In 1959, the East Sacramento Little League constructed a baseball field at the intersection of 60th Street and M Street.  It was a beautiful field with forest green fences, built-in dugouts and a lush green outfield.  We all signed up for little league baseball that year.  But, after the baseball season ended, we discovered another great use for the field:  tackle football without pads.  Up until then, we had no grass field to play on, so we usually just played touch football in the street on Janey Way.  This field offered a whole new option for us.
At first we just played among ourselves, usually in four on four games.  However, subsequently we began to play games against other neighborhood gangs:  the O Street boys, the T Street gang and a group of kids from around East Portal Park.  The games were typically friendly rivalries and no one suffered anything more than a cut, bruise, or bloody nose, despite the lack of padding.
I recall one game, however, that turned out to be pretty rough.
One day, a group of us showed up at the field to toss the ball around and maybe play a little game.  We found another group of boys on the field.  No one recognized these boys.  A couple of them were large Neanderthal looking characters calling themselves “big hand” and “big foot.”  I think they were brothers.  They looked pretty ominous.
Eventually, one of the boys came over to challenge us to a game.  Naturally, we had to accept the challenge.
The two groups agreed to a game of four 10-minute quarters; one of the spectators agreed to time the game. Out to the field, sans pads, we went.  They got the ball, and scored first, pretty easily. We followed with a score of our own.  But, the first half ended in a 7 to 7 tie.
At half time, we worked up a strategy for tacking the big guys—gang tackling.  It worked.  They scored the first touchdown of the second half, but we followed with a score of our own making it a 14 to 14 tie.  Then we kept them from scoring again
We got the ball back with about 5 minutes left in the game.  I handed the ball to Al Wilson on first down for a 10-yard gain.  Then, I threw the ball to Lou Viani for a 20-yard gain. On third down, I ran a quarterback draw play up the middle.  When I hit the 10-yard line, one of their players grabbed me.  I kept running.  At the 5-yard line another defender latched on to me.  Finally at the one, the big guy hit the pile and knocked us all into the end zone.  We took a lead, which we never relinquished.
They got the ball back in the end, but failed to score. 
After the game, the strangers gathered on the side of the field, picked up their gear and left with heads hung down. We all stood in the center of the field and congratulated ourselves on a great victory. To celebrate our victory, we walked over the A and W drive-in on 65th Street and Elvas Avenue for a celebratory root beer.
The strangers never came back to our field again.  We must have made a lasting impression on them.  Now our days of tackle football without pads are just another bone-crushing Janey Way memory.

Thursday, April 4, 2013, started out like a normal day for me.  I woke up early, fed the cats and made coffee for Barbara and me.  Later, after doing my chores, I drove to La Bou on Howe Ave. to meet my aunts, Kay and Alice, for coffee and a croissant.  My brother John was there too on that day.  After one hour and one half of chit chatting, we headed off in different directions.
Then, when I arrived home, I received a cryptic text from my brother, which brought darkness to an otherwise sun shiny day:  “Denis Tomassetti killed last night in auto accident.”  I texted John back immediately saying, “no way”, but sadly it was true.  Minutes later, I contacted our mutual friend Tom Hart to confirm John’s text.  In a broken voice, Tom said, “yes, it is true; Denis was killed last night on the way home from work.”
This shows how fleeting life can be.  Here one minute, gone the next.
I have known Denis Tomassetti pretty much all my life.  He entered the world in the year I moved to Janey Way, 1952.  He was part of a bunch of kids we called the younger Janey Way boys:  Denis, the three Johns (Tomassetti, Relles and Ducray) Rick Thomsen and Tom Hart.  I remember watching them play Senior Little League baseball games on the field behind our house where St. Francis High School now stands.  I watched and thought, “these little guys have sure grown up, and they are good.”
Years later, after we all came back from serving in the military, I attended some rock concerts (the thing he really loved to do) with Denis.  I recall seeing the Kinks at Sacramento State College and Bob Dylan at Cal Expo.  We always had a great time.  He had an encyclopedic knowledge of contemporary music as well as an incredible sense of humor.  Going places with Denis, was always fun.
We played golf together too:  Denis, Tom Hart, my dad and I.  Dad took golf seriously and was known to hurl a club after a bad shot, but not with Denis in the foursome.  Denis would have needled him too much for that. Again, we always had a lot of fun.
More recently (over the last decade) Denis enlisted me to play with him and Tom Hart in an annual POW (prisoners of wives) golf tournament.  He and Tom usually picked me up at my home on Friday afternoon, and then we drove up the hill to Lake Tahoe.  It made for a great weekend:  golf, gambling, a few beers and good friends.  Who could ask for more?
Denis won’t be playing with us this year in the POW Tournament.  All of his POW friends will miss him dearly.  Now, the great fun I had over the years with my dear friend Denis is just another heart-felt Janey Way Memory.

