I was a bit late arriving to the Facebook station, maybe because it takes me such a long time to mull over trends and then weigh whether I can hop on before their hipness pulls away. But thanks to the urging of a former student and my sister, I joined the crowd on the platform. You have to find your way and decide whether social networking even serves any purpose for you. Once you figure out the etiquette (i.e., don't post negative or personal messages, as everything has potential to go public), you can refine your role on Facebook. I myself like to flit around as a demi-Kokopelli, that flute-playing trickster whose image is overused in Southwestern advertising. I like to post my little quips and then see what kind of response comes 'round. (Aside: Kokopelli also has allusions of randiness, fertility, and agriculture, but I doubt much of that fits my Facebook profile.) Anyway, to its credit, the Facebook phenomenon does help link you to friends from the past and it helps acquaint you with those you might not otherwise run into. For me, it's become an entertaining conduit to my more traditional friendships.
From my fog of adolescence, I do remember my mom stating, "Jean, do not ever lose touch with your friends." I was a little know-it-all about human relations in those days, so of course I shrugged her off with my silent retort, "Hummph...what would MY 50something mother know about friends? I don't even see her running around with any friends!" Of course, I'm leaving out the parts like my mom raised 4 kids on her nurse's wages, she worked the 3 pm to 11 shift, there was a time when 5 of us relied on one Ford Maverick...yeah. But her exhortation comes back to me now. How prescient she was. Our friends, virtual, real, remembered, upcoming--these are the figures that stabilize and enrich our lives. Everyone knows this; it's just been crystallizing for me in recent years.
One serendipitous result of Facebooking was re-meeting a teaching colleague from the late '80s. I bet we had not seen each other for 14 years prior to her visit to Pasadena last weekend from Olympia, WA. We had a hilarious, sad, wondrous catchup, cataloging our many life changes and just reflecting how we cope and teach and learn to BE in this life. We also dined at Puebla Tacos #2, a homey little spot for hungry LA ex-pats and local yokels like me. The punctuation of the years fell away as we laughed it up, my mom's words preserved in parentheses.
Too, I credit Facebook for my invitation yesterday to a memorial at Hollywood Presbyterian Church. My long-ago student, now a mother of 3 and my cyber-pal, invited me to her dad's service. She's an ordained minister. As she delivered her remarks about her pop, I realized, this isn't your 17-year old yearbook staffer anymore; this is a polished divinity grad who knows how to structure the story of a life and imbue it with meaning in a way that all of us can grasp. At the reception, I found yet another student, herself a teacher these last 15 years, and her mom, whom I had met at many a parent function as her three kids grew up in our school. It was a delightful funeral, if that is not too oxymoronic, and it was my privilege to connect with these people once again.
Puebla Tacos #2
1819 E. Villa
Pasadena 91104
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
"Different, Not Less"
HBO's current special, TEMPLE GRANDIN, stars Claire Danes as the noted author, animal husbandry expert, and unlikely heroine for many families affected by autism. I found the film spellbinding on several levels. (You can catch it on HBO by demand.)
As a teacher, I love any uplifting portrayal of the educator who never gives up, one who sees potential in even the most truculent student. Temple was an academic misfit whose love of science was stoked by her boarding school instructor, played by David Strathairn. As a parent, I somehow feel ennobled by a film mom who can follow her instincts and try her best to guide a difficult child to independence. Check: that element is present. As a viewer, I eat up transformation stories, starting with the erasure of a starlet and the utterly persuasive replacement with an indelible character. Claire Danes becomes Temple Grandin down to the very way her teeth bite her words. But the way Temple learns to find her place in our chaotic world is the most moving transformation of all.
Temple was born in 1947. In the 1950s, her now-classic symptoms of autism were attributed to "infantile schizophrenia" or bad maternal bonding. Fortunately, Temple's mother chucked much of the medical advice she was given, such as institutionalizing her child. Instead, I suspect this mother worked powerfully but self-effacingly. Her mother coined the phrase, "different, not less," to influence Temple. Once Temple acquired language, her mother insisted on schooling and engagement. As Temple said, "Mother pounded me with manners and rules." This very pounding helped to equip Temple to function out in the world.
