#2 - Jackie teaches us all
The Raleigh Street Courts consisted of six apartments and one house. Three apartments were on the left and three were on the right. The two sections were separated by a ten-foot wide concrete path which led to the two-story house in the back. Most people didn’t live in the courts for more than a year or two, or at least not in the same apartment. We started out in the middle one on the right, and within six months, moved to the middle one on the left.
When my grandmother moved to Glendale, she took the last one on the left. It had belonged to a retired prostitute named Jackie and her six-year-old son Barry. Jackie had moved up the social ladder and was now a doctor’s assistant. However, while she may have changed occupations, she was still a hooker at heart. She wore pounds of make-up, the longest false eyelashes I’ve ever seen, and clothes designed to entice men of all ages. But it was her mouth that gave her away. All of her words and concepts were inappropriate for all listeners. She said “f#$k” more times in a day than most people "do it" in a lifetime. Her totally uninhibited approach to conversation kept my mother (and me) visiting on a regular basis.
She would sit at her formica table, dressed to the hilt, like a queen on her throne. In one hand she held a cigarette, and in the other, a martini glass filled with gin and tonic. She posed her long, thin fingers like a classy lady in a 20s movie. Frequently, she set down her cigarette and her martini glass to perform her ritual of hand washing, lotion applying, and finger manicuring.
Her hair, of which she had little, was usually pulled back flat under a cheap scarf. This was an interesting contrast to the careful attention she gave to all other aspects of her appearance. Like those damn fake eyelashes, which were always in place even first thing in the morning. She explained how she slept all night with her thumb on her temple and her fingers on her pillow to keep her head propped up. She swore she never moved when she slept.
Her only inhibition seemed to be peeing. She never said anything about it, and we sure didn’t ask, but she definitely didn’t want anyone to hear her doing it. As soon as she closed the bathroom door, she would turn on the faucet, and not turn it off until the toilet was completely done flushing and refilling.
Her biggest and most frequent complaint was that most men didn’t know how to “f#$k.” She blamed this on the fact that there was no formal training program in which they could learn. This lack of training had inspired her to make it her life’s work to “teach them.” I never did get any of the specifics on what her curriculum included; just that she was working to rid the world of “bad f#$ks.”
I always had a lot of respect for Jackie. She was funny and witty, and she looked at the world from a perspective that was new and exciting to me. She was bold and unreserved, and she had no problem speaking her mind. She was a trendsetter—she was the first white woman I knew who had dated a black man. However, the day she decided to include her son in the list of men she would someday “teach,” my opinion of her began to waiver. She had always been rather controlling of her son’s life, but this was too much. She explained that it would be an embarrassment to both of them if she raised a son who couldn’t perform well in bed.
Monday, December 7, 2009
#1 - Moving to the Raleigh Street Courts
#1 - Raleigh Street and Roger Maris
It was 1966 when we moved to the Raleigh Street Courts in Glendale, California. I was eight, my brother was nine, and my sister would be born the following February. I don’t recall what time of year it was, but I remember starting third grade that September. Chances are pretty good that we arrived in August, since our family had a tradition of always moving on either the hottest or the wettest day of the year.
Our new home consisted of one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. My brother and I shared the bedroom, while Mom slept on a sleeper-sofa in the living room. In the kitchen, you could stand in the middle of the floor, and without moving your feet, reach the refrigerator, the stove, all four drawers, every cupboard, and all the counter space. Three steps toward the window and you were “in” the dining area—a space big enough to hold our formica-covered table—a table designed to seat two but that frequently found three, and sometimes four, people sitting around it.
I remember the year, 1969, when Roger Maris beat Babe Ruth’s home-run record. (I didn’t actually know at the time what was happening, but when I recently did the math (so I could write this), I figured that that had to be what was happening). My mom and her friend Shirley were seated at the kitchen table. The radio was blasting out the game. It was another hot day in Southern California. This meant open doors, open windows, and cold beer. Neighbors frequently stopped at our window to ask, “Has he done it yet?” Occasionally, a passerby would come in for a beer and some conversation. It seemed to me that nobody was listening to the game, but every so often Shirley would yell “He’s up!” and everyone quieted down.
I don’t know how many times Maris batted and failed (or how many games we actually listened to before he finally succeeded), but when he hit the record breaking homer, the entire court came to life. People flew out of their apartments, screaming and hooraying, and running around telling anyone who would listen. I had no clue why they cared so much, but the excitement was contagious. It was fun seeing all the grown-ups laughing and smiling and carrying on like kids; so all of us kids started running around too.