Back in the 1950s when I grew up on Janey Way, in East Sacramento, over 40 children called it their home.  We played together daily in the neighborhood and in the pit (the vacated sand and gravel site behind the houses on the eastern side of the block.)  We formed close friendships, and proudly called ourselves the Janey Way Gang.  But other neighborhoods in the area formed their own “gangs” too.
Three blocks away, the Pesce’s, Franzoia’s, Myais and others called themselves the O Street Boys.  We sometimes feuded with them.  Remember the story I wrote about Christmas Tree Wars.
Further south, across the railroad tracks, on T Street, another group of boys usually ran together.  They were the T Street Boys.  This group included guys I know well today:  Dan Blakolb, Don Fancher, George Vargas and Larry Simson.  Our gang often tussled with them in the pit.  We had no fist fights or anything like that, but rock fights were not uncommon.  We sort of figured the pit was our territory.  They had different ideas.  Fortunately, no one ever sustained serious injuries.
Just a few blocks west of Janey Way on 56th Street, Al Wilson, the Gilson brothers and Frank Masuda formed a small band of brothers.  They were a small group, however, and eventually merged with our gang.  Al Wilson and Mike Gilson attended St. Mary’s school with me, and usually came straight to Janey Way after school. 
Finally, over in River Park, some of my other St. Mary’s friends had their own gang.  Vince Angell, Richard Carroll, Tom Watson and Mike Senna often played in Glen Hall Park or over by the American River.  We rarely saw them near Janey Way though.  It was simply too far away from our neighborhood.
By the mid-1960s our world began to expand and some of these rival gangs became our good friends. 
Bob Pesce drove his car over from O Street to cruise with us on K Street, ride over to the river, or drive out to West Sacramento on Saturday nights to watch the hard top races.  We made him an honorary member of our gang. 
The T Street boys came over to play football or poker at the Ducray house.  They were a small group and ultimately joined forces with us.  Today, over 50 years later, we still maintain strong friendships with them.
Al Wilson and Mike Gilson joined us and became my close friends.  Sadly, they are no longer with us.
On January 29, 2012, my lifetime friend Randy Puccetti, held a reunion party at his home in Elk Grove.  Old Friends from Janey Way, O Street and T Street attended.  We shared good food and drink and reminisced about the old times on Janey Way.  Nowadays, the times we spent back then, playing and feuding in the pit, are just some other wistful Janey Way memories.

