombarded with a barrage of oranges. One fruit, in a stroke of impeccable aim or sheer chance, struck me fiercely on the temple, exploding upon impact and drenching me in its zesty essence.
With the sound of the bus nearing, urgency eclipsed my stunned silence. I rushed to clean off the sticky mess from the ambush as I bolted for the bus, the strong smell of oranges reminding me of the morning’s chaos. Feeling both embarrassed and uncomfortable, I went on my way.
Boarding the bus last, I entered a world very different from the playful atmosphere of the orchard. However, the scent of citrus lingered on me like cologne, accompanying me throughout the day. It brought back memories of laughter, friendship, and a fading youth, mixed with feelings of guilt and unease.
Looking back from the perspective of adulthood, it’s deeply moving to see how life has led us all down such different paths. Carlos Chavez’s journey was cut tragically short in 2021, succumbing to the ravages of COVID-19. Jason Gillespie, known for his striking red hair and enigmatic presence, met a tragic and untimely end. His life, a rollercoaster of twists and turns, culminated in a violent altercation, sealing his fate. Fresh out of prison for a crime in Pauma Valley, California, where he took another man’s life, his story closed with an equally tragic chapter. Our childhood games under the California sun, seemingly inconsequential then, now resonate with deeper meanings—reminders of fleeting innocence, the complex tapestry of human lives, and the indelible marks we leave on each other’s souls.
Robert Larios 