The Verdict -- Robert Gardner

Being poor is no fun. I can so testify. I don’t want anyone crying

copious tears over this revelation. It was simply a way of life, but out

of it a couple of incidents stick in my memory, incidents that never

would have occurred had I not been poor. Looking back, they almost make

the experience of being poor worthwhile.

The Gardners were prosperous Iowa farmers, but my father wanted no

part of that life. He ran off to be a lumberjack and cowboy. After that

he had several businesses fail, went to work on the railroad, lost

seniority because of a strike -- and then there was the Depression. This

was before scholarships or student loans, and there was no way I could

have gone to college except that I had an uncle who was a federal judge.

He decided I should go to college and carry on the tradition of a

judgeship in the family. So far, so good. We have a hungry kid with no

money but lots of ambition.

My uncle paid the tuition, but I had to scrape together everything

else. I went to USC, and there was quite a contrast with other students.

At the end of the school day, everyone headed west for home except two of

us who went east. Even then that was not the better part of town.

The first incident occurred in the Biltmore Bowl nightclub. It was the

place to go. For three dollars and 50 cents, one could sit at a table and

get a bowl of mix into which you poured your bottle of straight alcohol.

Somehow I got together the necessary funds to be there, but I didn’t

have a penny more to spend. As I was walking back to my table, I passed

another table on which reposed a pack of cigarettes. A smoke sounded so

good I reached out and grabbed the cigarettes and as I did, a bigger hand

than mine closed on my wrist. I dropped the package, my wrist was

released, I moved on, and that was the end of it. The guy could have made

a scene that embarrassed me or worse. He didn’t, and I never forgot. I

also never tried to purloin something again.

Incident No. 2: I was sitting at a lunch counter eating a crumb

doughnut. That was my meal for the day, and I was making that crumb

doughnut last as long as possible. A man sitting beside me noticed me

picking up every crumb. He paid his bill, walked out, and after he left,

the waitress brought me a platter of ham and eggs, which he had ordered

for me and paid for. I wolfed it down and never forgot that meal or the

anonymous man who paid for it.

Being poor wasn’t fun, but it did allow me to see the generous side of

two strangers.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge. His

column runs Tuesdays.