It was 1966 when we moved to the Raleigh Street Courts in Glendale, California. I was eight, my brother was nine, and my sister would be born the following February. I don’t recall what time of year it was, but I remember starting third grade that September. Chances are pretty good that we arrived in August, since our family had a tradition of always moving on either the hottest or the wettest day of the year.
Our new home consisted of one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. My brother and I shared the bedroom, while Mom slept on a sleeper-sofa in the living room. In the kitchen, you could stand in the middle of the floor, and without moving your feet, reach the refrigerator, the stove, all four drawers, every cupboard, and all the counter space. Three steps toward the window and you were “in” the dining area—a space big enough to hold our formica-covered table—a table designed to seat two but that frequently found three, and sometimes four, people sitting around it.
I remember the year, 1969, when Roger Maris beat Babe Ruth’s home-run record. (I didn’t actually know at the time what was happening, but when I recently did the math (so I could write this), I figured that that had to be what was happening). My mom and her friend Shirley were seated at the kitchen table. The radio was blasting out the game. It was another hot day in Southern California. This meant open doors, open windows, and cold beer. Neighbors frequently stopped at our window to ask, “Has he done it yet?” Occasionally, a passerby would come in for a beer and some conversation. It seemed to me that nobody was listening to the game, but every so often Shirley would yell “He’s up!” and everyone quieted down.
I don’t know how many times Maris batted and failed (or how many games we actually listened to before he finally succeeded), but when he hit the record breaking homer, the entire court came to life. People flew out of their apartments, screaming and hooraying, and running around telling anyone who would listen. I had no clue why they cared so much, but the excitement was contagious. It was fun seeing all the grown-ups laughing and smiling and carrying on like kids; so all of us kids started running around too.
Monday, November 30, 2009
#15 Raleigh Street - Driveways & Parking Spots
Scarcity at Its Best
Estimated read time: 10 minutes
Having a private driveway was a big deal on Raleigh Street. Not only did it mean you had a reliable place to park your car, it was also a symbol of prestige. Only a few families had private driveways, and now, we were one of them.
The Courts had had a driveway, but no one except the Reeds and the landlord had been allowed to use it. Our new neighbors, the Ridges, didn’t have a driveway at all. The neighbors on the other side of us had a driveway, but since there weren’t enough parking spaces for all three tenants, none of them were allowed to park there.
The apartment building across the street had an underground parking lot, but each tenant was allowed only one spot, and some families had more than one car. The house directly across the street had a driveway, but they had to share it with the family who lived behind them.
This meant that finding available parking on the street was an ongoing problem. Raleigh Street residents were in constant competition with each other and Maple Park patrons for a small number of parking spaces. After a long day at work, no one enjoyed hiking home from a parking spot halfway down the block.
The four-plex across the street, next to the park, had a small driveway which could accommodate one car. In front of the four-plex were two prime parking spots which had been confiscated years earlier by an older couple that lived in the bottom right apartment. The couple owned two big round Chevy sedans, which they always parked in those prime spots.
Whenever one of them needed to go somewhere, they’d both waddle out of their apartment, and roll their large, round bodies into their cars. The one who was leaving would move his or her car up just enough to allow the other car to move into the middle of the two spots. That way there wouldn’t be enough room for anyone else to park there.
The one who hadn’t left would then go back into the apartment and watch out the living room window, waiting for the other one to return. When the absent Chevy reappeared, the window watcher would go out, get into the parked car and, as soon as “the coast was clear,” move the car back to its original space. The returning car would then regain the other spot.
This pissed off everyone who didn’t have a driveway.
And so, they waited vigilantly for those rare moments when both Chevys were gone at the same time. Then, they would run down the street, collect their cars, and lay claim to the prized parking spots.
When the Chevys arrived back home, the couple would be forced to find less desirable parking, and then, for the next several hours, they would pace up and down the street, waiting for the owners of the guilty cars to return. But the thieves were never that dumb, and so the couple would finally go inside. There, they watched and waited for the opportunity to win back the spaces they believed were rightfully theirs. Sometimes it only took a day; other times it took a week. But they always got the spots back. And it would be another cold day in hell before they were both gone at the same time.
I don’t think anyone ever stepped out of their house or apartment without looking to see who was parked in those prime spaces; even those of us who didn’t need them looked. So the day the Volkswagen Beetle squeezed in behind the solitary Chevy was no different.
The couple had performed their usual car moving routine then drove off together in one car. This time, however, they had left just enough room behind the remaining Chevy for a very small car to fit. I didn’t recognize the little red bug. It probably belonged to someone visiting the park. When the couple returned home and saw that they had lost their spot, the whole neighborhood got a good laugh.