I graduated from Sacramento High School in 1964, and immediately enrolled at Sacramento City College.  I took two classes that summer and all went well.  Then, over the next two years I completed nearly 60 units at the college. 
At the same time, big things were taking place in the world.  The United States became involved in a serious conflict in the small country of Viet Nam.  Soon, a seemingly small conflict became a very big conflict, but I did not realize the seriousness of it all then.
 I continued my schooling and transferred to Sacramento State College in 1966.  I had registered with the draft board when I turned 18, but because I attended college, they gave me a student deferment.  So, I continued my studies and gave little thought to the ramifications of military service.  My friends were not so lucky.  Jim Ducray volunteered to join the Army in 1966, and served a one-year tour of duty in Viet Nam.  My friend Dick Kinzel went in a little after Jim did.  One by one, almost all my friends were called for service, but as long as I stayed in school, I had no contact from the draft board.  In 1968, that all changed.
By that time, I began having academic problems at Sacramento State College.  I had done fine at City College, but I found the University curriculum considerably more challenging.  In three semesters, I landed on probation and dropped out. 
This worked out fine at first.  I went to work for my uncle Ross Relles at his florist.  Everything seemed fine.  But, as the Viet Nam war continued to escalate, more and more foot soldiers were needed.  Soon, they came after me.
In October of 1968, I received a letter instructing me to take a military physical.  That month, I went to the Oakland Induction Center and completed a medical exam.  By December, I got letter notifying me I had passed my physical and was physically able for medical service.  In February 1969, I received my draft notice.  I had to report for service in April. 
So, on April 14, 1969, I showed up at the Federal Building down town to take the bus to Oakland for my induction.  Oh man, I was not ready for this.  Incredibly, my cousin Pam’s fiancé Alan was there too.  The two of us somberly headed off to join the Army. 
I thought it would be a no hassle process, little did I know.  When I walked up to the desk to accept my induction, the sergeant said, Mr. Relles, you are being inducted into the U. S. Marines. Then I said, “no, I am not.”  The sergeant replied, “but you have to,” and I replied, “no, I do not.”  So, the perplexed sergeant sent me up to the 2nd floor to speak with the marine recruiter.  There, I waited for about 2 hours to speak with a Lieutenant. When I finally got to see him, he asked why I didn’t want to go into the marines.  I told him, “I am 22 years old, not some young hot head.  I am okay with the army, but not ready for the gung ho marines.”  Eventually, he sent me out to wait on the “group w” bench.  There I waited, and waited.
Finally, the marine corporal at the front desk came over and said, “Mr. Relles, you can go down and join the army now, we have our quota for the day.”
The rest is history.  I was inducted into the U.S. Army that day, and served my 2-year military commitment to my country honorably; now, the day I was almost inducted into the U. S. Marines is a harrowing Janey Way memory.

About the time I turned 12 years of age, my mother decided that I needed a little culture in my life.  I excelled in my studies at St. Mary’s School, but other than that, sports seemed the only thing that captured my interest.

So, mom did some checking with the neighbors to see what their kids did.  She found that both Danny Petrocchi and Randy Puccetti took accordion lessons from a River Park, high school student named Delbert Alberti.  Delbert excelled at playing both the piano and accordion, but specialized in teaching accordion.  When mom asked if I might be interested in learning, I responded, “yes.”

Subsequently, mom rented an accordion for me, and Del began coming weekly to my house to teach me to play the instrument.  He proved an excellent teacher.  He started with the basics, such as how to read a sheet of music.  He taught me the musical scale.  Remember the lines: E, G, B, D and F (every good boy does fine) and the spaces F, A, C, and E (face).  I soaked up this information and soon began actual practice with my newfound instrument.  Amazingly, I was pretty good.

I learned to read music, but rarely read it as I played my songs.  Basically, I memorized every song I played then just played the notes.  I learned to play polkas and marches mostly, songs like Beer Barrel Polka, the Stars and Stripes Forever, and Lady of Spain.

Mom thought I should practice every day, but I didn’t.  Honestly, I didn’t have to.  Playing the accordion came easy to me, and I enjoyed it.

At the end of the first year, Delbert hosted a recital at his home in River Park.  All of his students played one song each for their parents and family.  I played:  Lady of Spain.  I was nervous, but I played it perfectly.

After the recital, we ate cookies, drank punch, and Delbert handed out some awards.  I won the award for best new student.  I kept that trophy for years and I bet it still dwells somewhere in a closet at my parent’s house on Janey Way.

Soon after, Delbert completed his studies at Bishop Armstrong High School, and went off to study at the University of the Pacific, effectively ending my career as accordion virtuoso.

Delbert’s parents hoped he would become a pharmacist.  He kept that as major for one year than switched to education. Following college, Delbert went on to become a teacher—a very good one.  He eventually earned accolades as a California teacher of the year.

After that, he went on to become a principal and eventually, a School Superintendent. Ultimately, he was a great teacher and an outstanding leader.  He had given indications of that, years earlier when He taught me how to play the accordion.

