La Habra Corn Festival Love Lesson

 La  Habra Corn Festival Love Lesson

      BC decided to move to La Habra in 1959 and build a custom home to his specifications which the rest of the family felt was a flaming pit of hell. The sole purpose for the area originally was to grow Hass avocados and La Habra Heights was the only geographic point of note until realtors realized they could meet the demand of white flight from Los Angeles and make the flatlands of La Habra a suburb. It was a struggle for everyone in the family except Christine who just blended in without trying for the most part. Despite producing desperate attempts to make myself accepted I was always a shrimpy kid who accepted the role of class clown since I was not good looking or mature enough to be taken seriously. I still had my roots firmly in South Gate but 12 year olds don't make decisions  for the family. It was a time of resentment, acting out and the worst boozing my father ever indulged in as we raised the Creason flag on Bishop street. I was enrolled at Our Lady of Guadelupe school and eventually fit in because of my athletic ability and dirty jokes I had  learned on the playgrounds of South Gate. Despite the fact I was half-a-foot shorter than the maturing girls and had braces I still longed to get close to these goddesses and be loved by them. I was popular, not as a dreamy boy friend but more of a kid who knew how to get a laugh. The queen of the class was one Cheryl Gilhoover who was cute as a button and always groomed perfectly. The popular girls allowed me to hang out with them for laughs but not for making out. Damn. So we come to that one golden day at the Corn Festival. First held in 1947, the Corn Festival began as a small neighborhood gathering with square dancing, bingo, and—of course—buttered corn. There was a cheezy carnival attached to the scene but in La Habra it was all there was for a civic celebration. The festival was also close enough to walk to and I set out one Saturday to explore the glories of carnival fun and buttered corn. I believe I had a quarter in my pocket. The first thing I did when I arrived was to gobble up a delicious ear of corn. It was so good I paid the nickel for ear two and polished it off when all my dreams came true. Wandering adorably through the cheap attractions was Cheryl Gilhoover in her white short shorts, girlie flats and adorable blouse. Her hair was perfect and she may have even had a spot of lipstick on her perfect lips. She greeted me with a smile that buckled my knees and suggested we stroll together. Already that belly-full of buttered corn began to percolate with tween nervousness.  After some moony galavanting we wandered into the rides portion and stood before the forebodingly titled "Hammer" which was a test to any contents of a stomach known to man, woman or child. Cheryl wanted to ride and she had two tickets to paradise. I took my place acttually touching her flanks and the action began. The hellish Hammer was composed of about two opposing capsules that hurtled around a circle while spinning madly during the orbit. I was sitting next to Cheryl Gilhoover and in that dreamy state I rode like a champion...until the ride ended and we stepped off onto terra firma. There was a solid 50 gallon metal trashcan just outside the roped off exit and it already had taken it's share of regurgitations from La Habrans. I rushed over and with several spasmodic lunges blasted two ears of partially digested buttered corn into the can. There was no stopping the shame except to spit a few times to try and get rid of the puke kernels in my nose and mouth. Cheryl was a good sport and hung out a while then vanished into the crowd, not to be seen with me again. The following year we went to the same high school but I had not grown up while she began her first day of St. Paul with freshly  grown breasts and such beauty that upper-classmen lined up to charm her.