There’s a noticeable trend unfolding in Los Banos. As an outsider, I pick up on it during my biannual visits to see my grandparents. Another familiar face has passed. Ming’s is gone. Tony’s shut down. These things tend to happen in an aging town, especially when appreciation dies with the people who remember the heyday of certain community staples.
At the Lucky Strike Saloon, it’s clear I’m not the only one noticing. Someone’s parents or grandparents passed, so now it’s time to move back and take over the family business. Grandma’s in memory care, and no one trusts the caretakers. Grandpa can’t see anymore, so someone needs to drive him to appointments.
A lot of these men, my grandfather included, are stubborn. They worked hard, stuck it out, and left something behind worth protecting. Still, it can be difficult to get them the care they need. For most of the elderly in Los Banos, any specialist provider is in Fresno. You’d think they might plan retirement around being closer to that kind of care, but most would rather die proudly in Los Banos than live anywhere near Fresno.
There’s a growing need for inpatient care centers here. I’ve visited a few with my grandfather, and sometimes I see what he sees. I encourage anyone to sit in one of these facilities and ask how many patients know someone else in the same place. Most of them went to high school together. Dated the same people. Worked at the same farms or businesses. It’s like summer camp for the Los Banos High School classes of 1950 to 1965.
I talked to a man in a memory care facility who my grandfather employed at his bar in the 70s. He’d tell me stories my grandfather wouldn’t tell his own friends, let alone his grandson. He also told me what the women in the facility used to get up to back in the day. His memory seemed sharp at first, but if I asked him to go into further detail, he’d forget what story he just told me, so I just let him rant.
During my most recent visit, I woke up at 4 a.m. to join my grandfather in his morning ritual, meeting up with his Portuguese buddies at the nearby McDonald’s. The four of them sip McCafé roasts without cream and gossip for the next hour. I ask what happened to the rest of the group I saw last time. My grandfather replies, “If you want to get the whole group together, you have to drive over to Center Avenue,” referring to the Los Banos District Cemetery.
Listening to these men, you realize they all share the same story, just with different names filling the roles. They grew up with immigrant parents, met their wives in high school, deployed to Vietnam, came back and started businesses, drank a lot, never left Los Banos, and knew everybody within a twenty-mile radius.
I have an appreciation for the lives they’ve built here and for the preservation of a culture that shaped the community into what it is today. There aren’t many tight-knit American towns quite like it. Tell these men your last name and they know your entire family tree. Yes, they’re all old white men, but they’re also some of the last to be bound by a culture that came from somewhere else.
These men didn’t pass down their native languages to their children. They cared about the historic landmarks and festivals, yet didn’t ensure the preservation of the actual culture within their homes. They kept that side of themselves tucked away, almost as a way to strengthen their class within their own community. My theory is that it gave them a way to ensure no one could understand their gossip. These men do not have filters, and maybe they shouldn’t. Boys will be boys, even if they walk through the door in tennis ball-protected walkers.
Eventually, the morning shift at McDonald’s won’t be serving anyone but the drive-thru San Jose commuters. Their mid-century homes will be gutted to make way for your gray-and-white boxes. Their family land will be sold off by disagreeing relatives to developers, just so you can finally get another big-box store and a car wash.
I’ll still visit. But the version of this place they created will be long gone by then. Just don’t let Wool Growers or España’s close.