The woman stuck her head out of the passenger window and pointed accusingly at the bug.
“Do you know who owns this car?” she yelled at a passerby.
“No,” he mumbled, walking quickly past her.
“Do you know whose car this is?” she screamed at me.
I shook my head, and sat down on the porch steps to watch the show.
“Park over there,” she demanded of her husband, pointing at a spot that had just recently become available in front of our house.
He was going the wrong way and would have to turn around.
“Just pull in there,” she hollered impatiently, indicating our empty driveway.
He said something under his breath and smiled.
“What?” she hissed. “You think this is funny?”
“No, dear,” he answered curtly.
He pulled the car up to the curb. She opened her door and used the top of it to pull herself out. We were practically face to face.
“You didn’t see who parked that car there?” she asked me again, this time accusingly.
I shook my head. I was afraid to open my mouth, because I knew if I did, I would start laughing, and then she’d really be angry.
By now, several neighbors had come out to see what the commotion was about. Dickie was watching me from his porch across the street and he was grinning. I could hardly contain myself.
“Let’s go home,” the man urged his wife.
She turned and began walking toward him.
“I wanna know who owns that car,” she said to him. “The nerve of some people.”
They continued across the street toward their apartment.
“John,” she said. “Go call the police. I’m not gonna stand for this.”
“Now dear,” he said, calmly. “You know that never works. They never come.”
“They’ll come this time,” she said. “Go in the house now and call the police.”
About that time, a guy, roughly twenty years old, came out of the park and walked toward the little red car.
“Is that your car?” the woman demanded.
“Uhhhh, yes,” the guy said reluctantly.
“Do you know you’re parked illegally?” she asked.
“I don’t believe I am ma’am,” he said politely.
“You’re in my parking place,” she told him.
“It’s a public street, lady. Anyone can park here.”
“No, they can’t,” she screamed. “I’ve lived in that apartment for ten years.” She pointed at her living room window. “And I’ve been parking here for ten years.” She pointed at the prime spots. “And I’m not going to put up with hippies like you coming in and taking over the neighborhood.”
“All right, all right,” the bug’s owner said as he got into his car. “I’m leaving already.”
“Good,” she responded righteously.
“Up yours, lady,” he said, giving her the finger as he drove off.
Estimated read time: 10 minutes
Having a private driveway was a big deal on Raleigh Street. Not only did it mean you had a reliable place to park your car, it was also a symbol of prestige. Only a few families had private driveways, and now, we were one of them.
The Courts had had a driveway, but no one except the Reeds and the landlord had been allowed to use it. Our new neighbors, the Ridges, didn’t have a driveway at all. The neighbors on the other side of us had a driveway, but since there weren’t enough parking spaces for all three tenants, none of them were allowed to park there.
The apartment building across the street had an underground parking lot, but each tenant was allowed only one spot, and some families had more than one car. The house directly across the street had a driveway, but they had to share it with the family who lived behind them.
This meant that finding available parking on the street was an ongoing problem. Raleigh Street residents were in constant competition with each other and Maple Park patrons for a small number of parking spaces. After a long day at work, no one enjoyed hiking home from a parking spot halfway down the block.
The four-plex across the street, next to the park, had a small driveway which could accommodate one car. In front of the four-plex were two prime parking spots which had been confiscated years earlier by an older couple that lived in the bottom right apartment. The couple owned two big round Chevy sedans, which they always parked in those prime spots.
Whenever one of them needed to go somewhere, they’d both waddle out of their apartment, and roll their large, round bodies into their cars. The one who was leaving would move his or her car up just enough to allow the other car to move into the middle of the two spots. That way there wouldn’t be enough room for anyone else to park there.
The one who hadn’t left would then go back into the apartment and watch out the living room window, waiting for the other one to return. When the absent Chevy reappeared, the window watcher would go out, get into the parked car and, as soon as “the coast was clear,” move the car back to its original space. The returning car would then regain the other spot.
This pissed off everyone who didn’t have a driveway.
And so, they waited vigilantly for those rare moments when both Chevys were gone at the same time. Then, they would run down the street, collect their cars, and lay claim to the prized parking spots.
When the Chevys arrived back home, the couple would be forced to find less desirable parking, and then, for the next several hours, they would pace up and down the street, waiting for the owners of the guilty cars to return. But the thieves were never that dumb, and so the couple would finally go inside. There, they watched and waited for the opportunity to win back the spaces they believed were rightfully theirs. Sometimes it only took a day; other times it took a week. But they always got the spots back. And it would be another cold day in hell before they were both gone at the same time.