Delbert passed away, too young, about a year or so ago.  I read his obituary in the newspaper. I think about him often.  His instruction, helped make me a better and culturally richer person.  I haven’t played the accordion for years, but my memories of my teacher Delbert and of playing the accordion, have continued to inspire me throughout my life.

On Sunday, the San Francisco 49ers played in Super Bowl XLVII in New Orleans.  It was their sixth Super Bowl appearance and the first since the mid-1990s, but I remember cheering for the old-time 49ers back in the 1950s on Janey Way.
Back then the National Football League (NFL) was in its infancy featuring only 12 teams:  the 49ers, the Los Angeles Rams, the Green Bay Packers, the Minnesota Vikings, the Chicago Bears and the Detroit Lions in the Western Division, and the Chicago Cardinals, the New York Giants, the Philadelphia Eagles, the Pittsburg Steelers, the Baltimore Colts, and the Washington Redskins in the Eastern Division.  Then, the teams played a 12-game season to determine which two teams would play in the NFL championship.
In those days, football was just football, not a big time Hollywood production like the modern Super Bowl.  They played the games on outdoor, dirt and grass fields with names like Kezar Stadium, Soldier Field and the Los Angeles Coliseum.  They had no hour-long pre-game extravaganzas, just a brief introduction prior to each game.  Then, the players did not seem so flashy, just big bruisers with dirty uniforms smacking each other around the field of play.
The players seemed a bit more colorful too.  I remember 49er players with names like Y. A. (Yelberton Abraham) Tittle, joltin’ Joe Perry, Leo (the lion) Nomellini and R. C Owens.  We huddled around our 24 inch, black and white console television each Sunday to watch one local team play:  no national games back then.  The NFL blacked out home games within a 90-mile radius back then, so our local CBS channel 10 did not broadcast those games here is Sacramento.
Dad had solution to that problem though.  On home game weekends, he climbed up on the roof and turned the antenna north toward Chico.  Channel 12, the CBS affiliate there, stood outside the 90-mile radius, so they could broadcast the games.  I remember it now.  Dad would stand on the top of the roof saying, “do we have it now”.  Eventually, we yelled up, “that’s it dad, keep it there.”  Then down he came to watch the game with us.  Even with a faded black and white image, the games were still exiting. The 49ers never won the championship back then, but they always came close.  That kept us coming back for more.
I remember their quarterback; Y. A. Tittle had a play he used when the team needed to score late in the game.  He would drop back and loft a high pass to the end zone where 6’6” wide receiver, R. C. Owens stood.  Owens then out-jumped the smaller defenders to haul in the touchdown pass to win the game.  When that happened we poured out into the street to play touch football, emulating our heroes.
Football seemed a lot simpler back then, before the players earned such staggering amounts of money.  Then, they played mostly for love of the game.  Now my time of rooting for the old time San Francisco 49ers is just another nostalgic Janey Way Memory.

As I drove down M Street toward St. Mary’s Church last week, I gazed up at its bell tower, which dominates the skyline in our neighborhood. It harkened up a long-since forgotten memory.
When I reached 12 years of age, I became an altar boy at the church. In that capacity, I had responsibility for assisting the priests in the service of mass. During that time, a Catholic Brother named George, headed up the altar boy team. He was a nice man, who often played touch football with the boys in the yard at St. Mary’s School. The good brother made sure each service of mass went off without a hitch, so he was always on site at the church when we performed our duties.
One Saturday morning after mass, my fellow altar boy and best friend Lou Viani and I stood talking with Brother George in front of the church. During our conversation, Lou asked the brother if he had ever been up the bell tower of the church. George said he had, and then asked, “Would you like to go up there some time?” Lou and I responded with a resounding, “yes.” Then Brother George said, “I am too busy to do that today, but if you guys meet me here next Thursday, at 7 p.m., I will take you up there.” Wow, we could hardly wait.
So it was, on the next Thursday, Lou and I met Brother George on the front steps of the church, where he let us into the vestibule. From there, we proceeded up the stairway to the glass-enclosed children’s room in the back of the church, then up another flight of stairs to the choir room. There facing the choir room stood a locked door which George unlocked and let us in. Inside the room, we looked straight up to the top of the bell tower. Now we were really exited.
We followed Brother George up four flights of stairs to a stoop at the very top. He then reached up and pulled down a retractable ladder which he climbed up and then slung open a trap door. Into the tower he went and then waved us up. Within seconds, we sat in the tower overlooking the entire landscape of the city of Sacramento. The views were incredible. Looking north we saw Sacramento State College and the H Street Bridge, with cars streaming across it in the waning light. Looking west we saw the lighted dome of the California State Capitol building. Over in the south, we viewed the California State Fair, with lights ablaze as the fair had just opened up.
We sat up in the tower for about 15 minutes, taking in all the sights and wafting in the warm air of a Sacramento Summer night. Finally, Brother George said, “we better get out of here now boys, before it gets too dark. So, down we went to the first floor of the church where we said our good bys and headed home.
I have never forgotten that experience. In the intervening years I have ascended the Eiffel Tower, rode an elevator to the top of the Empire State Building and gone to the top of the Pearl Tower in Shanghai, China, but I think none of those adventures made a greater impression on me than climbing to the top of the St. Mary’s Church bell tower: another unforgettable Janey Way memory.

