The Odds are. . .Against by Constantine Gochis

 This is another of Dad's stories related to his life back in the 1990s near and around Fairfax Avenue in Los Angeles. This one he did not title so I did it for him.

Think of the certainty of the solar systm.  We have just witnessed the last solar eclipse that will not happen again for centuries. I have concluded, after a spate of years, that I am not attuned to the meticulously ordered universe.

I cite the astronomical trivia because the orbital  exactitude is so predictable and so orderly and I am so out of sync with it.

I cite two examples.  One is the buses I continue to miss, a fact that does violence to the psyche.

You know, if one tosses a penny into the air one hundred times, it will come up heads about fifty percent of the time, I don't want to exaggerate, but if you were to place the odds on MY chances of catching the elusive bus at zero, you would be a winner.

Take today, Friday the 13th. There are three northbound and southbound lines on Fairfax Avenue any one of which can serve my purposes when I am about my errands. I watched as all three reached and departed the bus stop while I was a half a block away. In desperation I signaled a cab

He affected not to see me until I took out a pen and made scratches on an envelope I was carrying. "You look for a cab? I do not see you right away," he apologized.

I retaliated by paying him in Cityride coupons and did not include a tip. Cabbies will take dollars or rubles but they hate the coupons.

I was on my way to "Staples" to consult with their computer guru on the matter of some non-functioning hardware I had purchased. 

The expert was bored and impatient, a condition only possible in times of low unemployment.

Another customer tried to interpose his beef.  "When I am finished with this customer," said the imperious chief which dispatched the customer due to his tonal severity. Managers have rights.

The manager finished me off with equal celerity. "We don't stock the part, you have to call the company." 

All right. My luck seemed to be taking a turn for the better. I caught the home bound Wilshire Bus immediately. 

When I got to Fairfax Avenue, the 99 Cents shop, loomed invitingly. The odds looked promising if I got off, and went to the store. As I said, there are ample lines on Fairfax Avuenue.  "Take a shot," I said to myself.

There was only one guy in front of me on the check out line. Lady luck turned. The guy ran his credit card through the slide. It did not work. He tried several sides of the reluctant plastic without result. The clerk took the card and repeated his steps without better results. She demonstrated several innovative gyrations, wiping the offending card against her forearm, her sleeve, and once even on her protective apron. I watched through the window as two buses arrived and departed.

The clerk and the customer repaired to another counter and repeated the ritual. I dropped my items on the counter and left. Happily, the 217 was approaching.  But it did not stop. The legend above the windshield read, "Out of Service". 

After a long intermission, another loomed, approached slowly at first, and when the light turned green sped past us bulging with passengers from its last pick-up point.

A little old lady shook her cane at the offending vehicle with great vigor, and she spewed forth a thesaurus of invective, including four letter words, both instructive and satisfying to me.

I decided to walk. 

Do You Want to Live Forever? by Constantine Gochis

 I am not referring by this title to the Queen song, but rather one of the many stories my father wrote in his retirement, mostly. The one that follows was written in the 1990s, and to me, it reflects the area we both lived in then from a personal and historical point of view. Lots has changed in the Fairfax District of Los Angeles, and not all of it for the better. This story was well before the hip kids who overtook the traditional vegetable and bakery stores, and the family oriented Orthodox Jews, with sneaker pop ups, and the like, exhaling their weed smoke--as smoking is perfectly fine as long as it isn't tobacco. I realize how much I have inherited my father's cynicism, although it is less that I have become cynical I think than that the society has derailed in the 18 years since my father's death. He predicted it and while I believed him, I did not think it was coming in my lifetime. He did. 

Things were starting to deteriorate when Dad wrote this short one and the one that will follow in another entry, hopefully today.

Do You Want to Live Forever?

The 217 bus, going south, stops at Beverly Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue.  It is a sorry example of city transport, despite the protestations of the LA City Council. It is infrequent in its arrivals, unsupervised so that schedules are meaningless, graffiti emblazoned with shattered looking windows, and characteried by the odor of stale urine wafting from the well of the rear exit. Neverthelss, it never lacks for riders, usually the aged and the infirm and uncharacterizable individuals. 

Inevitably, take today for example, three fully loaded buses ignore our stop to a chorus of vituperataion.  A voice speaks to me in Yiddish.

"Do you speak Yiddish?"

