By R.S. Rodriguez
In 1971, or so, my parents loaded us kids onto our ’68 light blue Chevy Impala station wagon to visit my godparents in Moorpark, Ca. I suppose there were about five thousand people living there at the time. I’d gander today’s population of this Los Angeles suburb hovers, Herb, at about 40,000.
My parents were migrant farm workers who immigrated from Jalisco, Mexico in the early 1940s to seek other opportunities. The United States answered the call and gave them and countless others a shot at new life with, albeit, a few bumps along the journey. Nonetheless, America stepped up and my parents, siblings and their kids have had a challenging-at-times, yet happy, American experience.
As my parents followed the harvest, they established many life-long friendships and bonds along their journeys. A couple of them included my aforementioned godparents. Modest, hard-working people, who, like my parents, worked, laughed, toiled and shared stories in the fields.
Meanwhile, back to the Impala-we loaded it for a road trip and headed to Moorpark. We arrived, shared pleasantries and as a kid of about nine, I became bored with the adult conversation. I remember wandering over to another room (I type room generously, as the house was about 600 sq. ft with three rooms). I found a radio and began to manipulate the knobs. I remember after struggling with serious static, finding a soothing voice which immediately mesmerized me. I had stumbled upon Chick Hearn.
Thank you, “Golden Voice”.