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     As I grew up, and attended family reunions at Thanksgiving and Christmas, I’d wander into the kitchen - where the women folk assembled - and catch snippets of them discussing the infamous 1935, Long Beach Pike brawl; which was done in hushed whispers of shame.  In addition, whenever I’d innocently ask what it was Granddad Roy did to anger the Marine who punched him out, the women folk would shut me up and change the subject.  I grew up inside a mystery.

     Upon reaching the age of nineteen, I felt I’d had enough of this mystery.  I was no longer a child and shouldn’t be kept in the dark. 

     At present, dear reader, I wish to hell I’d remained in the dark. 

     As I recall, it was Christmas evening of 1961, and, on a pretext, I went into the kitchen to help my Aunt Lucidell clean up.  Following a mammoth Christmas dinner that day, we had all enjoyed in her home at Gardena, California.

     Okay, let’s hit pause once more, dear reader.  Aunt Lucidell was in fact my grandfather’s baby sister, so I’m guessing that made her my grandaunt?  She and my Granddad Roy were sent up Lookout Hill, behind the “Chisholm Fort,” to alert the family when they spied smoke from the Arapaho and Cheyenne raiding up the valley at Monument, Colorado.

     Granddad Roy and Grandaunt Lucidell were frontier children.

Grandaunt Lucidell (left) and her sister Nellie, coming down from Lookout Hill. 

     She was a tall, thin woman, with a pleasing countenance, a loving nature and, similar to all the Chisholm women, one amazing cook.  Naturally she was tired that evening, so I suggested she take a break, and sit down at the kitchen table with me as I mixed her an eggnog.  I drank mine straight; hers I loaded up with a triple shot of rum. 

     At first I got her to talk about the old days growing up on the Chisholm Ranch and, of course, the Indian raids.  In due time, as I mixed her more eggnog and she began to slur her words - God forgive me - I pressured this marvelous old lady into revealing the family’s secret: “What was it Granddad Roy did to ignite the infamous Long Beach Pike brawl in ‘35?”

     However, prior to clearing up this mystery, dear reader, “Aunt Lucidell” - which is what we all called her - made me swear I wouldn’t tell another living soul while she was alive.  I have kept my promise.

     Okay, let’s rewind to that dance hall on Christmas Eve of 1935:

     An outsized Marine, sipping red punch in his dress uniform, is doing his best to impress his cute little blonde date, in hopes of getting “laid” later that night.  His date also sips punch and giggles at his lame jokes.

     My Granddad Roy stumbles up behind the Marine, and dips out a cup of punch; hoping it contains alcohol.  Imagine his taste buds disappointment when he discovers it’s syrupy Hawaiian Punch!  

     He spits it out into the cup, and sets the cup down.  To further express his disgust at a classy joint like this serving such rubbish, he unzips his new trousers, hauls out his old schlong, stands up on tiptoe and proceeds to urinate into the punch bowl!

     You can take that to the bank, dear reader, Aunt Lucidell wasn’t blowing smoke up my ass!

     The Marine’s cute date spots this activity right off, causing her substantial blue eyes to get even larger and bluer.  She gags on her red punch.

     Now, dear reader, this blonde is faced with the age-old acid test: Is she a lady, or a bimbo?  A lady would have realized the danger of the situation and skillfully lead her date away; naturally declining any future cups of punch.  Unfortunately for the Marine, his date was a bimbo, who had left her crystal ball at home.

     Literally speechless, as her jaw drops open, the Marine’s date raises a shaking, delicate hand and merely points behind the Marine; interrupting another one of his lame-ass jokes.

     At least she didn’t scream and faint, dear reader.

     Puzzled by her behavior, the huge Marine turns around just in time to see Granddad Roy “shaking the dew off his lily,” and then replacing it inside his trousers.

     For Granddad Roy that’s when the lights went out.

     The next day dawns clear and beautiful – oh joy of joys it’s Christmas morning 1935 – and Granddad Roy opens his eyes.  Imagine his surprise to discover himself on his back - head resting in my dad’s lap - on the concrete floor of the Long Beach Police Department’s drunk-tank!

     And boy is it crowded, dear reader.  Everybody and their dog are in there!

     Presently, Granddad Roy sits up.  Other than a sore jaw and raging hangover, he’s relatively intact since he got knocked under the table prior to the brawl sprooling-up.  Not so my dad and his roughneck buddies - aside from broken noses, black eyes and missing teeth - their brand new suits are practically in rags. 

     Granddad Roy asks, “What in Christ happened?” 

     My father fills him in. 

     In response, my granddad begins to weep.     

     After all, dear reader, it is Christmas Day.

     After a while Granddad Roy turns to my dad, and says, “Son, I swear to God, I won’t ever take another drink.”

     To which my 19-year-old pop cynically replies, “Oh, sure, I’ve heard that song and dance before.”

     Now here’s a strange quirk, dear reader, which the Chisholm men seem to possess.  There’s a switch in their brains marked “On” and “Off.”  When it comes to something important – such as drinking, smoking and women - they’re apparently capable of moving this switch to “Off,” and quit cold turkey.

     I joined the Chisholm family - as a wrinkled, squalling bundle of joy - in 1942, and from that year until my granddad’s death in 1958, not once did I see him drunk or even holding a drink.  Granddad Roy had kept his word. 

     After all, dear reader, he was a child of the Old West; his word was his bond.

      Granddad Roy punching cattle as a teenager.

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