I see so many criss-crosses with the story of Temple Grandin in my own life. Certainly when you work in a continuation school, there is a constant need for pounding manners and rules. Manners begin to instill a sense of dignity among those who've been downtrodden. Manners reduce classroom beefs and prevent fistfights. Furthermore, when I volunteer at Club 21, I'm noticing the steady emphasis of learning rules of civility and engagement, of what constitutes normal social behavior. If you are a teen with Down syndrome, you need to learn that you don't hug everyone you meet; you hug your family. Or if you want to join the social group, we sit up in chairs. We don't sprawl all over the floor during conversations. Most of all, I recall my own mom saying, "Just wait 'til you have a child who's different." Sure enough, I did have a child who has endured many learning challenges through life. How often our family has faced dilemmas and decisions, frustrations and missteps. Not as profound as what Temple and her mother experienced, but enough that I can identify with their story.
When you have a child who is different, your job as a parent becomes even more complex. Average can become your aspiration. As one of the moms at Club 21 beamed not long ago, "The teacher told me my daughter got a normal passing score on her spelling test! Normal!!" We all reveled in laughter at the compliment.
Parents who recognize their children may be different, but not less, become searchers. We don't look for grand-scale miracles, but we are always open to the smaller ones that may come our way. A kind, persistent speech therapist;a classroom teacher willing to adapt; the group leader who teaches social cues--as searching parents, we treasure these finds. Only last year did a friend recommend a great resource new to me: Fuller Seminary's Psychology Department. Dr. Stacy Amano and her team conduct thorough, in-depth studies for children, adolescents, and adults with learning and socialization issues, including Autism Spectrum concerns. Appointments need to be made six or more months in advance and the cost is dear. But the interpretation of results, the comprehensive report, and the valuable referrals that follow make it worthwhile. For us it made all the difference.
Stacy Amano, Ph.D
Fuller Psychological and Family Services
180 N. Oakland Avenue
Pasadena 91101
626.396.6044
As a teacher, I love any uplifting portrayal of the educator who never gives up, one who sees potential in even the most truculent student. Temple was an academic misfit whose love of science was stoked by her boarding school instructor, played by David Strathairn. As a parent, I somehow feel ennobled by a film mom who can follow her instincts and try her best to guide a difficult child to independence. Check: that element is present. As a viewer, I eat up transformation stories, starting with the erasure of a starlet and the utterly persuasive replacement with an indelible character. Claire Danes becomes Temple Grandin down to the very way her teeth bite her words. But the way Temple learns to find her place in our chaotic world is the most moving transformation of all.
Temple was born in 1947. In the 1950s, her now-classic symptoms of autism were attributed to "infantile schizophrenia" or bad maternal bonding. Fortunately, Temple's mother chucked much of the medical advice she was given, such as institutionalizing her child. Instead, I suspect this mother worked powerfully but self-effacingly. Her mother coined the phrase, "different, not less," to influence Temple. Once Temple acquired language, her mother insisted on schooling and engagement. As Temple said, "Mother pounded me with manners and rules." This very pounding helped to equip Temple to function out in the world.
I see so many criss-crosses with the story of Temple Grandin in my own life. Certainly when you work in a continuation school, there is a constant need for pounding manners and rules. Manners begin to instill a sense of dignity among those who've been downtrodden. Manners reduce classroom beefs and prevent fistfights. Furthermore, when I volunteer at Club 21, I'm noticing the steady emphasis of learning rules of civility and engagement, of what constitutes normal social behavior. If you are a teen with Down syndrome, you need to learn that you don't hug everyone you meet; you hug your family. Or if you want to join the social group, we sit up in chairs. We don't sprawl all over the floor during conversations. Most of all, I recall my own mom saying, "Just wait 'til you have a child who's different." Sure enough, I did have a child who has endured many learning challenges through life. How often our family has faced dilemmas and decisions, frustrations and missteps. Not as profound as what Temple and her mother experienced, but enough that I can identify with their story.
When you have a child who is different, your job as a parent becomes even more complex. Average can become your aspiration. As one of the moms at Club 21 beamed not long ago, "The teacher told me my daughter got a normal passing score on her spelling test! Normal!!" We all reveled in laughter at the compliment.
Parents who recognize their children may be different, but not less, become searchers. We don't look for grand-scale miracles, but we are always open to the smaller ones that may come our way. A kind, persistent speech therapist;a classroom teacher willing to adapt; the group leader who teaches social cues--as searching parents, we treasure these finds. Only last year did a friend recommend a great resource new to me: Fuller Seminary's Psychology Department. Dr. Stacy Amano and her team conduct thorough, in-depth studies for children, adolescents, and adults with learning and socialization issues, including Autism Spectrum concerns. Appointments need to be made six or more months in advance and the cost is dear. But the interpretation of results, the comprehensive report, and the valuable referrals that follow make it worthwhile. For us it made all the difference.