"A bissel," I reply. My linguistic ability is a residual of my Bronx heritage.

He then proceeds to speak to me in English now that he has probed to establish my ethnicity.

"The month is my birthday," he says.

"Mazeltov," I reply continuing the imposture. 

"I am seventy-seven this month." 

I shake my head in acknowledgement. In my head I compute the difference in our ages, only three months.

He continues as if he needs no response.

"I have a cancer," he says blithely, "but it's out the doctor says. I'm cured!"

He adds the details, a prostatectomy, three years ago.

"The doctor catches it in time. How do I look?" he questions. Then, without waiting for a reply again, 

"They say some people live to be one hundred and twenty; there's a woman in France I hear of. . ."

"There are stories of great longevity, some villages in Russia," I encourage.

"A lot of crap," he retorts, "they don't keep birth certificates."

I begin to wear.  I suggest the testimony in the Torah of startling life spans. He ignores my reference.

"No kidding, how do I look? The doctor says if I take care of myself, I've got a long time. Some doctors are phony bastards but I believe Levenson. What do you think? How old do I look if you have to estiate in years. Ok how many do you say?"

"Conservatively," I lie, "a minimum of thirty."

His expression indicates he is assured. Clearly, he has asked this question many times.

The bus arrives. I decide to walk. 

Punctuation on the Passage of Time

I don't know if it is my imagination, but since the Covid lockdown and its aftermath, time simply seems to be passing at a fearsome speed. 

I can't tell you how many people I have known have passed away in these last years. Yes, some were of a "good age", but some were not. Of late, loss appears to be the order of the day. In less than two years, five of those who were companions on the road at my local Catholic Church, St. Victor, have died and one or two outside of St. Victor. Two from St. Victor died just a month apart. 

Each of these people were integral parts of my life, before I moved to and from the time I moved to Los Angeles, and re-upped as a Catholic at St. Victor, before I was even 30 years old. Three were nonogenerians. The most recent died on April 16. Two were octogenarians (one was the only non-St. Victor friend and she knew one of those who died). Three were "young" in that their time came too soon (one on the East Coast).

I think I really FEEL John Donne's words in his poem For Whom the Bell Tolls:  "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.  Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee."

I am pared down. And even before these six years of near constant loss, there were people who should be here (in my selfish view) taken, and none of a great age. 

Threads of my life's tapestry are being pulled out. At the same time, my earnestness about preparing for my own demise has increased. My nature being what it is, although many have never seen it (several poor souls have), I have always been aware of death and in truth afraid--hence my long period of teenage hypochondria, and far too long night terrors (those alas ended mysteriously in my late fifties or sixties). 

But this period, the last chapter, and yes no amount of cheery rhetoric can change that, has been challenging, as well as an opportunity to orient my life toward the Eternal in Whom I believe not merely intellectually, but Whom I am seeking at the core of my being. I trip up on the road regularly. And though I pray for trust in the Lord, a lot, I am too often filled with the anxiety born of distrust. 

Today I went to the cemetery mortuary to arrange for the latest funeral. I have gone there so often, I don't need to ask where the restrooms are! I visited my father who is ensconced in a columbarium across the way from the mortuary. The wall is nearly filled as it was not when Dad's cremains were laid to rest there in 2008. I have my space next to him. Odd to be standing outside now of the place where I will be in the blink of an eye. Oh please do not see this as morbid. I have been given already a great deal of time. More is devoutly to be wished, but simply is not of statistically long length even at its best.

The time is now. The time to get it all together emotionally and spiritually. I have known this. I too often fail to implement my knowledge. It is just one of the many consequences of the Fall. And though Redemption has been achieved through Christ, salvation requires a conscious choice, a "Yes" before the bell tolls for me. 

What small thing generated this entry? I went to my local Gelson's to pick up a salad and my ginger beer. As I returned my cart to its collection place, I saw a very elderly woman, elegant, and familiar, but bent more than a bit, struggling to get into her high end car. It was a short exchange. I did not want to intrude, but I also did not want to let the moment go by without an acknowledgement of her distant, but still significant part in my life's tapestry. So, I said, "You're terrific!"  She did not immediately realize that it was she I was speaking to. And so I said it again. She smiled. She was still trying to complete getting into the car and closing its door when I pulled away. 

