Once you get old enough, you start to develop a perspective about how life's random puzzle pieces have come to connect. Some pieces attach by sheer force, some settle gradually; but there are others whose fit becomes apparent only after the passage of years.
Now I was fortunate enough to be hired as a high school teacher at age 23. I had proceeded from high school to college to a fifth year credential program, and duly employed---there I stood, facing five daily classes populated with freshmen, sophomores, and juniors. School's basics were firmly in my grasp: know your subject matter; manage timing; keep track of everyone. It was the ineffable that I had yet to learn.
When I first went to write on the board, I remember wishing a miracle would occur, transforming my printy script into an elegant, disciplined, right-slanting hand. It never happened. In fact, the whole disciplined elegance factor eluded me. But I do know I felt an immediate and deep concern if I saw anyone resting his head on his desk, and very quickly I found just such a one in my afternoon class. What to do? My own brother was in another high school at the time. I knew he was involved in cartooning for the school paper. But I didn't have the maturity yet to try to knit my student into the school's fabric through activities. I just decided to keep approaching the desk-rester in a low-key manner; I presumed he probably viewed me as an over-zealous do-gooder. If he even noticed my efforts.
In that era there was room to act more creatively. I inquired of my department head and learned I could remove this boy from class and instead carry him as an independent study student during my conference period. The boy agreed to the arrangement. We moved forward without asking his parents--it never even occurred to me, again due to my inexperience. We met daily in the English department office. We read literature of alienation, like THE PAINTED BIRD by Jerzy Kozinski and Kafka's METAMORPHOSIS. We talked about our readings; he wrote more and more and he attended faithfully. Somehow we finished that year together. He was a sophomore, though I was but a freshman as a teacher.
The boy moved on into his junior and senior years, joining in school plays, revealing a sensitivity to art and a wonderful sense of humor. Once I asked, "How do you memorize all those lines for a play?" He replied, "It's really like a conversation. And if you think of it that way, it's very easy to recall all the lines in order." After he graduated, we lost track.
Close to fifteen years later, my cartooning brother, who grew up to become a special effects creator, phoned me to say he was working with a man who spoke highly of me and seemed to know me very well. It turned out to be this very same student! Today if you google Spectral Motion in Glendale, you will see the powerhouse work and boundless creativity of Mike and Mary Elizalde. They run one of the top creature shops in the movie industry. Mike has been nominated for an Academy Award. But more significant is his generosity and willingness to mentor other young artists.
Mike came to speak to two of my classes last week. He brought along a gifted young illustrator, Alex Palma, who crafts images to show to producers who have word-ideas of what they want. Many of my current students struggle academically and emotionally. Mike spoke to them about how to pursue work in the arts with a directness tinged by neither a cloying or "bootstraps" tone. He was modeling sincerity and respect for others. It was then that I realized how pivotal Mike had been in my own career development. I finally understood that he had taught me the ineffables, my own sacred trio: reach out to others; meet the students where they are and go forward; and be kind. It is so simple. But it takes all the time we have to master it.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
22 Miles Across the Sea
Catalina is a local destination I'd never visited before. The occasion? A day trip with a dear friend who was celebrating her birthday. Since she's more in the know than I am, she had acquired a free boat pass courtesy of the birthday promotion at www.CatalinaExpress.com. (Take a look! The offer is legitimate and it is good through April 2012.)
I booked my passage online to complement hers, departing San Pedro. There is a rather youthful senior-citizen rate (ahem, 55 and up), and if you wish to phone in reservations, AAA offers a $7.50 discount for up to six in a party. The boat terminal is located 45 minutes south of Pasadena. Parking for the day costs $12.00. Now if the facility looks vaguely familiar, perhaps it's because you've made some joyous drops here in the misty past, sending kids off to summer camp. I have, and that was my only association with the terminal. Now it was my turn to sail away.
Waiting in what feels like a small-town airport--friendly staff, no sense of impending terrorism--I read maps and recommendations and the correction that Catalina Island is not 26 miles away; it is twenty-two. The ride over takes 75 smooth minutes. Docking in Avalon calls for a southern California brain change; walking is the norm here! Almost all transport is by foot, golf cart ($40 per hour rental), or wheel (bikes, segways). The other adjustment is accepting that everything is on a tinier scale, more akin to Main Street Disneyland or Brugge. Small clapboard houses, narrow alleys, dinky splashes of gardens. First we located a deli and bought sandwiches. We took our lunch and walked toward the curvilinear casino, a 1920s Mediterranean landmark that houses performance space, a cinema, and a museum. Soon we sat on a bench to people-watch and read aloud all the boat-names we could see in the slips. After lunch we got serious about walking.