Stacy Amano, Ph.D
Fuller Psychological and Family Services
180 N. Oakland Avenue
Pasadena 91101
626.396.6044
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Pasadena Playhouse
By now we are all aware that our solid old "always there" Pasadena Playhouse is on precarious footing. She's the grand dame of Pasadena culture. We are shocked and distressed to hear of her misfortune, even if we are not playgoers. How can we make sense of her decline, and is there anything that we ordinary friends or neighbors or even strangers can do to reverse it?
Last night I was at a dinner party with some far more cognizant of finances than I am. One suggested that the Playhouse renegotiate terms of its mortgage obligations, "skinny down" staff, and with the understanding that this recession may continue for another two to three years, work on revitalization. Someone else noted that significant fundraisers really can occur in a generous region like Pasadena. Another said bankruptcy is an option. I listened to all of this, but I admit I don't quite understand how we reached this point. Yet here we are.
I've always wanted to be a philanthropist. My primary obstacle is that I don't have any money. To compensate I suppose I think a lot about how to make things better. Now the Pasadena Playhouse has relocated right into the center of my thinking tank. Its occupation has become my preoccupation. On a human level, I have known Sheldon Epps, the artistic director, and his wife for nearly ten years. They are very understated, earnest, devoted contributors to the cultural scenes of Pasadena and Los Angeles. If anyone can suss out some solutions, I'd wager it will be Sheldon. Still, this is a painful time fraught with 37 job losses and the Playhouse's spectral possibility. I keep thinking about what else could help restore and reinvent the Pasadena Playhouse.
The other day in class a boy suggested, "Miss, if every man, lady, baby and kid in the US gave a penny, wouldn't that help the economy? Even the babies!" he emphasized. This did get me thinking, what if we shifted our view that instead of a getting-time, we now live in a giving-time? And it may need to be a giving-time for an indeterminate period? What if we imagined a new normal? What could that look like?
A new normal in Pasadena could steady the Playhouse. True, someone is going to have to lead the way in things monetary. But why couldn't the Playhouse broaden its applicability to the life of our city? Could it be used for filming? For music or speakers' series? Could its lovely courtyard be rented for private events as those in the oak garden behind Happy Trails Catering on Fair Oaks? Could a drama school be reintroduced? Could improv training like we find at Upright Citizens Brigade or Groundlings be offered? The Hamilton Theatre with its 86 seats is a great intimate space for performances and small-scale plays that itinerant companies like Buzzworks or Parson's Nose mount.
One other consideration is the life and livelihood of Elements, the restaurant which has just arrived and is adjacent to the Playhouse. In its first location, this kitchen has won raves all around town. We've long anticipated its El Molino destination. Elements could prove to be as familial as our beloved old Playhouse, given the chance.
Pasadena has been blessed with its architecture, its sense of history, its ability to craft a particular identity in southern California. There is room for all ages in our city. At some point the scenesters who hang out at the Paseo are going to grow up and start going to the Ice House, the Playhouse, the Gamble House. It's our challenge to link the past and the present, to mesh our getting-time with our giving-time, to continue to foster our vibrant city. The Pasadena Playhouse may be ready for its close-up, Mr. DeMille, but certainly not its close up.
Last night I was at a dinner party with some far more cognizant of finances than I am. One suggested that the Playhouse renegotiate terms of its mortgage obligations, "skinny down" staff, and with the understanding that this recession may continue for another two to three years, work on revitalization. Someone else noted that significant fundraisers really can occur in a generous region like Pasadena. Another said bankruptcy is an option. I listened to all of this, but I admit I don't quite understand how we reached this point. Yet here we are.
I've always wanted to be a philanthropist. My primary obstacle is that I don't have any money. To compensate I suppose I think a lot about how to make things better. Now the Pasadena Playhouse has relocated right into the center of my thinking tank. Its occupation has become my preoccupation. On a human level, I have known Sheldon Epps, the artistic director, and his wife for nearly ten years. They are very understated, earnest, devoted contributors to the cultural scenes of Pasadena and Los Angeles. If anyone can suss out some solutions, I'd wager it will be Sheldon. Still, this is a painful time fraught with 37 job losses and the Playhouse's spectral possibility. I keep thinking about what else could help restore and reinvent the Pasadena Playhouse.
