In the 1950s a Sunday drive was a special experience. Everyone did them at one time or another. We took a drive often. The point of a Sunday drive was to not have a destination. The family would pile in the car and you would just go, leaving the destination to fate. Sometimes we would end up getting a pony ride when we would run across a pony ring. Sometimes we would wander onto an amateur rodeo. We'd all pile out of the car, watch the cowboys rope the calves and then pile back into the car looking for the next adventure. We would stare at orange groves, farm animals and Bob's favorite, the world's largest airplane that was parked somewhere near our home. There would be peacock's blocking the road, the strong smell of the dairy cows and occasionally, the smell of a skunk that was hit by a car.
One day we drove to the top of Signal Hill near Long Beach and Bob ran out of gas on top of the hill. In those days it was a long walk to a gas station. We all waited, as my mother fumed, and Bob made the walk for a gallon of gas.
We often went for a ride and looked at new homes being built in the suburbs. Finally, my parents selected and bought a home. Grandpa T, a carpenter, was called to come and check it out. Cora's husband Bill, a building contractor, was called to check it out. They both approved and so the papers were signed and my parents bought their first home. I believe the purchase price was less than $7,000.00.