In 1966, I lived in the Bronx.  My bedroom window faced another large brick building separated from mine by a long horizontal alley. It was a one bedroom apartment. I had the bedroom. My parents slept in a Castro Convertible in the living room. I have a distinct memory of one Saturday night, around 9 p.m. As I was, for some reason, kneeling on my bed, and looking out the window, my parents had tuned in to a show that was becoming popular. An anonymous hand I knew was lighting a fuse at the beginning, and the music of Lalo Schifrin met my 12 year old ears. Mission Impossible. Of course, I went to the living room immediately, feeling oddly secure that the three of us shared a common enjoyment of this show (as we did the Avengers; the Monkees my parents bore with a paradoxical sarcastic stoicism). Barbara Bain (aka Cinnamon Carter), was 35 years old. 

And now, across a continent and time, there she was in the Gelson's parking lot with this former Bronx child, me age 72 and she age 94. 

That moment I remember was just yesterday. All the moments with the people I have known in greater or lesser ways were just yesterday. 

 

Stirred Into Another Book Downsizing Purge

This is probably a recounting of a week end episode of a future series of purges. I am approaching my 72nd year, and have watched old acquaintances and friends both younger and older than I shuffle off the proverbial mortal coil. It is the "Way of All Flesh". No surprise, no news there, although it happens faster than even our parents warned. I have noted just how much "stuff" (a nod to the also late George Carlin's riff on the subject of the things we gather through our lives that we can't take with us, but relatives and friends who think they are immortal pick over with crow like glee) they leave behind. I have personally emptied or helped to empty some five or six apartments or homes after the original custodian died or could no longer safely remain alone or afford full time help. I hate the idea that I might do that to another, and I do tend to be a collector of specious items that mean something only to me. I try to root through things from time to time, and have given an enormous lot of a variety of mostly useful things to a Veteran's Charity, that picks up and accepts things that don't sell for much, and other charities decline.

There is a second impetus to my purge effort of this past few days, well, its current iteration. A friend gave me a particularly lovely book embosser. It is an image of a cat (as I am a well known lover of cats, to my friends) patting at a string that hangs from a crescent moon. And it has my full name printed below. I have others and have occasionally used them, but this one is particularly pleasant.  

I have written here how much I love receiving a book that has a name of the previous owner in it, handwritten or a formal bookplate. I wrote a whole entry here some years ago about a book of letters of Saint John Henry Newman once owned by the late Mr. Shorthouse of England. I learned a lot about his life on line and the connection still resonates with me today. although we never met in life. I like the tapestry of connection. I admit honestly of my wish to make that connection with some reader after I have moved onto eternity, paradoxical as that might be in that I know that in the beatific vision (albeit likely after a stint in Purgatory) I won't be thinking about the affairs of the earth any longer, except perhaps to hope and pray for my family and friends to join me to be with God. 

I am also considering, and have been for some time, the making of final plans for my location should I make it well beyond my 72nd year---that is, while I still am alive, but perhaps not in a postion to care for myself, as oft I have now seen others. Some were fortunate enough to have the help of friends when family was not available. Others went into the vortex of sickness, death and anonymity, where there was no intercessor. I do not wish to be either of these. I realize that the best laid plans often go awry and I have made several, but whether I stay here in this apartment with help (that one hopes one can afford), or move to an independent/assisted living remains a question mark I would like to make a period in the not distant future. Even at that the reality of the final chapter is ambiguous. 

But, back to purging, I really hope to purge the clutter. My aunt in New York did a good job of that before her age (nearly 99) made it necessary. She actually might have thrown out or given away too much. But her apartment is spare (and small) so it should be easy for those who will be tasked with the aftermath of a good age.

And so I went back to my dining room library and pulled out books again. I still have lots of my father's books, which were old when I was young in the Bronx. Many of them are just falling apart, lots of literary notables, a few I've read, many I haven't. Every time I have thought of getting rid of them, I have told myself I will read them, and then haven't. I favor non-fiction and many of these are fiction.

As of this writing I have about 7 shopping bags. And more to load when I get more shopping bags. Perhaps they are in too rough shape. Perhaps though they are in good enough shape for a final handling by a curious reader. I embossed a couple as well to keep, wherever it is I go, or if I stay here. 

I met up with a young psychologist friend on Saturday. I have already sent a few books to her, and maybe she will want a few more down the road, though they are likely outdated as my days of studying psychology is 27 years in the past. 

