The last year of WWII, I turned seven. Being raised east of San Diego, while the war was raging in the Pacific, exposed me to sights probably not all kids my age experienced. Here are a few of them.

     All survivors from that period probably remember ration books and that most families took their grease to the butcher shop where, someplace else, it was rendered into soap. All cans were saved for recycling, and gasoline and tires were rationed so there were not near as many unnecessary trips as people take today. The preceding was probably the norm across the country.

     Being near San Diego with its shipyards and aircraft factories, resulted in virtually miles of camouglage netting. I can remember this well because of the square shadows dancing on the ground when the wind blew. We had blackout curtains in the house and periodically there were blackout exercises. Local wardens backed by deputy sheriffs enforced the blackout restrictions. 

     All day long the sky was filled with silver aircraft, the aluminum shining bright in the sun. The planes had not yet received the coats of paint they would receive before entering the war zone. San Diego was not just a staging area for aircraft. There was a bivouac area down the road where we lived. After dark, tanks, half-tracks, ducks and trucks, in seemingly endless numbers, were driven into San Diego or loaded on lowboys for transport ship-side at the docks. The paved road in front of our little house was reduced to sand and dust by the grinding of treads. And the house shook every time a column rumbled past. One group of marines, a mechanized force, took our family dog when they left. But they had my parents permission. There are other memories, some not pleasant, that I might share in the future.   ThesauRuss