Back in 1955, Walt Disney aired a series of prime time television shows chronicling the life and times of Davy Crocket, the famous American frontiersman, Indian fighter, U.S. Congressman and adventurer. During his lifetime Crocket helped push the American frontier from Tennessee where he was to born to Texas where he ultimately died in the Battle of the Alamo.
These shows, featuring Fess Parker as Davy, were so popular that the Disney Company decided to capitalize on them by marketing Davy Crocket themed products like raccoon skin caps, musket rifles, coats and toy knives. This gear proved immensely popular. Every kid had to have it.
So, on Christmas day, of that year, when my brother Terry and I opened our Christmas presents we each found a Davy Crockett raccoon skin cap with tail hanging off the back side and an authentic toy musket. Wow! We couldn’t wait to go out and show our friends. So off we went out the door dressed in our new regalia.
However, much to our surprise, virtually every boy on the block received the same presents we did. Some of them even had authentic Davy Crocket buck-skin jackets. Our parents must have did their Christmas shopping together that year. No matter, off we went into the pit (the vacated sand and gravel site behind the houses on the east side of Janey Way) to fight Indians, build forts and engage in epic battles against the infamous Mexican General Santa Ana whose forces killed Davy Crockett and others at the Battle of the Alamo. Mom and dad could hardly get us to come home for Christmas dinner. But eventually, we came home and piled into the car to go to Grandma Petta’s house for dinner.
Later that week, we wore our Davy Crockett caps and carried our muskets with us when we went to our Christmas tree fort in the vacant lot, just down the street from our house, in the event of a skirmish with the O Street boys. Nothing ever materialized, but our toy muskets gave us a sense of security. Just like Davy Crockett, we were ready for a “fight” no matter what happened. We were “kings of the wild frontier.”
Eventually, though, the Davy Crockett fad came to an end. Then, our precious caps and muskets found their way to a place somewhere in the back of our closet, and we went on to other pursuits like building wooden scooters, playing roller derby in the halls of Phoebe Hurst School, or shooting hoops on the court behind St. Mary’s Church. Now, the Christmas when we played at being American hero Davy Crocket, is just another exciting and somewhat whimsical Janey Way memory.