The other day in class a boy suggested, "Miss, if every man, lady, baby and kid in the US gave a penny, wouldn't that help the economy? Even the babies!" he emphasized. This did get me thinking, what if we shifted our view that instead of a getting-time, we now live in a giving-time? And it may need to be a giving-time for an indeterminate period? What if we imagined a new normal? What could that look like?
A new normal in Pasadena could steady the Playhouse. True, someone is going to have to lead the way in things monetary. But why couldn't the Playhouse broaden its applicability to the life of our city? Could it be used for filming? For music or speakers' series? Could its lovely courtyard be rented for private events as those in the oak garden behind Happy Trails Catering on Fair Oaks? Could a drama school be reintroduced? Could improv training like we find at Upright Citizens Brigade or Groundlings be offered? The Hamilton Theatre with its 86 seats is a great intimate space for performances and small-scale plays that itinerant companies like Buzzworks or Parson's Nose mount.
One other consideration is the life and livelihood of Elements, the restaurant which has just arrived and is adjacent to the Playhouse. In its first location, this kitchen has won raves all around town. We've long anticipated its El Molino destination. Elements could prove to be as familial as our beloved old Playhouse, given the chance.
Pasadena has been blessed with its architecture, its sense of history, its ability to craft a particular identity in southern California. There is room for all ages in our city. At some point the scenesters who hang out at the Paseo are going to grow up and start going to the Ice House, the Playhouse, the Gamble House. It's our challenge to link the past and the present, to mesh our getting-time with our giving-time, to continue to foster our vibrant city. The Pasadena Playhouse may be ready for its close-up, Mr. DeMille, but certainly not its close up.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Shopping in the House
Sunlight is pouring into my house after nearly a week's worth of rain. Tomorrow we have scheduled another open house, which is exactly what needs to occur until this place is sold. Of course, it's a tough time to have your house on the market. But the ever-readiness to show nudges my housekeeping chops to the mark. Albeit Me the Housekeeper felt more like Me the Slattern during the recent holiday season.
If you've raised a houseful of children, you know the pattern of their joyous returns and their flurries of exodus. The house stood still and expectant in early December, tidy, compliant from its series of open house showings. Then came all the prodigals--from Africa, Arizona, Washington, D.C., New York City. It was a happy jumble of car-sharing, birthdays, reunions with friends and family. And the house began to degrade inexorably. This is called "feeling at home." That's when I remembered all the years of chore charts, exhortations, rewards, threats, piles: impressions spinning as endlessly as the washer did back when I still had collagen. But soon enough, everyone began packing and departing. This is where the story gets good.
Once everyone left, it took awhile to restore the house to order. From that point, and as far as I am concerned, into the future, I was able to resume my hobby, Shopping in the House. Shopping in the House is not an isolated phenomenon. If you've lived with anyone, surely there is detritus left behind once these anyones move on. It's one thing to clean up their messes. But it's far more delightful to stumble upon little unexpected treats, and this is the premise of Shopping in the House. It doesn't cost a thing (except that you have probably already paid for the stuff if your kids left it). Today for example, I was rummaging in the cupboard and I found two bags of authentic fry bread mix! You can make crepes from it, I discovered. When I was dusting a bookcase, I found a Frank Sinatra CD that I don't recall. It's got Frank phrasing words like "...groovy." Hmm.
My Shopping finds include beauty supplies that I would never buy for myself. I found a delicate bottle of Vera Wang perfume! Wow! I found a talisman necklace that I later learned was a good luck charm blessed by a tribal priest in Togo. That helped me through a challenging time at work. And what about those dramatic earrings that looked like a pair of small garbage can lids? Now those caused people to comment. I cannot recommend Shopping in the House highly enough. It turns dross into platinum, banality to beneficence. Poke around a little. You'll become a convert. There's treasure to be hunted in our very midst every day.
If you've raised a houseful of children, you know the pattern of their joyous returns and their flurries of exodus. The house stood still and expectant in early December, tidy, compliant from its series of open house showings. Then came all the prodigals--from Africa, Arizona, Washington, D.C., New York City. It was a happy jumble of car-sharing, birthdays, reunions with friends and family. And the house began to degrade inexorably. This is called "feeling at home." That's when I remembered all the years of chore charts, exhortations, rewards, threats, piles: impressions spinning as endlessly as the washer did back when I still had collagen. But soon enough, everyone began packing and departing. This is where the story gets good.