Through the town there are charming flat-lander neighborhood streets. We went into St. Catherine's Catholic Church, whose stained glass windows cast their nautical glow into the silent sanctuary. Then we headed upland in search of the Wrigley Garden. This route was more rustic, among eucalyptus, a campground, the sunny summer smell that results from sunshine falling on trees. We never did reach the botanical garden, but we did find a golf course with a snack shop offering dollar tacos. Sold! We fortified ourselves before heading back to the dock.
Thirty minutes before departure is the line-up formation. The return ride was simple, though I did spy some campers going home after their Catalina adventure. But they weren't my campers, and I coasted back to the mainland without a care in the world.
Reservations and information:
310-519-1212 or 800-422-9159
www.CatalinaExpress.com
I booked my passage online to complement hers, departing San Pedro. There is a rather youthful senior-citizen rate (ahem, 55 and up), and if you wish to phone in reservations, AAA offers a $7.50 discount for up to six in a party. The boat terminal is located 45 minutes south of Pasadena. Parking for the day costs $12.00. Now if the facility looks vaguely familiar, perhaps it's because you've made some joyous drops here in the misty past, sending kids off to summer camp. I have, and that was my only association with the terminal. Now it was my turn to sail away.
Waiting in what feels like a small-town airport--friendly staff, no sense of impending terrorism--I read maps and recommendations and the correction that Catalina Island is not 26 miles away; it is twenty-two. The ride over takes 75 smooth minutes. Docking in Avalon calls for a southern California brain change; walking is the norm here! Almost all transport is by foot, golf cart ($40 per hour rental), or wheel (bikes, segways). The other adjustment is accepting that everything is on a tinier scale, more akin to Main Street Disneyland or Brugge. Small clapboard houses, narrow alleys, dinky splashes of gardens. First we located a deli and bought sandwiches. We took our lunch and walked toward the curvilinear casino, a 1920s Mediterranean landmark that houses performance space, a cinema, and a museum. Soon we sat on a bench to people-watch and read aloud all the boat-names we could see in the slips. After lunch we got serious about walking.
Through the town there are charming flat-lander neighborhood streets. We went into St. Catherine's Catholic Church, whose stained glass windows cast their nautical glow into the silent sanctuary. Then we headed upland in search of the Wrigley Garden. This route was more rustic, among eucalyptus, a campground, the sunny summer smell that results from sunshine falling on trees. We never did reach the botanical garden, but we did find a golf course with a snack shop offering dollar tacos. Sold! We fortified ourselves before heading back to the dock.
Thirty minutes before departure is the line-up formation. The return ride was simple, though I did spy some campers going home after their Catalina adventure. But they weren't my campers, and I coasted back to the mainland without a care in the world.
Reservations and information:
310-519-1212 or 800-422-9159
www.CatalinaExpress.com
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
CHILDREN OF THE STREET
"To all those who dare to care" is the dedication in the newest novel by Pasadena author Kwei Quartey. CHILDREN OF THE STREET has just been released in paperback. It's a book unlike any you have read, unless you are already a fan of his first detective tale, WIFE OF THE GODS.
Both books are set in Accra, Ghana, the West African nation Americans may recognize for its horrific past as a slave source. As critical as its historic position remains, Ghana is also a fascinating, increasingly cosmopolitan presence. Its capital city Accra is a living, breathing creature sloughing off its provincial skin. Modernization in the forms of constant construction, international investment, and potential offshore oil reserves drives its metamorphosis. Kwei Quartey examines these elements with an insider's eye. You see, Kwei is a physician who was raised in Accra through his adolescence, the son of a Ghanaian father and an African-American mother. His authorial voice blends his African self with his American self. And overlaying both is his discernment of the frequent intersections of medicine and human nature.