Among the items I found in the dusty upper reaches of my library (yet to be cleaned) was a "book" of cat page holders. It looks pretty old, but now I have 20 or more bookmarks ready in my desk, where usually I can find none and use pens or pencils or business cards, and in the worst need, a post-it.

I found myself reading aloud a bunch of Emily Dickinson poems. I might do an Ordinary Old Catholic Me podcast episode reading some. She was not Catholic. In fact, it sounds as if she was a somewhat disaffected Calvinist, and yet she often wrote of God, which she viewed pantheistically. Well though not theologically sound in Catholicism, Catholics do that as well. Shades of my young life doing a poetry show on WFUV, Fordham University's radio station. An educational program was needed for a Sunday, and that's how I got onto the air beyond a station identification and liner notes on the Classical Evening Concert. So though I have never been a poetry fanatic (I like some very much and many not at all; the same way I feel about opera--I like many arias but have a hard time with the in between singing), I did that show for several years, and learned to like a few more poems than I had before), I know that it is a beautiful part of Western Civilization that must be preserved, and some poems are truly sublime, whether I like them or not. 

So, since I last sat down to write here, I have made the current cut and replaced the books I am keeping, for now, in my library. I took the opportunity to take sand dunes off the top several shelves before doing so. I pulled out a couple that I pretend I will get to to read. Today might be a good time to do that as it is pouring rain in Los Angeles. The East Coast folks suffering from ridiculous cold and snow can take a bit of envy ease that we do not always get perfect weather!

Alas, the rain and darkness trigger my natural gloom and I find myself trying to hold in abeyance worries about a couple of projects more suited to a younger person with a natural optimism I seem genetically to lack. A package I sent to someone from UPS (because the post office is so bad), for which I paid 16 bucks six days ago, still has not arrived at its destination. I try not to curse about the small vagaries of life, particularly since that always sends me to confession and the priest likely wonders if I had an acquaintance with Lenny Bruce. 

I close as the rain pounds the roof of my condo. I am off I think to an hour of prayer, with a cup of coffee and trying to remember that all things are passing, including me, so lighten up!

 

Rejuvenation in Santa Barbara

One of my earliest trips in California, once I moved to Los Angeles, was to Santa Barbara. It was circa 1982, and I drove up with a visiting friend. Or my cousin Angela. Wow, so much time has passed that I am not sure with whom I had my first visit. But this I do remember, if I thought the vista that greeted me upon exiting the 10 freeway to the Pacific Coast Highway and Santa Monica was spectacular, I felt I needed an even better word to describe the main drag along the ocean in Santa Barbara. It was the first time that I ever  saw mountains in the distance which were actually purple in the sunlight, experiencing personally the line from America the Beautiful, "Purple mountains majesty". 

I have been trying to find some photos from that time, that I know I have, and was largely unsuccessful. I offer one that probably was taken around that time in Santa Monica, rather than Santa Barbara, though I am not 100 percent sure it wasn't Santa Barbara. That was me, the Djinn, in my 20s. Young people, don't blink, because life truly passes that fast. 

Any chance I can I have returned to Santa Barbara for visits. I'd drive up there with friends. We'd dine at one of the many places along Shoreline, or Stearns Wharf, or inland a bit. I very briefly dated a guy who lived in Ventura, and at least once, we spent a day in Santa Barbara, and browsed a bookshop, long gone now. I may not remember the person with whom I made my first Santa Barbara visit, for certain, but I do recall the name of the bookshop, The Earthling. It lasted until the late 1990s, driven out of business by larger brick and mortar giants. For many years, a friend whom I met at my old job at the State Bar, had parents who lived in a marvelous home next to a major hillside in Santa Barbara. When Carol, my friend, visited from the East, I would come up and spend a day or two. When her mother died in 2024, her father having done so a few years earlier, the family, scattered through the nation, sold the home. When I attended her mother's funeral, I stayed in a hotel along the Shoreline and one night, leaving family to grieve, I spent time at a small wine tasting shop, then on the Wharf, and watched the sun go down and the birds frolic, and thanked the stars and God for this taste of Paradise.

