We reside in one of those surrealist L.A. suburbs that hug the hillsides, the sidewalks always a little damp in spring. It’s considered a desirable place to live if you’re a squirrel or a crow, or one of those frisky white labs that everyone loves.
Reminds me of a story. New family moves into the ’hood. Knock on the front door. It’s a mom from next door with a plate of cookies. She introduces herself, then tells the new residents: “It’s a great little town – if you’re a kid.” Next day, knock-knock: It’s a neighbor kid from across the street, holding a nice cake. “It’s a great town,” the kid explains, “if you’re an adult.”
Point is, we’re not sure exactly who loves it here; the kids think it’s the adults, the adults think it’s the kids.
Yet, it’s Our Town — every day a georgic poem.
At least once a year, we have a very nice parade. At Christmas, we hang big halos of lights, like semaphores to God.
“Dear Lord. Please watch over us, our children, our friends. Please be there for them in those moments when we’re on the phone.”
So, sometimes our little town is Heaven, sometimes it’s not. Really depends on the mood you’re in. And the quality of the Pinot.
As I said, we have lots of squirrels; they prune the oak trees and provide cautionary tales about thankless work ethics.
In fact, if you’re ever wondering about a place: “Do I like it here, does it feel like home?” look around. If you see lots of squirrels — in a pocket park in Prague, or in an oaky glen in Glendale — you’ve probably landed in a pretty fine spot.
Another thing to look for: On Saturdays, do old dudes in vintage cars parade along the boulevard? Do they slip out of warm beds before sunrise, kick on their favorite old jeans and go stand around in the cold with their hands in their pockets, talking about restoring their Mustangs?
Then you live in a pretty cool place.
Here’s another sign: Do the teachers stick around a while, for decades sometimes? Do the schools have a bit of grass on the playgrounds? Does the annual talent show always sell out?
Then you’re in a pretty fine place.
Is there a decent choice of churches, and a little spot to grab coffee?
Is there a place to watch the sunsets, take long walks — an ocean, a vista, a leafy horse trail.
At night, is it “clad in the beauty of a thousand stars?” as per Marlowe.
Do the neighbors look out for each other, do they share, do they speak? Or do they merely post “Neighborhood Watch” signs and hide inside, peering through the curtains for strange, slow-moving vans?
Back in the day, did some of the older folks attend the local high school? Always a good sign…that people have made a life there, take pride in their past, remember your mom, tell funny stories about your Uncle Bob.
Do they rake their own yards? Do they putter with the tomatoes? When the storm drains clog, does someone grab a shovel?
And where are the secret little happy places: A book shop? A Mexican joint? The coldest martini? The hottest Thai?
Do you have at least one little diner where the waitress calls you “hon?”
“Hiya hon. Your usual? Hey, I like your haircut.”
As I noted the other day, most high-priced L.A. restaurants have no boogie-woogie. They have no inner being. They have no “hons.”
You know, it’s almost a miracle that L.A. is this livable. Chaos once reigned here, and towns went up too fast. It was a fire drill back in the ‘50s: Who can pack in the most cul-de-sacs, the densest subdivisions, the kitchens almost touching.
So, L.A. does not offer Haussmann’s grand vision and wide boulevards, the way Paris does. Or the ethos of L’Enfant, who laid out Washington’s glorious grid.
Instead, we had ranchers selling off avocado orchards to slick developers. Somehow, from that skeezy backwoods arrangement, Los Angeles became a shining city surrounded by hilly enclaves. Instead of a grand plan, we ended up with a city of tidy little pockets: Montrose. Monrovia. Larchmont Village.
Thank gawd.
Last thing before my coffee buzz wears off:
There’s something about the sunshine here — some proton, some extract, some ambient solar sequin that colors the kids’ cheeks and lifts the dads’ spirits. The sunlight waxes the trees. It juices the oranges. On weekends, it glistens the kids’ high fly balls.
Super-high flies … like Friedrich’s moons.
Last chance to honor my late wife and son. Donations go to parent education and struggling families throughout the region. To donate, please go to bit.ly/parentedgala24 then scroll down to “Cathy and Christopher Erskine Compassion Fund.” Or, send a check made out to LCPC Parent Ed, to La Canada Presbyterian Church, 626 Foothill Blvd., La Canada, CA 91011. Thank you. It means the world.