I don’t think anyone ever stepped out of their house or apartment without looking to see who was parked in those prime spaces; even those of us who didn’t need them looked. So the day the Volkswagen Beetle squeezed in behind the solitary Chevy was no different.
The couple had performed their usual car moving routine then drove off together in one car. This time, however, they had left just enough room behind the remaining Chevy for a very small car to fit. I didn’t recognize the little red bug. It probably belonged to someone visiting the park. When the couple returned home and saw that they had lost their spot, the whole neighborhood got a good laugh.
The woman stuck her head out of the passenger window and pointed accusingly at the bug.
“Do you know who owns this car?” she yelled at a passerby.
“No,” he mumbled, walking quickly past her.
“Do you know whose car this is?” she screamed at me.
I shook my head, and sat down on the porch steps to watch the show.
“Park over there,” she demanded of her husband, pointing at a spot that had just recently become available in front of our house.
He was going the wrong way and would have to turn around.
“Just pull in there,” she hollered impatiently, indicating our empty driveway.
He said something under his breath and smiled.
“What?” she hissed. “You think this is funny?”
“No, dear,” he answered curtly.
He pulled the car up to the curb. She opened her door and used the top of it to pull herself out. We were practically face to face.
“You didn’t see who parked that car there?” she asked me again, this time accusingly.
I shook my head. I was afraid to open my mouth, because I knew if I did, I would start laughing, and then she’d really be angry.
By now, several neighbors had come out to see what the commotion was about. Dickie was watching me from his porch across the street and he was grinning. I could hardly contain myself.
“Let’s go home,” the man urged his wife.
She turned and began walking toward him.
“I wanna know who owns that car,” she said to him. “The nerve of some people.”
They continued across the street toward their apartment.
“John,” she said. “Go call the police. I’m not gonna stand for this.”
“Now dear,” he said, calmly. “You know that never works. They never come.”
“They’ll come this time,” she said. “Go in the house now and call the police.”
About that time, a guy, roughly twenty years old, came out of the park and walked toward the little red car.
“Is that your car?” the woman demanded.
“Uhhhh, yes,” the guy said reluctantly.
“Do you know you’re parked illegally?” she asked.
“I don’t believe I am ma’am,” he said politely.
“You’re in my parking place,” she told him.
“It’s a public street, lady. Anyone can park here.”
“No, they can’t,” she screamed. “I’ve lived in that apartment for ten years.” She pointed at her living room window. “And I’ve been parking here for ten years.” She pointed at the prime spots. “And I’m not going to put up with hippies like you coming in and taking over the neighborhood.”
“All right, all right,” the bug’s owner said as he got into his car. “I’m leaving already.”
“Good,” she responded righteously.
“Up yours, lady,” he said, giving her the finger as he drove off.
#14 Raleigh Street - Houses, Doors, & Yards
Movin' On Up - 1969
Estimated read time: 5 minutes
When my sister, Karla, was about a year old, my Grandmother moved down from Seattle to help out. She lived next to us in the last apartment on the left until a house three lots west of the Courts became available. Then she moved there. Mom had wanted the house, but Grama saw it first. And Grama thought it would be nice if we all lived there together. Mom didn’t agree.
The house had three or four bedrooms, depending on how you counted, and one bathroom, no matter how many times you counted. Erik got the small room off the kitchen, and I got the other small one between the laundry room/back porch and the bathroom. Each room was just big enough for a twin bed and a small dresser. Neither one had a closet.
Grama took the room that should have been the dining room and made it her bedroom. It was right off the living room and had a large opening instead of a door. She hung a curtain across the opening and called it good.
Mom kept Karla with her at the Courts. Grama set up a crib in her bedroom for when she babysat.
The fourth and biggest bedroom was turned into Grama’s sewing room. One of its doors led into the bathroom, a second door led into the living room, and on a third wall, there was another door that led out to the side yard.
The house was laid out in such a way that you could walk (or run) through it in a complete circle. The living room led into the kitchen, which led into the laundry room, which went into my room, then into the bathroom, next to the sewing room, and back to the living room; only Erik’s and Grama’s rooms missed being in the circle.
We had three yards now—one in the front, one in the back, and one on the side. Grama put up clotheslines in the back and side yards. On laundry day, this meant we’d better stay out of the yards or we’d be in big trouble. Grama didn’t appreciate it when we ran through the sheets to avoid being caught in a game of “You’re it.”
Since Grama’s house sat behind two smaller houses, our front yard was also someone else’s back yard. But we didn’t mind. Especially since, several months after Grama moved into the back house, Mom rented the front house that also belonged to the yard, and now it was our yard no matter which way we looked at it. And, since Mom’s house had a front yard too, the common yard became the middle yard, and we now had four yards.
