Lud

 Lud...

     Growing up in South Gate, boys took for granted the blue collar sweat that kept the city thriving and  Tweedy boulevard becoming the pumping heart of what was once an old dusty ranch. My Dad and John Sheehy were outside the norm in this city encircled by factories and the hard jobs handling steel ingots, building Chevrolets, putting truck tires through their stages or standing on a line putting hot water heaters together with numbed brains. I have gone on before about our neighbors. a plumber, a meek assembly line tin can maker, a bread truck driver and a beer soaked butcher named Jack. BC had his pals but these Anetta street guys were not in his social circle where you might find salesmen and civil servants. The richest men in South Gate were realtors and the two gents who operated funeral parlors. It amazes me to this day that in this white enclave the men behaved no differently than they would have if they had remained in Iowa, Missouri, Michigan or Oklahoma. There were plenty of good fellows who gave of themselves to coaching kids over at the park or were willing to accept the sharing of resources. Of course, there was gallons of alcohol poured over this American dream and millions of cigarettes used to calm nerves that had lived through World War II and the brutal depression. My impression of all this was mostly contentment, security and an eagerness to listen when the old sages spoke of ancient days when they were young. I was hearing stories from men and women who were 35 and I thought they were ready for the grave. So, in my subconscious there are names and tales that I only know from snatches of conversation that are imbedded in my now old gray matter. 

Mister Lannan was an oil man who had a refinery plus real estate all around the Southeast. He was known by my grandparents and was treated with respect which paid off during the terrible gasoline shortages of 1973 and again in 1979. It was so hard to gas up your car that I once got up 2 hours early to try and find a fillup. Anytime a station got a delivery there was a massive jam to get the precious petrol. However, John Sheehy was in tight with Mr. Lannan whose refinery contained a lone gas pump where the Sheehy automobiles could drive up and fill up with no stress. It was like finding gold. Some names in thr Gate were forever linked with a business. Joe Chirco's Shell station on Atlantic, Joe Moschetti's Southeast Sports, Photographer Trig Svensen, J.M. Taylor Oldsmobile or the Taco Kid on Long Beach boulevard. There were some other names that were culled from the wandering tales of one John F. Sheehy like H. Ledesma who could tune a car with a screw driver and pair of pliers or ex-con Harry McMillan who took some drunken chances that landed him in the pen. However, there was one man mentioned who always captured my attention not because of his looks or value to our families. The guy was just called Lud and I have no idea how he was attached to the Sheehy family but Lud Soderlin was a large Swede with bulging biceps who popped up now and then at a family picnic. After many years I learned that Lud was a sledge man at the Ruchti Brothers slaughter yard near the South Gate Drive In. Lud's job was to position himself at the end of a chute where beef cattle were lead and stopped where Lud would come down hard with the sledge right between their eyes to allow the butchering of the now insensate animal. Even as a kid I thought that had to be a pretty lousy way to earn  your bread.