Inspector Darko Dawson is the protagonist of these books. His first name is an anglicized version of "Daaku." Dawson is a husband, the father of a chronically ill boy, an honest guy working in an often-corrupt environment. He is also gripped by dark demons. It's Dawson's internal struggles that endear him to us. In the current book he is pursuing the killer of near-anonymous street teens, those ever-present hawkers and cart-pushers seen on Liberation Road or Independence Avenue. When the corpse of 17-year old Musa turns up in a filthy lagoon, Darko Dawson take the case. Accra's many faces glower and evade and occasionally shine as the detective seeks answers from every source.
Because Accra is such a complex city, Dr. Quartey sees it as the perfect setting for crime stories. His third book, MEN OF THE RIG, about the burgeoning oil industry, is due in 2012. His research visits to Ghana are chronicled on his website. Of particular interest is a school called Street Academy. Dr. Quartey formed a connection here and presently underwrites the education of one of its students. Ghana may seem a world away to us in California. Yet if we can dare to care, we too can connect. These books are a wonderful invitation to do just that.
Kwei Quartey joins a Barnes & Noble panel on "Deceit and Intrigue in Foreign Settings," at the Westside Pavilion, West Los Angeles, at 2 pm on Saturday, August 20.
www.kweiquartey.com
Both books are set in Accra, Ghana, the West African nation Americans may recognize for its horrific past as a slave source. As critical as its historic position remains, Ghana is also a fascinating, increasingly cosmopolitan presence. Its capital city Accra is a living, breathing creature sloughing off its provincial skin. Modernization in the forms of constant construction, international investment, and potential offshore oil reserves drives its metamorphosis. Kwei Quartey examines these elements with an insider's eye. You see, Kwei is a physician who was raised in Accra through his adolescence, the son of a Ghanaian father and an African-American mother. His authorial voice blends his African self with his American self. And overlaying both is his discernment of the frequent intersections of medicine and human nature.
Inspector Darko Dawson is the protagonist of these books. His first name is an anglicized version of "Daaku." Dawson is a husband, the father of a chronically ill boy, an honest guy working in an often-corrupt environment. He is also gripped by dark demons. It's Dawson's internal struggles that endear him to us. In the current book he is pursuing the killer of near-anonymous street teens, those ever-present hawkers and cart-pushers seen on Liberation Road or Independence Avenue. When the corpse of 17-year old Musa turns up in a filthy lagoon, Darko Dawson take the case. Accra's many faces glower and evade and occasionally shine as the detective seeks answers from every source.
Because Accra is such a complex city, Dr. Quartey sees it as the perfect setting for crime stories. His third book, MEN OF THE RIG, about the burgeoning oil industry, is due in 2012. His research visits to Ghana are chronicled on his website. Of particular interest is a school called Street Academy. Dr. Quartey formed a connection here and presently underwrites the education of one of its students. Ghana may seem a world away to us in California. Yet if we can dare to care, we too can connect. These books are a wonderful invitation to do just that.
Kwei Quartey joins a Barnes & Noble panel on "Deceit and Intrigue in Foreign Settings," at the Westside Pavilion, West Los Angeles, at 2 pm on Saturday, August 20.
www.kweiquartey.com
Thursday, July 7, 2011
PSST! WORD OF MOUTH! GO SEE TERRI!
TERRI is an intimate, autumnal-lit film about an overweight high school boy and his unexpected relationship with his assistant principal, Mr. Fitzgerald. Though we locals can sense that the movie was filmed right under our noses, the location is meant to be a woodsy Anywhere, USA. The players are Everyman. Their situation is both heart-rending and heartening.
Terri is apparently suffering from anomie, which we see from the get-go as we watch him shuffle tardily to school wearing pajamas and Crocs. He is not contriving eccentricity. He is odd. Terri's parents are inexplicably absent from his life, so that explains one level of daily pain. Instead, Terri lives with his uncle whose growing dementia shadows their daily lives and foreshadows a time of yet deeper isolation for Terri. However, the uncle has occasional astute moments, so beautifully illuminated when Uncle James informs Terri, "Don't mean to be rude here. Just have to take advantage of this window right now," gently tapping his temple. And despite what others at school may think, Terri does have genuine social intelligence. He responds graciously to his uncle's ebbs and flows. Terri runs their household, tends to his uncle's medications, steps in when the uncle stares uncomprehendingly at food burning on the skillet. The Terri we see at home has a maturity that almost all school personnel miss when they perceive him to be a shambling misfit.
