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.

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.

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.

When I lived on Janey Way in the 1950s and 60s, I experienced many exciting adventures.
One blustery fall day, while Jim Costamagna and I camped out in the pit, the abandoned sand and gravel site behind my house, we witnessed a tornado spiraling down into River Park. This frightened us and we headed off immediately for the cover of home.
In those days, we often had to run from old man Charlie, the watchman of the pit. He never caught us, but escaping his pursuit proved very exciting. Often, back then we played the hubcap trick where we pretended to steal off with someone’s hubcap. This game also provided much excitement. All these little adventures must have wetted our appetite for seeking new horizons in our adult life.
On Nov. 1, 2012, my wife Barbara and I set out on a bold new adventure. That day we board a plane and flew to Honolulu. There, we stay over night before boarding the cruise ship, Celebrity Millennium, on the following day. Then off we head into the South Pacific to visit islands once seen only by pirates and explorers. These places have names like Pago Pago on Samoa, Sula on Fiji and Tauranga in New Zealand.
On Wednesday, Nov. 14, somewhere in the South Pacific, we will witness an event few people experience in their lifetimes: a total solar eclipse. Barbara and I feel lucky to have witnessed two other such eclipses: one in Egypt in 2006, and the other in China in 2009. Each one of them was unique and breathtaking.
After our eclipse adventure, we finish our trip with stops in New Zealand and Australia.
In Australia, we will spend three days in Sydney, before flying off to Cairns on the Northeast coast. There, we get to sail out to view the Great Barrier Reef, Australia’s greatest natural wonder. All in all, we are having a trip of a lifetime.
This all makes me hearken back to my childhood on Janey Way. Back then, my mom sent us outdoors daily, saying only, “be careful out there.” Little did she know. Off we headed to play in the pit hoping for another chance encounter with old man Charlie or a run-in with the T Street boys or the N Street gang. Now as we wend our way through the mighty Pacific Ocean, I recall the fun and adventure I experienced back then, and smile broadly at another swashbuckling Janey Way memory.

marty@valcomnews.com

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

By the time I reached my 19th birthday, the atmosphere became a little cloudy in the Relles household.
My dad seemed a little on edge. I think he felt I was old enough to move out on my own.
I hadn’t given that possibility much consideration at the time, but I could feel dad’s angst. The whole issue came to a head when I decided to get with the times and grow a goatee.
Wow, that rattled dad’s cage. He insisted I shave it off. “No son of a Sacramento police officer should sport facial hair.”
Of course, I refused to give in. This brought the whole matter to a head, and dad and I agreed that I should find a place of my own.
Fortunately, my uncle Ross provided a solution to this dilemma. He had two flats above his florist shop in midtown. One had just become available. Thankfully, my cousin Bob agreed to share the flat with me, making the move affordable.
Subsequently, we agreed to pay $50 each per month to rent the flat. Can you imagine that? $50 rent?
So, on the first day of the next month, we moved into my uncle’s second-floor flat. Our living arrangement was pretty humble.
The flat only had only one actual bedroom. So, Bob and I moved two twin beds into the single room. In addition to the bedroom, the flat featured one bathroom, a large living room and kitchen.
Life was good.
My cousin and I adjusted quickly to our new living arrangement. The good thing is that as close relatives, we knew each other well.
Also, our day-to-day lives were very similar at this time. Both of us attended Sacramento City College and worked in the florist shop down below the flat.
I attended school in the morning and delivered flowers in the afternoon. Bob made up arrangements in the mornings, then went to his classes in the afternoon. The arrangement worked out well.
Neither of us cooked at the time, but we learned quickly.
I constantly bothered my mom for new recipes. In quick order, I learned how to cook things like spaghetti, Spanish rice and Swiss steak.
Bob did the same with his mother. To this day, I still cook these dishes along with many others.
We soon blended into the fabric of the midtown area. I still recall sitting on the balcony in front of our flat in the evening watching the cars scurry out of town during rush hour.
As our commute involved walking up the stairs to our flat, the hubbub of rush hour seemed pretty funny to us.
On weekends, we invited our friends over for parties. We befriended a slightly older man who lived near us. He bought beer for us, if we asked.
This made our flat a popular venue.
We turned the volume of our stereo up as high as we could stand it and played the Beatles, the Stones and the Beach Boys.
Sometimes, our musically-inclined friends came by and played live music. This usually brought the police to the apartment, advising us to turn the volume down, which we did, but only briefly.
I have fond memories of living over uncle Ross’s florist shop. I lived there for four pretty care-free years.
However, in 1969, I received my draft notice, and those care-free times ended abruptly.
I will tell you more about that in a later episode. Now, my time of living on my own, above my uncle’s shop, is just another laid back Janey Way memory.

marty@valcomnews.com

Marty Relles

The City of Sacramento constructed the Memorial Auditorium in 1926. This Sacramento cultural icon opened to much hoopla in 1927. Over time it became a center piece for entertainment in Sacramento.
My recollections of the auditorium date back to the 1950s.
My dad enjoyed professional boxing, and often took my brother Terry and me to the fights.
By the 1960s, however, the Memorial Auditorium took on new importance for me.
In addition to boxing matches, wrestling matches, circuses and theatrical productions, the auditorium began hosting rock and roll concerts.
Bands, such as the Beach Boys, the Rolling Stones and Temptations performed routinely at the old hall.
We had to be there.
Our dad, a Sacramento policeman, often worked off-duty at these events to earn extra money, so we begged him to take us to the shows, and he did. We walked in the front door with him, then disappeared into the general admission seating.
The shows were great.
The Beach Boys brought the house down, with girls running up onto the stage to try to kiss Mike Love.
In 1965, Mick Jagger walked out to perform, picked up the mike, and was knocked unconscious by an electrical charge.
The show ended immediately.
Jagger was unhurt, but incident made quite a splash in the Sacramento Bee.
When James Brown brought his show to the auditorium, including a full band, dancers and backup singers, we were there, thanks to Dad.
Sometimes though, Dad had conflicts and could not work at events of great interest to us.
Then we had to use our guile to get into the shows.
We had one of the Janey Way parents drop us off downtown at the back of the auditorium.
We knocked at the back door.
Eventually, a police officer opened the door and said, “What do you boys want.”
We asked for my father’s friend and partner Herb Kunz. Herb eventually came to the door and let us in.
“Stay out of trouble,” Herb would say as we went through the double-doors, turned right and headed upstairs to the general admission seating.
We attended many Memorial Auditorium concerts this way.
I remember seeing groups like the Temptations and Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention.
My friends thought I must have been some sort of celebrity, getting them into concerts this way. It always seemed to work and we had a great time at the shows.
Eventually, however, we grew up and moved onto other things like college, girls and adulthood.
I will never forget the good times we had attending the shows at the Memorial Auditorium though. Sadly, now it’s just another rock and rolling Janey Way memory.
marty@valcomnews.com