This year was a new take on the delight that is visiting Carol in Santa Barbara. She rented a home for a month along Shoreline Drive that looks out at the Pacific and the paths that folks bicycle and walk their dogs and with their kids. I got to be the first visitor, for most of two days and a night. I provide for your viewing pleasure the realtor shots for those who rent and for those who might buy. I never got to the back yard, too entranced with the front!

The drive up there was interesting this time around, a WAZE extravaganza of curving roads, the 126 and the 150, that made the trip three hours rather than the usual one and a half. I didn't check, but maybe there was something going on along the 101 that made the detour necessary. I wasn't in a rush, so I abided by the instructions, and enjoyed some different green vistas, courtesy of the deluge California received months prior to my drive. It was a visual adventure. Once I arrived to the villa, for that really is what it was, Carol and I absented ourselves so that the realtor could do a spontaneous showing for a potential six month renter. That meant lunch at a Santa Barbara Mexican restaurant in a small house like building. I was not driving this time. I had a massive Margarita, and Carol and I caught up, though alas, I am guilty of having done too much talking, being in an expansive, manic phase. 

Then shopping at a local Gelson's, a million times larger than mine in Weho, to get provisions for us and for the guests to come. It was an impulse buyer's dream space. 

Back at the house, we sat outside and watched the people strolling and playing and the dogs cavorting and pooping (happily everyone had the little pick up baggies and used them). Birds flitted, the small hummers and the ones I never recognize. To say "heavenly" would be to wildly understate the feeling. It has been a difficult few months for me, perhaps partially self-inflicted as a result of my tendency to ruminate over every task I attend to in my life--tasks that are not really commensurate with the official status of being "retired".  So this short visit was like winning a sweepstake or a prize on the Price is Right. It was visually and socially and emotionally satisfying. 

My friend Carol calling her soon to be other visitors and her home decorator 
(in Illinois where the temperatures are freezing!)

Dinner was at the newly renovated Harbor Restaurant at the Pier, right on the water. And dessert was on the terrace of Carol's master bedroom, accompanied by candles and a glass of Proseco. It really does not get better than this, and I have cherished every locale (well beyond Santa Barbara, here in Los Angeles, or in the East in good weather, like New York and New England where I could sit with a good friend or two and absorb the camaraderie). 

In the morning, I had two cups of Peets French Roast and that same terrace above, while Carol dressed and we considered where lunch (before I took off back to the inland) would be (Jennine's--what a terrific place!). I said the Rosary of Our Lady of Sorrows, which I do daily, and I admit that the sun and breeze and birds and ocean kept my mood light and thankful for the God who created this majesty. 

I was rejuvenated. Fortified. Thankful. 

Late in the afternoon, I returned to my little terrace, with a corner view toward Sunset Boulevard and the pool below. And of course, the hummingbirds that to me are just another proof of God. I really can't complain. This is good, too. My little patch of paradise. 

Thoughts Regarding Lyndon Larouche by Constantine Gochis

Yep, I am back to rummaging through my father's short (short) stories. It all happened because after a zoom meeting over one of my still lingering projects, I had the sudden urge to reorganize the many drawers in my living room and library, formerly known as the dining room. I moved dad's stories from one in the living room to one in the "library" and pulled one for this blog. The observations hark back to decades ago, ancient history, stuff that the denizens of the Z or whatever generation it is who claim uber knowledge of the universe actually have none at all. 

Here goes:

The table in front of Lucky's Supermarket was full of pamphlets and other literature. I caught the headline of a newspaper called the "Federalist".  It propounded the cacophony of the day to the world:

"Al GORE, PRINCE PHILIP AND THE DARK NEW AGE.  Further down, another revelation: CAUGT IN NEW PLOT! IMPEACH GORE FOR BRIBERY!

A comely young lady stopped me. There were petitions to be signed.

She was young and slim, her hair cut in an attractive boyish style.  Beauty is always a reason to stop and remember more important things.

"I see Lyndon is back," I offered. 

"He was never gone," she countered.  She had the air of an acolyte.

"Where has he been hiding?" I asked.

"He wasn't hiding.  He was in jail."

"For what?" I pursued.

"For tax evasion," she said with a cryptic smile.

This is a grievous sin, I thought. It occurred to me that Al Capone, who is reputed to have murdered more than a hundred men--several with his personal application of a baseball bat--was never chastised for those sins.  He finally came under the inexorable fist of justice when he failed to pay his taxes. Forever are the ironies of the law.