Of course, Terri is referred to the office for counseling. This is where the movie gains traction. John C. Reilly evokes that administrator who appears initially to be the school-policy mouthpiece. But as he interacts with Terri, we start to recognize a teacher-iconoclast, the guy unafraid to tell a kid that life can be a vessel loaded with both manure and flowers. We are going to have to choose which aroma we prefer and work for its fragrance every day of our lives. For Terri, this kind of adult influence is puzzling, then intriguing, then disappointing, and finally satisfying. What Terri learns from his most imperfect, candid counselor is the basis of any trusting relationship: it's evidenced in the healthy patterns of friendship, family or loved ones. A reliable relationship has to be tensile enough to stretch and contract with the times and not snap on us. Such resolute knowledge applies to Terri, to Mr. Fitzgerald, to you, and to me.
TERRI is rated R for a sexual situation that may make viewing with younger teens uncomfortable. There is also a dicey-appearing implication with some special needs students that actually resolves quite fairly. Even if you have seen the entire catalogue of quirky coming-of-age films, you may still find delight in TERRI. And those of us who work in high schools should never grow so complacent that we gaze over the river of youth without plumbing the deeper currents that determine our students' lives.
TERRI, starring Jacob Wysocki and John C. Reilly
Laemmle Playhouse 7
673 E. Colorado Blvd.
Pasadena 626.844.6500
Terri is apparently suffering from anomie, which we see from the get-go as we watch him shuffle tardily to school wearing pajamas and Crocs. He is not contriving eccentricity. He is odd. Terri's parents are inexplicably absent from his life, so that explains one level of daily pain. Instead, Terri lives with his uncle whose growing dementia shadows their daily lives and foreshadows a time of yet deeper isolation for Terri. However, the uncle has occasional astute moments, so beautifully illuminated when Uncle James informs Terri, "Don't mean to be rude here. Just have to take advantage of this window right now," gently tapping his temple. And despite what others at school may think, Terri does have genuine social intelligence. He responds graciously to his uncle's ebbs and flows. Terri runs their household, tends to his uncle's medications, steps in when the uncle stares uncomprehendingly at food burning on the skillet. The Terri we see at home has a maturity that almost all school personnel miss when they perceive him to be a shambling misfit.
Of course, Terri is referred to the office for counseling. This is where the movie gains traction. John C. Reilly evokes that administrator who appears initially to be the school-policy mouthpiece. But as he interacts with Terri, we start to recognize a teacher-iconoclast, the guy unafraid to tell a kid that life can be a vessel loaded with both manure and flowers. We are going to have to choose which aroma we prefer and work for its fragrance every day of our lives. For Terri, this kind of adult influence is puzzling, then intriguing, then disappointing, and finally satisfying. What Terri learns from his most imperfect, candid counselor is the basis of any trusting relationship: it's evidenced in the healthy patterns of friendship, family or loved ones. A reliable relationship has to be tensile enough to stretch and contract with the times and not snap on us. Such resolute knowledge applies to Terri, to Mr. Fitzgerald, to you, and to me.
TERRI is rated R for a sexual situation that may make viewing with younger teens uncomfortable. There is also a dicey-appearing implication with some special needs students that actually resolves quite fairly. Even if you have seen the entire catalogue of quirky coming-of-age films, you may still find delight in TERRI. And those of us who work in high schools should never grow so complacent that we gaze over the river of youth without plumbing the deeper currents that determine our students' lives.
TERRI, starring Jacob Wysocki and John C. Reilly
Laemmle Playhouse 7
673 E. Colorado Blvd.
Pasadena 626.844.6500
Saturday, June 4, 2011
CLUB 21: Just Imagine
The volunteers at Club 21 are wrapping up spring session. I help there every Wednesday at ECAR, the Every Child a Reader tutorial. I am one of a cadre of ten teachers who report from 4 pm to 6 pm. Each of us is assigned to a student with language and developmental needs. All of our Club members happen to have Down syndrome. We never say that they ARE Down syndrome; we say they have it. A medical condition does not define who we are.
Down syndrome is a congenital disorder. Some of our families learned of their children's medical condition prenatally. But many others are shocked to receive a diagnosis at birth. Luckily, an increasing number of obstetricians and pediatricians are referring families whose babies have Down syndrome to Club 21 immediately. As a clearinghouse, emotional support system, and school resource, Club 21 is unmatched in the Los Angeles area. It is the brainchild of Nancy Litteken, who is a native speaker of American Sign Language (among her many other winning traits).