Once everyone left, it took awhile to restore the house to order. From that point, and as far as I am concerned, into the future, I was able to resume my hobby, Shopping in the House. Shopping in the House is not an isolated phenomenon. If you've lived with anyone, surely there is detritus left behind once these anyones move on. It's one thing to clean up their messes. But it's far more delightful to stumble upon little unexpected treats, and this is the premise of Shopping in the House. It doesn't cost a thing (except that you have probably already paid for the stuff if your kids left it). Today for example, I was rummaging in the cupboard and I found two bags of authentic fry bread mix! You can make crepes from it, I discovered. When I was dusting a bookcase, I found a Frank Sinatra CD that I don't recall. It's got Frank phrasing words like "...groovy." Hmm.
My Shopping finds include beauty supplies that I would never buy for myself. I found a delicate bottle of Vera Wang perfume! Wow! I found a talisman necklace that I later learned was a good luck charm blessed by a tribal priest in Togo. That helped me through a challenging time at work. And what about those dramatic earrings that looked like a pair of small garbage can lids? Now those caused people to comment. I cannot recommend Shopping in the House highly enough. It turns dross into platinum, banality to beneficence. Poke around a little. You'll become a convert. There's treasure to be hunted in our very midst every day.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
January 2010
January has finally assumed its rightful place as a month distinct from the Christmas-New Year's domination. But for those of us in Pasadena, the days leading up to the Rose Parade may include watching the Bandfest at Pasadena City College, navigating alternative streets to avoid the set-ups for the parade, or wondering how many more RVs can cram into the USMC-adjacent parking lot. On January 1, the Rose Bowl game causes traffic to tilt to the west side of town. After that, we'll host two more days of visitors who come to admire the just-retired floats on the east end near Pasadena High School. When the floats are towed off to Duarte or to their cities' storage points, when the trash is collected, and the Christmas trees are mulched, January can officially behave like any other month.
To celebrate that normalcy, last Saturday I took a drive to Cabazon. The little town about 90 minutes east of here was once best known for its giant dinosaur statues (i.e., "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure") and Hadley's Date Shakes. But nowadays the destination is Desert Hills Premium Outlets. I visit that shopping behemoth perhaps twice yearly. I plan my incursion with military precision because shopping is not that much fun when left to chance. Usually I check their website to look for promotions and to verify that stores open at 10:00 a.m. No sense in arriving too early. Yet the parking scene is Darwinian, so a 10:00 a.m. arrival is prime for finding a good spot. If you park in the West Wing, you are close to the customer service office. This office is destination #1. Show your AAA card, and the lady there will give you a killer coupon book that may set your heart pounding. At least for me the adrenaline surges as I chart my course for bargains and acquisitions.
I began at the Bass Shoe outlet and progressed to the Gap. Onward to J. Crew! Nine West! My own relentless Sherman's March of shopping, driven onwards, minus the destruction. This shopping center has three linked segments, but it's wisest not to move the car and risk losing a place. Instead, plan on making little sallies to drop your purchases in the car. You can get lots of walking in with this style of shopping. In fact, I brought a Trader Joe's salad along so I could fortify without having to enter the sensory-overloaded food court. I am happy to say I shopped feverishly for six hours. I think I found some relatively hip school clothes and a pair of sexy lace-up nun shoes. And now I won't have to go shopping until maybe August. I can continue other January pursuits, like turning my own mulch pile, finishing off semester 1, trimming roses, and oh--making credit card payments.
To celebrate that normalcy, last Saturday I took a drive to Cabazon. The little town about 90 minutes east of here was once best known for its giant dinosaur statues (i.e., "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure") and Hadley's Date Shakes. But nowadays the destination is Desert Hills Premium Outlets. I visit that shopping behemoth perhaps twice yearly. I plan my incursion with military precision because shopping is not that much fun when left to chance. Usually I check their website to look for promotions and to verify that stores open at 10:00 a.m. No sense in arriving too early. Yet the parking scene is Darwinian, so a 10:00 a.m. arrival is prime for finding a good spot. If you park in the West Wing, you are close to the customer service office. This office is destination #1. Show your AAA card, and the lady there will give you a killer coupon book that may set your heart pounding. At least for me the adrenaline surges as I chart my course for bargains and acquisitions.
