After describing the immediate neighborhood, I need to expand it to close surroundings and some of the "neighbors." Very important neighbors lived on either side of my grandmother's house. Living in the one opposite our driveway was my future sister-in-law, had we known it. Her family moved in when we were about to start second grade. The one on the other side of the house held the fella who would become my husband and the older brother who would become my other neighbor's husband as well. They moved in about the time we were starting sixth grade.
The block we lived on sheltered several ages, occupations, families and single people. There was the older couple, children grown, who had been early residents on the street, and whom everyone who had children admired and respected. They went out of their way to be friendly surrogate grandparents to all the young ones. Across the street, in the vine covered victorian lived a couple, both of whom were teachers at Manual Arts High School. She taught English. He taught welding. He didn't look like a welder. He wore a tweedy jacket, carried a briefcase and smoked a pipe. She looked like an English teacher.
As an aside: Manual Arts High School was just that. It offered general education courses for high school graduation; but it specialized in shop classes - automotive, general mechanics, carpentry, welding, electrical, even drafting. For girls there was the ubiquitous home ec, with sewing and cooking the prime courses. It's too bad that we don't have manual arts schools for young people as they once did. Not everyone is suited for or bound for college. We need people who can work with their hands and the supply is growing shorter. I heard John Ratzenberger just last night on Hannity, saying exactly that. He's pushing for more blue collar workers to fill the voids. Young people once added to their basic knowledge after shop classes by attending Trade School. We are missing something vital, I think.
Back to the neighbors: There was a preponderance of boys on the block, the four next door, three at various homes across the street and one down the block who lived with his mother in the "court." He was Jewish and kept to himself mostly; although he came to my house to play once in awhile. One of the boys across the street came from a broken home, something that was whispered about in those days. He lived with his mother and grandmother in a small duplex. My tomboy side was fulfilled with all those boys to join in playing football. All of us walked to the neighborhood schools, some to public school and a few of us to our local parish school. More about that later.
The "corner" liquor store and barber shop were two blocks from our house at Vernon and Budlong Avenues. Turning right onto Budlong, we delivered and picked up clothes at the cleaners. All were in the same, two-story building. The liquor store was owned by a Jewish family. The cleaner was run by the valet of an immigrant Hungarian count, who had lost his title and fortune. I can't remember his name. The Count, valet and the valet's elderly mother lived above the shop. The valet, ran the business. His picture, in an ornate uniform with tassles and epaulets, tassles on his high black boots and fur on his high military hat, a flashy cape over one shoulder, hung on the wall behind the counter. The Count often sat in a straight-backed chair near the counter, dressed in suit and tie, one hand on a fine mahogany cane, a jaunty hat always covering his white hair. He smiled but never spoke. It was really rather sad. His faithful valet was always bustling and talkative. The barber, and liquor store owner and his wife, also lived above their establishments.
Another aside. In those innocent days, my grandfather could send me to the liquor store to pick up a pack of cigarettes or a six-pack of beer. It really wasn't legal then, either; but this was the "neighborhood." Everyone knew everyone and the liquor store proprietor knew that what I took home was for my grandfather. Yes, those really were innocent days.
Across the street from the liquor store was the neighborhood grocery store. My grandmother ran a tab and paid once a month when she received her social security check and rent from her tenant farmer in Missouri. Many people paid that way. The store proprietors had notepads to keep track of people's monthly purchases. The butcher was German. The produce man was Italian. He also lived above the store, as I recall.
In the other direction from our street, it was two blocks to the streetcar line on Vermont Avenue. The places I remember on Vermont without crossing the street were the skating rink, small five and dime store, movie theater and malt shop. The malt shop is the one I mentioned in the story about "the boy."
My Catholic church and school, St. Cecilia's, were a six blocks walk. The students were mostly first or second generation native-born. The names of my classmates were English, German, Dutch, French, Mexican and Italian. Los Angeles was still a mostly segregated city, so we had no black classmates. My first black classmates, I can't believe this, but it's true, were in college.
There had always been a strong Spanish-Mexican influence in Los Angeles, which started as a pueblo, La Senora Reina de Los Angeles de Portiuncula, Our Lady Queen of the Angels. Our much admired County Sheriff was of Mexican descent. Sheriff Biscailuz was in office from the 1930s through the 1940s when he retired. I was born on the 150th birthday of Los Angeles. The Sheriff handed out to the newborns little blue felt sombreros with white tassles and a ribbon band in Mexico's colors which has printed on it, "Fiesta de Los Angeles." I still have mine.
The neighborhood changed over time, as neighborhoods do. I can't believe that the house in which I grew up is over 90 years old. That particular neighborhood eventually became a black neighborhood. Now, I hear it is predominantly hispanic. I might wish that we had more "diversity" when I was a child; but it seems now, that the neighborhoods are less diverse than they were, and perhaps more segregated. There are not the names of other nationalities, the tastes of different ethnic foods at church bazaars, the music and dancing at class entertainments that had their own regional flavors. The "neighborhood" and the "neighbors" are all of a kind. Integration has morphed into segregation once again. This time self-imposed.
10/7/11
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