Language and communication can be challenges for all children. But for children with Down syndrome spoken language is invariably a struggle. Yet the earliest intervention helps the child and the whole extended family. Most parents now learn and then teach their babies sign language as their primary system. Signing gradually cohabits with oral speech. The two languages support the child's needs and reduce frustration. When reading instruction begins, sign language links a depicted concept to a print symbol. Because the children have characteristic short-term memory issues, repetition-repetition-repetition of sign, spoken, and print language cannot be stressed enough. The wonderful outcome is that every child will read! All will labor, most will sight read, and each will surprise us.
Every Wednesday as ECAR commences, we greet the children with a ritual. One adult dispenses hand sanitizer and a spritz of lavender spray. We have the kids intone after us, "I am focused and ready to learn." It's just a little mantra to state our purpose and it starts our next 45 minutes with a contractual nod. Then we head up to our study areas to work. Parent conferences and teacher debriefing round out the session. The parents pay a nominal fee to help cover materials; otherwise all activity at Club 21 is volunteer-supported.
"Just imagine the possibilities" is the motto of Club 21. And even tiny miracles do occur. Recently we learned the theme of the 2012 Rose Parade will be "Just Imagine." We think this phrase may be more comprehensive than we ever realized.
Club 21
539 N. Lake Avenue
Pasadena 91101
626.844.1821
www.clubtwentyone.com
Down syndrome is a congenital disorder. Some of our families learned of their children's medical condition prenatally. But many others are shocked to receive a diagnosis at birth. Luckily, an increasing number of obstetricians and pediatricians are referring families whose babies have Down syndrome to Club 21 immediately. As a clearinghouse, emotional support system, and school resource, Club 21 is unmatched in the Los Angeles area. It is the brainchild of Nancy Litteken, who is a native speaker of American Sign Language (among her many other winning traits).
Language and communication can be challenges for all children. But for children with Down syndrome spoken language is invariably a struggle. Yet the earliest intervention helps the child and the whole extended family. Most parents now learn and then teach their babies sign language as their primary system. Signing gradually cohabits with oral speech. The two languages support the child's needs and reduce frustration. When reading instruction begins, sign language links a depicted concept to a print symbol. Because the children have characteristic short-term memory issues, repetition-repetition-repetition of sign, spoken, and print language cannot be stressed enough. The wonderful outcome is that every child will read! All will labor, most will sight read, and each will surprise us.
Every Wednesday as ECAR commences, we greet the children with a ritual. One adult dispenses hand sanitizer and a spritz of lavender spray. We have the kids intone after us, "I am focused and ready to learn." It's just a little mantra to state our purpose and it starts our next 45 minutes with a contractual nod. Then we head up to our study areas to work. Parent conferences and teacher debriefing round out the session. The parents pay a nominal fee to help cover materials; otherwise all activity at Club 21 is volunteer-supported.
"Just imagine the possibilities" is the motto of Club 21. And even tiny miracles do occur. Recently we learned the theme of the 2012 Rose Parade will be "Just Imagine." We think this phrase may be more comprehensive than we ever realized.
Club 21
539 N. Lake Avenue
Pasadena 91101
626.844.1821
www.clubtwentyone.com
Sunday, May 1, 2011
I Call Him Sugar
"Oh, come give me some sugar!" Miss Lois McLeod would greet us children when we'd arrive those summers to visit our granny. Nowadays we'd refer to Lois as a spinster. She was a bred-in-the-bone North Carolina Presbyterian lady. She worked as a secretary for Gulf Oil and for years she rented room and board from our grandmother, Miss Alice. If Lois had suffered in life, and certainly she had, with the polio, it was utterly lost on us children. We were always overjoyed to slam the old screen door, bound through the dining room which predictably creaked, and check to see if that special single case of bottled Coca Cola under Granny's sink awaited us. And of course we would give Lois some sugar, an exchange of welcoming hugs and kisses. She belonged there and she belonged to us.
Lois and Miss Alice are long gone, as are almost all our links to Aberdeen, North Carolina. But a month ago, some sugar came back into my life. I decided to adopt a little dog from the animal shelter. I named him Sugar Rum Cherry. It didn't take long to get him to answer to Sugar or informally, Shuggy.
