In the summer of 1964, when I was 17, I took a bus from the old terminal on S. 6th Street, to California. I had a letter from the manager of Trexler Orchards, asking his associate in Oxnard, California, to give me a job in the lemon orchard. That manager also owned a carwash, and gave me a job there instead. I rented a small cabin at the end of a backyard, they were built during the war to provide extra housing for the G.I's. After two months at the carwash, I was rescued by a former Allentonian. His father had moved the family years earlier, to work at the Western Electric plant in Hawthorne. Kenneth was about five years older than me, and he and his friends prided themselves on gate-crashing. In my few weeks there we crashed several concerts and Disneyland. I returned at the end of summer, in time for the Beatles concert in Atlantic City. Putting my new delinquent skill to work, I vaulted over the turnstile and ran into the seating section. If the Beatles sang or not, I couldn't tell you, the screaming made it impossible to know. Kenneth became an accomplished celebrity photographer, among other things. He passed away several years ago, and his family returned to Allentown to spread his ashes in Lehigh Parkway.