I began at the Bass Shoe outlet and progressed to the Gap. Onward to J. Crew! Nine West! My own relentless Sherman's March of shopping, driven onwards, minus the destruction. This shopping center has three linked segments, but it's wisest not to move the car and risk losing a place. Instead, plan on making little sallies to drop your purchases in the car. You can get lots of walking in with this style of shopping. In fact, I brought a Trader Joe's salad along so I could fortify without having to enter the sensory-overloaded food court. I am happy to say I shopped feverishly for six hours. I think I found some relatively hip school clothes and a pair of sexy lace-up nun shoes. And now I won't have to go shopping until maybe August. I can continue other January pursuits, like turning my own mulch pile, finishing off semester 1, trimming roses, and oh--making credit card payments.
Monday, December 28, 2009
My Island Discovery
I used to be very easily defeated by car troubles. I felt personally affronted, even persecuted, by the nail in the tire, the blinking light on the dashboard, the heart-thudding engine glug on that morning I was racing late for work. Some years back when I was learning to fend for myself, I answered the call of the coupon from Island Tire. This garage turned out to be more than a tire warehouse; for me it's been a lifesaver.
Maybe it was the time I needed tires for the Honda. I was wary about buying them anyplace because I had no confidence or tire prowess. I just had a generalized anxiety disorder regarding Tire Salesmen, men I pictured in blocky white shirts with skinny black ties, hornrims, and the clairvoyance to read my ignorance. But I compelled myself to visit Island. Here I met the man known only as JOSE (so it says in red on his business card). I was nervous about joining his "tire club," which was some kind of enrollment that offers a fixed rate for oil changes and tune-ups. "Scam," whispered one little voice on the left. "Desperate," whispered the other, more sotto voce on the right. I went with the right and there began a regular, very beneficial automotive relationship. It wasn't a scam. It was a solution!
Just before Thanksgiving Day my battery died on Foothill Blvd. Luckily I was curbside, but unluckily I could not get through to AAA. So I walked down to Island and located Jose. I explained my little tragedy and he took time immediately to drive me over to the car, charge it, and then replace the battery back at the shop. Yes, to the world it's just a car battery, but to me his assistance represents community as well. It's a giant comfort to know you can solve a pesky problem with the help of someone reliable. As I drove my functioning car onto Colorado Blvd., I thanked the universe for allowing me to problem-solve in Pasadena.
I have steered a couple of lady friends to Island. One of them told me she had been to Paradise and she was very happy with it. For a moment I thought this was an allusion to mature romance, but then she gushed about Jose. My Jose! Call the place what you wish. Island Tire just may be that oasis we all need on occasion.
Island Tire
2754 E. Colorado Blvd.
Pasadena 91107
626.792.0987
Maybe it was the time I needed tires for the Honda. I was wary about buying them anyplace because I had no confidence or tire prowess. I just had a generalized anxiety disorder regarding Tire Salesmen, men I pictured in blocky white shirts with skinny black ties, hornrims, and the clairvoyance to read my ignorance. But I compelled myself to visit Island. Here I met the man known only as JOSE (so it says in red on his business card). I was nervous about joining his "tire club," which was some kind of enrollment that offers a fixed rate for oil changes and tune-ups. "Scam," whispered one little voice on the left. "Desperate," whispered the other, more sotto voce on the right. I went with the right and there began a regular, very beneficial automotive relationship. It wasn't a scam. It was a solution!
Just before Thanksgiving Day my battery died on Foothill Blvd. Luckily I was curbside, but unluckily I could not get through to AAA. So I walked down to Island and located Jose. I explained my little tragedy and he took time immediately to drive me over to the car, charge it, and then replace the battery back at the shop. Yes, to the world it's just a car battery, but to me his assistance represents community as well. It's a giant comfort to know you can solve a pesky problem with the help of someone reliable. As I drove my functioning car onto Colorado Blvd., I thanked the universe for allowing me to problem-solve in Pasadena.
I have steered a couple of lady friends to Island. One of them told me she had been to Paradise and she was very happy with it. For a moment I thought this was an allusion to mature romance, but then she gushed about Jose. My Jose! Call the place what you wish. Island Tire just may be that oasis we all need on occasion.
Island Tire
2754 E. Colorado Blvd.
Pasadena 91107
626.792.0987
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