I've tried to recall what I know about the segment of the San Diego River that runs through Lakeside. I've already told you about the time that Frank Stotler and I missed the school bus home from Lakeside Elementary. This usually meant walking a couple of miles; however, on that particular day, the river was running, so we stripped down to our underwear, held our clothes over our heads, and waded/swam across. Never once thought about calling our parents to come and pick us up. Lots of us also learned to swim in those deep, cold pits left by the companies who mined sand for cement manufacture. It was a great place to go on hot summer evenings with our Dad. I think I also mentioned that for four years I rode my bicycle from the top of Palm Drive to Riverview Drive off of Woodside for my Saturday morning music lesson with Nancy Rodarte. I was usually in a rush to get there on time, but the ride home was downhill and leisurely, so I had plenty of time to explore the unofficial dump just north of the river on what we then called the "River Road" and is now Riverford Road. Every week there was an array of new items. I also took notice of the seasonal status of the cacti plants at the Cactus Farm, NW corner of Riverford and Riverside. We considered this a terribly exotic crop compared to the usual farm products such as chickens, eggs, pigs, sheep and dairy cows. We heard that the cactus apples, "prickly pears", were shipped to the Italian market in New York where the juice was used for jelly. Much later, when my parents served as lay Presbyterian missionaries in Sells, Arizona on the Papago Indian Reservation, I learned that the leaves or bracts from the same cacti were used as a culinary delicacy called nopales. Removing all of those ornery spines seemed to me to be a lot of trouble for a plate of greens, but I found it a tasty, sort of stir-fry, dish! .
  We were friends with most of the folks along Palm Drive, the street's original name. These included the Westons; Ruby Nelson, the longtime and beloved 4th grade teacher at Lakeside Elementary; Mrs. Brown whom everyone called "Brownie"; and the Moziers. Marjorie and I were in the same grade together through high school and we have recently had the pleasure of getting reacquainted at Grossmont High School class reunions. There were the Haleys; the Prices; the Flors; the De Boers; Cecil Deering; the Ashfields; and many others who came and went. For a time, we were friends with the people who lived on the Johnson Ranch at the northwest corner of Lakeside Avenue and Palm Drive. They were the Ned Guymon family who lived in San Diego and who were reportedly associated with Guymon, Oklahoma and Big Oil. They used the place as a summer and weekend retreat and my younger sister, Mary Jay, and their daughter Anne, were both horse-crazy teenagers and  often rode together. The Guymons also had a pre-schooler nick named Bunny or Buffy who once attended Mother's Annual Easter Egg Hunt in our yard. All the kids

in the neighborhood were invited and I believe the littlest ones were given some sort of hunt priority. Bunny turned out to be a topnotch egg finder and quickly collected at least 8 hard-boiled eggs. However, she did not step forward for a prize, but, instead, retreated to a corner and quietly consumed all of the eggs. When Mother saw a basket full of egg shells and inquired, she immediately reported it to Bunny's mother, in case of further consequences. But, I digress. Back to the river.
  A creek that began up near some big sheer rocks in Eucalyptus Hills and ran through our five acres at the back of the property (east of Palm Drive) was always interesting. I don't recall the creek's name and I don't see it on a current map. We called it "the creek." Berry bushes, sycamore trees and willows, and miscellaneous brush lined its course on our property. When there was lots of rain, the water raged through, bringing down rocks, debris and even dead animals. It began to overflow its banks when it reached Mozier's flat field and actually flooded Palm Drive at a low place in the road, at the intersection of Palm Drive and Eucalyptus Drive (now Oak Hill Drive). This was the exact site of the neighborhood school bus stop, so we kids became intimately involved with the situation. When there was water, we did a lot of splashing. After the water receded, but it was still wet, millions of tiny green frogs appeared. I will l refrain from describing their ultimate disposition so as not to unduly provoke the Animal Rights people. Occasionally, some of the boys would collect a few frogs in a can or jar and take them to school for a "science project." I sincerely suspect that the actual project was releasing them during class in order to cause a commotion. This group always included the aforementioned, Frank Stotler, who lived a ways up Eucalyptus Drive. He was also the big brother of my best friend from third grade through high school. Mr. Flack, one of our regular bus drivers, would never have allowed boys with cans of frogs to board his bus, but Joe Gibson, the other regular driver, was not as strict. In fact, it was such a pleasure to be with Joe. He always had a broad smile on his face and greeted everyone with "Hi, ya lucky guy!" In early fall, at the same spot, huge, brown, hairy tarantulas appeared, determined to cross the road to some ancestral breeding location I suppose. Again, the boys would collect one of the big creatures in a jar, take it to school, open the jar and let it jump our to scare the wits out of the female classmates. Of course, crossing the road, any road used by automobiles, was not a healthy practice for tarantulas or frogs.
  A barrier of impenetrable bamboo grew along the east side of the road there, keeping us, somehow, from becoming well acquainted with the people who lived in the little red bungalow beyond. We heard scary stories about what was "in" the bamboo grove and I imagine it did harbor some critters that were best left alone. I don't

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