With Father’s Day approaching, I want to take the time to share some memories of my father, Martin Relles Sr., who inspired me in ways I can’t overestimate.

Dad was born in 1915 in Chicago, but soon moved to Sacramento with his family.  He lost his dad at the age of five in the great Spanish flu epidemic.  His mother re-married soon after that.  Being a stepchild is never easy, but it proved particularly hard on dad.  His stepfather often disciplined him.  One day while he played in his front yard on 14th Avenue, his step-father became so angry, he hit dad on the back with a piece of wire.

When that happened, a doctor who lived across the street came over and said this to his stepfather, “If I see you do that again, I will have you put in jail.”  Thankfully, dad never suffered that kind of treatment again.

As with many children, sports provided a healthy outlet for dad and his older brothers, George and Ross. They preceded him at Sacramento High and excelled at football and baseball. So when dad entered high school, he had high expectations to live up to.  He took that to heart.

When he arrived at school on the first day, he wore a sweater emblazoned with the following slogan:  “Another great Relles comes to Sacramento High.”  Fortunately, he lived up to that hoopla.  We still have clippings from the Sacramento Bee describing dad’s football triumphs.

Another memory of my dad dates back to 1990.  I had just married for the second time and bought a home in College Glen.  That winter, rain came pouring through the roof. I was pretty broke, but obviously had to fix the problem, so I told mom I was coming over to Janey Way to borrow some money.

When I got there, I parked the car and came, head down, up to the house.  Mom let me in.  Dad was sitting at the table with his checkbook in hand.  As he wrote the check, he looked up with a smile and said, “I was hoping you would ask.”  My father was nothing if not generous.

My final memory is from 1999, the year my father died.  On the night of his passing, my sister and I called all of the family to let them know what happened.  Soon the aunts, uncles and cousins came over to give their condolences.  As I stood on the front porch, my aunt Leone came up, gave me a hug and said sincerely and lovingly, “he was a wonderful man.”  He was that and I am fortunate that he was my father.

A few days later, at the funeral, I stood on the altar of St. Mary’s church and eulogized my father. At the end of my speech, I looked up to the heavens and said softly, “uncle George and uncle Ross, you had better make some room up there in heaven, because there is another great Relles coming to join you.” That was 14 years ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about dad.  It’s another heart rending Janey Way memory.

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.

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.

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.

I recently completed the 81 episode of Janey Way Memories. So, I think this column provides a good juncture to review what has happened to various members of our gang since we played on the street of Janey Way over 50 years ago.
Let’s begin with Gary Costagmagna who invented the hubcap trick and constructed the Janey Way tree house on the edge of the pit (the vacated sand and gravel site behind the houses on the east side of our street.)
After attending Sacramento City College, Gary joined the Sacramento City Fire Department where he rose to the position of Fire Chief before retiring. He lives with his wife Penny in El Dorado Hills these days and enjoys reading this column.
Gary’s brother Jim moved to Montana in the 1970s, and began a career with the Montana Department of Forestry. Like his brother, Jim worked as a fire fighter. He recently retired and resides with his wife in a home near Missoula Montana.
Harry Viani, who had the famous scuffle with Kenny Stone on the side of St. Mary’s Church, attended the University of Santa Clara, and then entered dental school at Marquette University. He still practices here in Sacramento.
Harry’s cousin, “little” Lou Viani attended U.C. Berkeley after leaving Janey Way. He works as an architect locally, and has done much to beautify the skyline of our wonderful city. Lou and I lunch out occasionally and reminisce about our exploits in the pit and on the basketball court at St. Mary’s school.
My good friend Jim Ducray survived a rebellious youth and a tour of duty in Viet Nam before going on to earn a masters degree in Family Counseling at Sacramento State College. After completing his education, he took up residence near Jackson, California where he continues his practice today.
Tom Hart, who played the role of Spartacus in the battle for Mt. Everest in the pit, went on to study at UCLA. Then among other jobs, he served as the Assistant City Manager of Yuba City. He is semi-retired now with plans to fully retire next year. These days, we play golf together with our fellow Janey Way friend, Dennis Tommasetti.
Finally, the Relles children explored many different career callings. My sister Patricia earned a degree in Art at San Francisco State College, then a degree in English at Sacramento State before marrying and having two children. She teaches now at a Waldorf School in Clinton, Washington. My brother Terry served in the U.S. Army in Viet Nam, then attended the culinary institute. He worked as an executive chef with specialty restaurants, before beginning a 20-year career with Sysco Food Services where he works today as a District Manager. My brother John has worked for 30 years as a floral designer with Relles Florist. I served a two-year hitch in the U.S. Army, earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in Social Science at Sacramento State College, then began a 30-year career with the State of California. I retired in 2002 as the Chief of the Bureau of Administration at the Teale Data Center. Then, in July of 2009, I began a second career as the writer of this column. I published my first book, a compendium of the Janey Way stories, earlier this year.
Sadly, the Janey Way Gang has lost four of its good friends: Michael Gilson, Josie Tomassetti, Bernadette Tomassetti and Lynn Thomsen, but the survivors of the gang remain friends almost 50 years after leaving Janey Way.
Over all this time, our old neighborhood has remained relatively unchanged. Children still play in the street like we did so many years ago. Our friend Tom Hart and my brother John have actually moved back into the neighborhood and sit out on their porches in the evening, like our parents did in the 1950s and 60s. Now, the things we did so many years ago have become our Janey Way memories.

marty@valcomnews.com