Patch Blog: Target Practice and Trouble in Old San Marino!

In 1936, I was 14-years old and living in San Marino on Wilson Ave.

The street which backed up behind ours was the same then as it is now, Pasqualito. Behind our house was a large vacant lot which adjoined ours just west of the inside corner lot.  In fact, back then, the vacant lots extended on one side of our house all the way to Huntington Drive, the length of two large city blocks.

An old guy named Mr. Follon was the owner of the property on Pasqualito that backed up to ours. He was a rich and retired lumberman from Michigan who decided to build a large, elegant home, on the order of something that a lumberman would have built back in Michigan. This house had lots of wood, and great big timbers.  Inside, was an enormous and elegant circular staircase off and an enormous living room.

What interested me back then, was not the glory of the inside, but something else entirely.  That house had an enormous expanse of roof which could be seen very nicely from the back of our large home. The lots on either side were undeveloped vacant lots, which was another attractive feature as far as I was concerned.

Well, back then and by that age, I was through with toys.  In fact, I was well into having an interest in firearms.  Already, I had a 22-calibre air pellet gun. Pump the handle two times and I could wing a bird that was diving at the neighbor’s cat, (no harm done.)  Pump the action six times, and that pellet gun could really shoot with some power. So what was I going to shoot at? I had all sorts of targets in our large yard.  The wood pile (and those rats from last week) was a favorite to shoot into. I often hung cans and paper targets there. With all of that, I became a pretty good shot just by practicing all the time.

What interested me most about that big house behind ours, though, was that nice smooth roof, a target that I couldn’t miss. It was all the better because of an extra attraction. Every time I shot and hit it, there was a terrific loud “Whack!” that would echo throughout the neighborhood.  Boy, was that fun!

So I got to shooting at the roof on a regular basis. My aim didn’t matter because the reward was the noise each shot made as it hit. It was almost like in a shooting gallery at the Fair.  Bing, “Whack!”  Bing, “Whack!”  I was having a lot of fun and everything was going fine until Mr. Follan showed up one day and saw (and heard) what I was doing. He was really mad and started coming at me.  He wasn’t stopping either.  I saw him stomping through the vacant lot next door, determined to find me!

I knew I was in big trouble and certainly didn’t want what was coming to me, so I hid in our huge garage hoping it would all blow over.

But Mr. Follan didn’t stop. He banged on our front door until my parents answered.  Then he accosted them!  He was plenty irritated.

Well, after a while the commotion all died down and I came out of my hiding place.  Mr. Follon had finally left so I decided to go to my parents and say something, though I wasn’t quite sure what. But when I went in the house, they didn’t mention a thing about the incident.  So, neither did I.

There was something unspoken there. All these years later, I still wonder what it was.  Where they proud of me in some way?  Were they happy that I was inventive in my play?  Perhaps they didn’t feel like supporting the likes of their gumpy neighbor who was so boastful about his life with that big staircase.  Or perhaps they realized that I was a good kid who was tempted by the perfect target and lapse of judgment. Happens to everyone.  But, all said and done, after that I created my own targets in the vacant lots and never again shot at anyone’s roof!