One December night at dinner, in the late 1950s, dad said, “this year we are going to drive to the Sierras and cut our own Christmas tree,” and we did. Early in the morning, on the next Saturday, my sister Patricia, and my brothers Terry, John and I jumped into the car with dad and headed up to the Sierra Nevada mountains.
We drove through Roseville, then Loomis, then Auburn and Colfax until we passed the snow line, and eventually turned off the road. There, we drove until we reached a place where dad thought we would likely find a Christmas tree. Then he parked the car, and we all got out. Off we walked into the woods, through the knee-high snow, in search of a tree. Wow! This seemed a lot tougher than we thought it would be. Most of the trees were too tall, and the smaller ones seemed a little scrawny and bare.
Eventually, though, we found the perfect tree. So dad pulled out a saw, and cut it down. Then Terry and I dragged the beautiful tree through the snow back to our car. That took some effort in the deep snow, but soon we reached the car with a smile on our faces. We did it. We found the perfect Christmas tree. Then dad tried to put the tree in the back of the car. Woops, the tree was a little to big. Out came the saw again, and dad cut enough off so it fit properly in the open rear compartment of our station wagon. Dad had to leave the rear hatch of the car slightly ajar to make room for the seven foot tree, but it fit. Then off we went in the direction of home. We didn’t get far though.
As we headed back toward the highway, we passed a forest ranger. He turned around quickly, and pulled our car over. The ranger explained that we could not take a tree from the national forest without a permit. Dad explained that we had no permit, but said that he was a Sacramento police man and understood that if we had violated the rules of the national forest we would have to suffer the consequences. When the ranger heard that, he softened his position. He said, “that’s okay Officer Relles, but in the future, you need to see us first to obtain a permit. Then, he fastened a tag to our tree which allowed us to transport it out of the forest. After that, we headed off, directly for home.
When we arrived home, dad filled the Christmas tree stand with water and secured it. Then we proceeded to decorate our beautiful fresh cut tree with lights and ornaments. We finished the job with lots of silver tinsel. It seemed the most beautiful tree we ever had. What made it so special was that we cut it ourselves.
Later in life, I took my children up to cut fresh Christmas trees in the Sierras. We usually went to a tree farm in Apple Hill. That seemed every bit as special as the one dad cut for us in the 1950s. They have not forgotten that experience.
Just last week, while I traveled abroad, my daughter and her husband took their two girls up to the mountains to cut their Christmas tee. Now, they will experience the same joy we experienced with dad, so many years ago: yet another merry Janey Way holiday experience.

I have vivid memories of how our family spent Thanksgiving when I grew up on Janey Way. The entire Relles/Petta extended family went to Granma Petta’s house on 14th Avenue to celebrate the holiday.
I remember we always urged dad to take us their as early as possible. That gave us lots of time to play with our many cousins. We frolicked on the tall swing set in the backyard. Sometimes, we snuck into basement of the two-story home. There, with its myriad of rooms and stacks of family artifacts, it was magical like some Harry Potter tale. Soon, however, Grandpa Petta chased us out of his territory, warning us not to enter again. Then we went out to the large, ranch style garden on the side of the house. It featured a chicken house and a barn full of rusting farm implements. These were always points of interest for growing young children.
Eventually, Grandma called us in for a wonderful, traditional Thanksgiving dinner, much to Grandpa’s relief. “You kids are too wild,” he would say, as we filed in for dinner.
When we grew into our teen age, the location of our holiday dinner changed from Granma Petta’s house to our uncle Ross Relles’ house on Hillsboro Lane in South Land Park. That venue seemed perfectly suited for teenage boys. The house had an extra large game room with a full sized pool table and a 28-inch console television perfect for watching the football games. If we got bored, we went outside and played on the railroad tracks behind the Relles house.
At the Relles house, Aunt Margaret supervised our aunts in the preparation of the Thanksgiving feast. There, as at Grandma Petta’s house, the dinners were always, just the best.
When our family finally reached adulthood, my parents took over the Thanksgiving duties, for just our immediate family. Then, we celebrated the great holiday at my parents’ house on Janey Way. Dinners there always tasted great, but somehow lacked the grandeur of the feasts we had at Grandma Petta’s old house. The guest list appeared much smaller too: Mom and dad, My wife and I, our three children and sometimes my brother Terrence and his family, or my sister Patricia and her family.
Since my parents passed away some years back, I took over the duties of serving Thanksgiving dinner at my house on La Riviera Drive. It is a labor of love. While my grandchildren run on the grass in the back yard, Le Grande (my wife Barbara) and I prepare the dinner. I do the cooking and Le Grande sets a majestic table replete with a live floral center piece and candle sticks.
We have a wonderful time kicking off the holiday season and watching our little grand children Angelo, Gabrielle and Madeline play in the back yard.
Sometimes though, I think back to the big Thanksgiving parties we had with our extended family at Grandma Petta’s house so many years ago and miss the happy times I had playing with my cousins: a nostalgic Janey Way Memory.