This dog adoption had been noodling around in the back of my head since I had a gate put up to enclose the yard. Discreetly I had been online surfing the animal shelters, looking for dainty Italian Greyhounds or maybe a comical pug, something whimsically genteel, like me. At the West Valley facility I located what was listed as a Clumber. I know Clumbers to be jumbo spaniels, often calm to the point of listlessness. I thought I might check this unusual breed.
The Chatsworth animal shelter is gorgeous, and sadly it is full of pits and chihuahuas of every permutation. Eventually I inquired about "the spaniel," which elicited a number of nods and smiles, though I learned he had been placed in isolation for kennel cough. I was taken to meet him. I could see that he might become a lovely animal, and better yet, my boon companion. He is a tricolor long-tailed late adolescent who resembles the result of a Cocker/King Charles Cavalier meetup. I just felt he was the one for me.
When we came home to Altadena, I made an appointment with the vet, filled out the microchip form, and began a serious relationship with Centinela Feed and Pet Supplies. I can say I have now become a Dog Person. I always nodded politely to the Dog People, but now I find myself willingly engaging in Dog Chats at the Rose Bowl or on the street when we are Dog Strolling. Perfect strangers remark, "What a cute pup!" and I beam as if I, Pygmalion, had designed him. But the truth is he is a good little fellow who just wanted a home, where he could lie inside under a computer desk and forget that he had ticks and matted hair and whatever else may have befallen him. And he doesn't mind that I call him Sugar.
Lois and Miss Alice are long gone, as are almost all our links to Aberdeen, North Carolina. But a month ago, some sugar came back into my life. I decided to adopt a little dog from the animal shelter. I named him Sugar Rum Cherry. It didn't take long to get him to answer to Sugar or informally, Shuggy.
This dog adoption had been noodling around in the back of my head since I had a gate put up to enclose the yard. Discreetly I had been online surfing the animal shelters, looking for dainty Italian Greyhounds or maybe a comical pug, something whimsically genteel, like me. At the West Valley facility I located what was listed as a Clumber. I know Clumbers to be jumbo spaniels, often calm to the point of listlessness. I thought I might check this unusual breed.
The Chatsworth animal shelter is gorgeous, and sadly it is full of pits and chihuahuas of every permutation. Eventually I inquired about "the spaniel," which elicited a number of nods and smiles, though I learned he had been placed in isolation for kennel cough. I was taken to meet him. I could see that he might become a lovely animal, and better yet, my boon companion. He is a tricolor long-tailed late adolescent who resembles the result of a Cocker/King Charles Cavalier meetup. I just felt he was the one for me.
When we came home to Altadena, I made an appointment with the vet, filled out the microchip form, and began a serious relationship with Centinela Feed and Pet Supplies. I can say I have now become a Dog Person. I always nodded politely to the Dog People, but now I find myself willingly engaging in Dog Chats at the Rose Bowl or on the street when we are Dog Strolling. Perfect strangers remark, "What a cute pup!" and I beam as if I, Pygmalion, had designed him. But the truth is he is a good little fellow who just wanted a home, where he could lie inside under a computer desk and forget that he had ticks and matted hair and whatever else may have befallen him. And he doesn't mind that I call him Sugar.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things
Sometimes I ask people if they are comfortable going places by themselves. In the past year I've grown ever more capable of taking myself on solo excursions. I've discovered places that are satisfying little idylls, either for singular or plural outings. Here are some I can vouch for in no particular order.
1. Tommy's Restaurant, 170 N. Hill Avenue, Pasadena. For a meal under $5, I always choose the chili cheese fries and a small drink. People who know me might be shocked at this pursuit because I am not a fast-food fan. However, Tommy's is clean and bright, perfect for spreading out the Pasadena Weekly and eating with decadent gusto.
2. The Huntington Library and Gardens in San Marino. Buy a membership and you can walk the grounds in quiet splendor beginning at 8 a.m. The guards are always affable weather prognosticators. I head to the cactus garden first to admire the crenulated brains and prickly mammaries that stud the landscape. The ducks at the pond have paired off, the camellia forest casts down its showy mantle, the allee to the mausoleum foreshadows more cooling strolls into summer. A visit to the gardens in any circumstance reminds us why we love California. It makes the heart sing its own private aria.