Meanwhile, we’re still experiencing problems with the email deliveries of the column. Our IT team (me) is on the case, which explains the delay. If you understand anything about DNS records, please reach out. In the meantime, you can always find the columns – and some you may have missed – at ChrisErskineLA.com. Cheers.
How could you omit Sierra Madre? It is the epitome of a small town jewel that fits ALL of these criteria. I should know because yesterday morning my husband and I left forever, to join up with all of our descendants who are now in Louisville KY. We (mostly me) shed many tears over leaving the perfect small town where we raised those traitor children (we, too, have a patient elder daughter) who produced four precious babies. We couldn’t imagine life without all of them, so the beloved little town that served our growing family so well will have to carry on without us!
No question: Sierra Madre represents everything I was talking about. Love it. Good luck in Kentucky. Beautiful there too.
Chris – One of your finest. Thank you.
Somehow, as we get older, most of us inevitably look at whether to move to the lands of cheaper real estate. It’s a frequent conversation, and we have many friends who have moved from Manhattan Beach to Tennessee, or from Sierra Madre to Kentucky.
But the truth is, we live in lovely places that have few equals. LA has all of these little towns just like the ones you describe, and access to all that LA has to offer. In all of these conversations, we decide to stay. As the husband of one of those teachers who has taught in the local schools for decades, I value it all. Thanks for reinforcing all that we love and believe about our homes and our towns, and doing it so poetically.
Thanks buddy. Let’s grab lunch again soon.
I agree this is one of your best. It really makes me look at all we have here in paradise (comparatively) and thank the Good Lord once again that I am a So Cal native. Orange County, but everything you write about the small towns of LA applies. The prices are insane, but we hold on here because of all the great things you so poetically describe. Cannot imagine living anywhere else and am daily so grateful. Thank you.
Thanks. No place is perfect. You just have to maximize the good stuff.
PS I don’t say it often enough, but I love, love, love the pictures you include in your posts, especially the ones of your family and Suzanne. Please keep them coming. The throwback ones are especially priceless!
This one REALLY hit home. Lived and raised 3 kids over 30 years in LaCrescenta and Montrose. Grat piece, Chris, thank you.
Hi Bob. Montrose is a gem. I once called it “my Bedford Falls.”
I get that….love avignons too…lotta history there….btw, we never met but our paths crossed many times. Grew up at The Times (38 years)….always enjoyed your work…cheers!
I think Karen Carpenter once sang at Avignone’s as a teenager. That’s my favorite tidbit. Still enjoy the place. Good pool table and vibe.
Thanks for this heartwarming piece, Chris. I live next door in an oaky glen (in Glendale!) and our little canyon mirrors your descriptions of a great place to live. There are many oaks and a few too many squirrels, and my Elmer Fudd spirit is often at odds with the critters stealing my vegetables. Each year it’s a new crop and a new strategy to foil the varments, but I eventually get a handful of harvest.
I watch too much local news, and much of the news they get off a police blotter tends to get me down about being an Angeleno. Your articles lift my spirits and help me appreciate my little canyon. Thanks.
Raised my kids in one of those ‘burbs where the “kitchens almost touched “ that featured much of what you describe. The kids are all grandparents now and we all are separated by thousands of miles. After 50 years of no contact, one next door neighbor found me on the ‘net the other day. We caught up on family news and reminisced about those WONDER Years our families lived in the 3 -4 br, 1 -3/4 ba , cookie cutter brand new houses.
Although worlds and eons apart from the Chardonnay Moms and professional Dads you so eloquently write about, your words still stir up fond similar memories for me.
Thank you for reminding us to appreciate all the little everyday blessings and to be thankful for the squirrels….and bears.
Hello Chris,
I have moved out of the area and I really miss all the small town stuff you write about. i’m so glad you stayed there and I can read about it from afar. My Mom (she passed last July just two months short of her 99th) and I always went to music in the park and she was always so happy after I walked around and told her that you were there too. She felt a kinship with you simply because of your writing. She was not a happy camper as she read the LA Times every morning and looked forward to your antics. After you went online, I would take my laptop to her so she could read what was going on in your life. We were so saddened by the news of your son and your wifes passing. She wanted to bring you cookies or something to let you know we were thinking of you.