A handwritten logo appended to the front of the table implored:  SAVE US FROM AL GORE!"

"Is Lyndon now a Republican?" I asked.

"No, he is for justice.  He wants to save the country.  He is a saviour.  True, the Republicans want the President impeached for Al to take over. . . ."

I laughed.  If there is any terror to inspire Republicans with ear, it is the spectre of the wooden Al in the Oval Office.

"The Republicans would more readily accept Diane Watson," I suggested.

"Al Gore is in a conspiracy with Newt Gingrich," she retorted.

There has to be a time when pure pity calls for drawing a line. Newt was buried under a 50 million dollar demonization, a propaganda campaign. Saint Francis of Assisi could not have withstood such a campaign. How much more sh--t could be piled on the hapless ex-Speaker of the House?

If there is any possible sharing of a community mattress, it is more likely Gingrich was victim of the devastating Clinton charm, and perhaps a few unsubtle reminders of some peccadilloes that might be in one of those sequestered, legendary FBI files.

If ever there was a Republican appeaser of the master, it was Gingrich. He arrived, like a lion, a veritable Savanarola of revolution, and departed a meek lamb. Perhaps he even got an advance copy of "Hustler" as a cautionary bit of advice.

"Gingrich and Gore!" I said.  "That's the funniest I ever heard!"

"What's funny?" she replied.

"The idea that Al Gore has the capacity to participate in a complex conspiracy for a ventriloquist dummy.

"He's a willing dupe.  There's no limit to which they will go," she insisted.

"Who will go?" I asked.

"Them. They killed Kennedy. And King. And Bobby. They get their money from Armand Hammer's loot, you know, the financier and oil man who was a tool of Stalin, and a favorite of American Intelligentsia."

It occurred to me that she had a strange collction of saints and sinners.  They not only crossed party lines; they crossed international longitudes.  I suppose when a new god is being created, there have to be pantheons and infernos. Good guys and bad ones. There has to be a melange of new enemies, new evil financiers, and the apotheosis of a new leader, a Duce or a Fuhrer.

"Here," she said, handing me a copy of the Federalist. "Read all about us yourself.  A subscription is only twenty dollars."

I accepted the proffer. I am curious.  It is always interesting to read about the creation of another Olympian. 

There is a fascination in the formation of human robots to evangelize with the new apocrypha, new gospels hidden heretofore by the Corporations, the in priesthoods, and kept from 'we the people'.

I love when that phrase is used and the user includes himself in the plural expression of a democratic royal, "We".

She offered me a pen and held a petition for me to sign. I did not want to discourage her manifest honest zeal. 

"Let me read this copy of your newspaper," I offered as an excuse to deflect. "I need a little time."

"Here," she said, handing me a copy of an advisory of a meeting. 

It spoke of a "Shiller Institute".  

'FINANCIAL CRASH HITS MEXICO, BRAZIL, THE USA! TOWN MEETING, SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 1:30 P.M."

I noticed that the leaflet mentioned something about a projection room. Was it only a movie? Would Lyndon appear? There are so manystellar leaders who never do appear. For example, one may ask about the guy who founded Scientology, or Jimmy Hoffa.

"I don't know," she said.

I shook her hand. 

The bus was crowded as I wended my way home. A little man was handing out a slip of paper with an important message. "God So Loved the World".

Stamped in fading red print was the name of the sponsors of the printed message, Iglesia De Cristo, the name of the local holy place.

It warned, in part:  "Labor not for the meat which perisheth, but for the meat which endurate unto everlasting life. . ."

Now there's a message with a little flesh on it. 

Una's Cottage: Repurposed for the Good

 

As some of you know, in an earlier entry, I recounted the last time that I had a cup of tea at the little cottage of the late Una Lynch, long time friend to many, as well as my deep sadness that it would likely be demolished to make room for a monstrous modern box.

Some months ago there was a sign announcing demolition.

 Then, it was gone. Not the house. The sign. 

Nothing seemed to be happening. The lawn was dead. The rose bushes died. Only the Japanese Maple, I understand once gifted to Una by the late former pastor of St. Victor's, George Parnassus, hung on.