The two front houses were separated by a narrow walkway that went from the middle yard to the sidewalk. The back doors of both houses led into the walkway and faced each other. If both doors swung open at the same time, they just missed hitting each other. And if a finger was anywhere near at the time, ouch.
When any of us kids failed to close Mom’s back door, which was frequently, the door banged loudly and repetitively against the side of the house. The noise annoyed Mom and our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Ridge, so we constantly got yelled at to “shut the damn door.” Mom also didn’t like it left open because it let the flies come in.
Mom’s front house had less rooms than Grama’s back house, but like Grama’s, it was laid out in a circle. Moving counterclockwise, you went from the living room to the bedroom to the bathroom to the laundry room to the kitchen and back to the living room. The rooms were a lot bigger than those at the courts, so Mom and Karla had a lot more space now.
The bedroom’s south window faced both the middle yard and Grama’s front door. It, therefore, became a communication channel and a regular thoroughfare. When dinner was ready at Grama’s house, she’d send one of us kids to tell Mom it was ready. Sometimes we’d just hang out on the sill and holler in at her. Other times, we’d climb all the way in. Mom didn’t care much for our using the window as a means of getting from one house to the other, but we thought it was a lot more fun than the door.
Having two houses and four yards was great. And, since both our houses were on the driveway side of the property, we got the driveway—all the way from the street to Grama’s back yard.
Estimated read time: 5 minutes
When my sister, Karla, was about a year old, my Grandmother moved down from Seattle to help out. She lived next to us in the last apartment on the left until a house three lots west of the Courts became available. Then she moved there. Mom had wanted the house, but Grama saw it first. And Grama thought it would be nice if we all lived there together. Mom didn’t agree.
The house had three or four bedrooms, depending on how you counted, and one bathroom, no matter how many times you counted. Erik got the small room off the kitchen, and I got the other small one between the laundry room/back porch and the bathroom. Each room was just big enough for a twin bed and a small dresser. Neither one had a closet.
Grama took the room that should have been the dining room and made it her bedroom. It was right off the living room and had a large opening instead of a door. She hung a curtain across the opening and called it good.
Mom kept Karla with her at the Courts. Grama set up a crib in her bedroom for when she babysat.
The fourth and biggest bedroom was turned into Grama’s sewing room. One of its doors led into the bathroom, a second door led into the living room, and on a third wall, there was another door that led out to the side yard.
The house was laid out in such a way that you could walk (or run) through it in a complete circle. The living room led into the kitchen, which led into the laundry room, which went into my room, then into the bathroom, next to the sewing room, and back to the living room; only Erik’s and Grama’s rooms missed being in the circle.
We had three yards now—one in the front, one in the back, and one on the side. Grama put up clotheslines in the back and side yards. On laundry day, this meant we’d better stay out of the yards or we’d be in big trouble. Grama didn’t appreciate it when we ran through the sheets to avoid being caught in a game of “You’re it.”
Since Grama’s house sat behind two smaller houses, our front yard was also someone else’s back yard. But we didn’t mind. Especially since, several months after Grama moved into the back house, Mom rented the front house that also belonged to the yard, and now it was our yard no matter which way we looked at it. And, since Mom’s house had a front yard too, the common yard became the middle yard, and we now had four yards.
The two front houses were separated by a narrow walkway that went from the middle yard to the sidewalk. The back doors of both houses led into the walkway and faced each other. If both doors swung open at the same time, they just missed hitting each other. And if a finger was anywhere near at the time, ouch.
When any of us kids failed to close Mom’s back door, which was frequently, the door banged loudly and repetitively against the side of the house. The noise annoyed Mom and our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Ridge, so we constantly got yelled at to “shut the damn door.” Mom also didn’t like it left open because it let the flies come in.
Mom’s front house had less rooms than Grama’s back house, but like Grama’s, it was laid out in a circle. Moving counterclockwise, you went from the living room to the bedroom to the bathroom to the laundry room to the kitchen and back to the living room. The rooms were a lot bigger than those at the courts, so Mom and Karla had a lot more space now.
The bedroom’s south window faced both the middle yard and Grama’s front door. It, therefore, became a communication channel and a regular thoroughfare. When dinner was ready at Grama’s house, she’d send one of us kids to tell Mom it was ready. Sometimes we’d just hang out on the sill and holler in at her. Other times, we’d climb all the way in. Mom didn’t care much for our using the window as a means of getting from one house to the other, but we thought it was a lot more fun than the door.
Having two houses and four yards was great. And, since both our houses were on the driveway side of the property, we got the driveway—all the way from the street to Grama’s back yard.
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