Happy to have donated and look forward to still getting writings from you. She bought your book and treasured it.
My best
Patricia Magoffin
Hi Patricia, so sorry about your mama. Glad I was able to offer her some smiles. Thank you for the donation. Hugs.
This one really touched me–lived in Montrose and Your Town for a total of 40 years. Raised our boys there–it’s still “home,” although we moved a few miles away to be near our grandkids.
La Cañada is a wonderful little town. I prefer the reference unhyphenated with Flintridge which is a bit too much.
I live nearby in a vintage neighborhood in Pasadena. It’s an ancient city by LA standards with all the charms and foibles of an aging dowager. I’ve lived here for more than five decades. It gets better every year. I love this town!
I first experienced L.A. at night, coming down the pass from Colorado, windows wide open, in an old hearse packed with students on spring break. We had relay-driven straight through. The place below us was islands of tiny glittering lights in a vast dark sea—the orange groves. Everywhere and everything smelled like orange blossoms. I was stunned.
I was visiting a girl I had met at Boulder who lived in the first all metal house built in California ( ultra modern, with curved walls, etc.) that sat perched on a ridge in Pasadena, bolted to bed rock, overlooking the Arroyo Seco and much more.
Well, I married the girl and lived all over the basin and in Orange County, including in a house near the head of Sierra Madre canyon that had a 40 foot long aviary built into a screened back room wall (the birds came with the house). If that doesn’t speak to the balanced containments of freedom, and a reason for L.A., what does?…
The vast dark sea is gone—as it is in most of Orange County ( once another scented paradise)—along with its intoxicating perfume, but the love of place endures. It is a survival instinct. Given the means of survival, place breeds knowing creating habits and thus stasis. We are homeostatic beings with like affinities, else why would large numbers of people live in Alaska ( a land of great beauty, by the way; or Alabama ( which has its gulf coast charms); or in New Yok City( with its 24/7 cultural stimulation), and say they love it and would live nowhere else; when the could live here?
I have noticed that people who are incredibly loyal in their interpersonal relationships tend to be more intensely loyal to place. Their loves endure. Is it in the genes? Yours? Mine? Think Illinois and the Southwest Coast of heaven.
Born and raised in Los Angeles. Love it and never want to leave. I will be 79 in September and have see all the changes and some improvements(lol) but for all of that it remains my forever home.
Squirrels…My white lab loves them. Not!!
Although Long Beach doesn’t rest among hills, there is Signal Hill which is within sight of just about the entire LB area. We got the beach, great sunsets and my daughter teaches kindergarten 6 blocks from where she grew up. I guess we qualify as a great place to live. Thanks for all you do to keep us smiling.
Hi Tom, Long Beach has a really good feel to it. Many pals down there who speak well of it. I’ve always enjoyed visiting. Thanks for the note. Best always, Chris
Solar sequins are mostly absent today and tonight, replaced by the lusty leaden coin of Winter rain. It is said up to ten feet of snow will pour like dust into the Sierra Nevada this weekend, but here on the Southwest Coast…
Rain
Millisecond’s water
Swirling down to rust—
Along the eaves the gutters
Flood with streaming lust
Pouring in the downspouts
The music roars away
Like some fluidic beast
Or raging child at play;
The sodden ground a drum head
Beating like a heart
Its splattered splash of rhythms
Chaotic modern art;
The wind blows walls of glass
In waves of shimmering
That glisten like her dark eyes
Wet with remembering;
And in the air a silence—
An echoing tumult
That says, at last it’s raining
With love as the result;
For now, the drought is over—
Drowning flowers must bring
Their flesh to float likr dreams
Into the arms of Spring…
This existential Winter
Seems at last on the wane
The cold a play by Pinter
But now we have…the rain.
What do you do once you’ve outdone yourself? Here for the ride to find out. : ) Liz
Hi Liz. That’s a really profound question, actually. I might borrow that for something. In the meantime, I’m never 100% happy with a column. Always think they could be better. That said, that column is far better than most. Maybe I’m getting the hang of this? Best, Chris
I’d love to see you borrow that! It’s all yours. : )