It didn't make sense. Then one day, Joey Lynch, Una's daughter, sent me a picture. Draped across the outside of what had once been the living room was a flexible sign that said "Historic House Relocation Project:  This historic home is being relocated to Altadena to support the community's recovery and rebuilding efforts following the Eaton fire." There was a name of a company on the sign was "Omgivining"--an architecture firm. This company took on the astoundingly creative and useful project of finding historic homes (Una's place was nearly 100 years old; she had lived there over 70 years herself, raising a family and entertaining friends who loved her) slated for demolition, moving them, and then using the basic structure as a template for a replacement home for those who had lost theirs in the fire. 

You can imagine, actually you cannot imagine, the intense joy that family and friends felt at knowing that some part of the structure, historical not merely for its age, but for the life and lives that had been joined to it would be preserved. I have been on the website. I love these people I have never met. I told them how I felt, sending them the prior blog entry. They haven't responded. I needed them to know how their practical act has so greatly tempered the sadness of loss.  There is even a picture of Una's home, with that Japanese maple in front of it, with one of the Omgivning crew (I think Morgan Sykes Jaybush) in front of them both. 

There are lots of pictures, including mine, that have been taken by those who spent so much time there, as the house has been prepared for its move to a lot somewhere in Altadena to become the home of ordinary life and memories for David Martinez, his wife and three children. How do I know which family?  It was on the NBC News. There a reporter interviewed Mr. Martinez in Una's living room, before the beginning of the dismantling to prepare the house for the move. Two families connected cosmically for all time. That's how I see it anyway. 

https://www.nbclosangeles.com/news/local/altadena-historic-homes-relocation-eaton-fire/3794915/

The process of, how shall I say it, condensing the house to make it fit for the move has been both fascinating and hard to watch.  Naturally, they can't just pick it up and transport it.  It has to be taken off the foundation. Appurtenances have to be removed. Each time I returned something else was gone. The first was never going anywhere, a garage apartment building in the back. That was the first to go, and forever. Then the roof, the tile and beams removed. The inset to the once wood, now gas fireplace, removed. You could now look in through the gaping hole to the living room where people mingled and laughed on many a St. Patrick's Day. You didn't have to wait for an invitation to come. It was a standing invitation. More than tea was served on those occasions--Una made her Irish coffees. 

Several friends who have stopped by to watch the work have noted the interest of members of the neighborhood.  One man told a friend that he had always wanted that house, this cozy pink house (it was not always pink; it happened when Una had the whole place freshened up a bit some years back) on the corner of Orlando and Willoughby. When Una was slowing down and pretty much confined to the house, she would sit outside with members of her family and have her tea on a table set up on the lawn. Joey decorated the front yard for various occasions, Halloween, and Christmas and Easter. Always there had been lights on the house for Christmas. The well decorated tree would be seen by anyone passing by the three front windows (that as of last view are still intact) walking their dogs. This is a dog neighborhood, and so people often stopped to chat while Una was out there sipping her tea, I am certain. Una always talked about "getting better" fighting the ravages of old age, and being able to walk around the block again, arm in arm with her son Anthony who visited every day. 

People who loved Una and whom Una loved, feel what is being lost, but with the survival of at least the largest parts of the structure, they feel also what is going to be gained, and what will be preserved of the past while upon that past the future is built for another group of people. 

I have had a busy few days, and I thought that the house probably had been moved as it was so close to being fully condensed and prepared. But yesterday, on the way home I again went by Orlando. I was preparing myself for the reality of an empty lot. I knew that would evoke emotion. 

But the house was still there, the now open roof covered with blue tarp because of the rain that had already begun. The Japanese maple was pulled up and gone, the last vestige, to me,  of the house's former life. 

I sat in my car and I burst into extended, wailing tears. The last time I did something just like that was almost 22 year ago outside a funeral home after the wake of a friend--loss builds up and has to be released in extremis. The reality of the impermanence of our lives, reflected in the deaths of family and friends, becomes an unbearable weight.  And some people just become so important to you.

I was one of many that she treated like one of her children. How hard that must have been for them to share her. But I thank God they did.

I anticipate that after the intense, rare rain Los Angeles is experiencing, the house will finally be moved to Altadena. 

That will be just about a year since Una died on December 3, 2024.  I like to think that she did a little intervention from the heaven I am sure she is in to see to it that the Martinez family gets the blessings she did in the little cottage late of Orlando Avenue. 

The still intact cottage photographed just after Una died in December 2024

At the table below this chandelier many happy moments