3. Farmers' Market at 3rd and Fairfax. Another venerable destination perfect for a Sunday morning: arrive by 9 a.m. Take your L.A. Times; get your two-hour free parking spot in the lot before all the car sharks start circling the lot. Proceed to the Coffee Corner, buy a cup of joe and have your parking ticket validated NOW. I prefer the communal tables under the heaters, but really any spot is suitable for eavesdropping on screenwriters, families, or wizened regulars. Diners seat themselves with breakfast trays from the surrounding stalls and the place gradually increases its animation. There is still time to wander over to the Grove as shops open at 10 a.m. Although I pooh-pooh the Grove for its artifice compared to my beloved Farmers' Market, I confess to having found some true bargains at the Grove Gap and Anthropologie.
4. The Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences, 8949 Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. My own personal screen gem! I subscribe to their newsletter (Oscars.org) and there is a steady stream of offerings for even an ordinary movie fan like me. I recommend the free curated exhibits on the fourth floor. I like to arrive at noon on a Sunday when parking is navigable and foot traffic is nil. Go right into the lobby, take out your driver's license, and approach the desk. Hand over the license and ask to see the exhibit on the fourth floor. You'll receive a pass and off you go via the elevator. Now there's a rarefied space guaranteed to please and teach you about cinema. I've seen collections featuring W.C. Fields, Ray Harryhausen, and Noel Coward. It's a splendid uncrowded foray. When you finish and collect your license, be sure to linger in the lobby where there are historic and changing portraits or posters displayed. The restrooms are coolly elegant too.
5. The Cornfields. For this one I ride the Gold Line to Chinatown station. Just before alighting, you will note a 32-acre evolving park. We used to refer to it as The Cornfields, which harks back to a time when kernels germinated there accidentally, but now it is an historic park of El Pueblo de Los Angeles. It may sound funny to take a train in order to take a walk, but I do recommend strolling from station to park and then walking its periphery. What was once a dusty old trainyard is now a farm lab, a grassy oasis, and a wildflower garden. The park is an exemplary L.A. juxtaposition of nearby buildings from our manufacturing past, our progressive train system, and the greening hope of reclamation. Often I feel that by walking a place, I understand it more. That's my sensation when I walk The Cornfields and look up at the big sheltering sky.
1. Tommy's Restaurant, 170 N. Hill Avenue, Pasadena. For a meal under $5, I always choose the chili cheese fries and a small drink. People who know me might be shocked at this pursuit because I am not a fast-food fan. However, Tommy's is clean and bright, perfect for spreading out the Pasadena Weekly and eating with decadent gusto.
2. The Huntington Library and Gardens in San Marino. Buy a membership and you can walk the grounds in quiet splendor beginning at 8 a.m. The guards are always affable weather prognosticators. I head to the cactus garden first to admire the crenulated brains and prickly mammaries that stud the landscape. The ducks at the pond have paired off, the camellia forest casts down its showy mantle, the allee to the mausoleum foreshadows more cooling strolls into summer. A visit to the gardens in any circumstance reminds us why we love California. It makes the heart sing its own private aria.
3. Farmers' Market at 3rd and Fairfax. Another venerable destination perfect for a Sunday morning: arrive by 9 a.m. Take your L.A. Times; get your two-hour free parking spot in the lot before all the car sharks start circling the lot. Proceed to the Coffee Corner, buy a cup of joe and have your parking ticket validated NOW. I prefer the communal tables under the heaters, but really any spot is suitable for eavesdropping on screenwriters, families, or wizened regulars. Diners seat themselves with breakfast trays from the surrounding stalls and the place gradually increases its animation. There is still time to wander over to the Grove as shops open at 10 a.m. Although I pooh-pooh the Grove for its artifice compared to my beloved Farmers' Market, I confess to having found some true bargains at the Grove Gap and Anthropologie.
4. The Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences, 8949 Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. My own personal screen gem! I subscribe to their newsletter (Oscars.org) and there is a steady stream of offerings for even an ordinary movie fan like me. I recommend the free curated exhibits on the fourth floor. I like to arrive at noon on a Sunday when parking is navigable and foot traffic is nil. Go right into the lobby, take out your driver's license, and approach the desk. Hand over the license and ask to see the exhibit on the fourth floor. You'll receive a pass and off you go via the elevator. Now there's a rarefied space guaranteed to please and teach you about cinema. I've seen collections featuring W.C. Fields, Ray Harryhausen, and Noel Coward. It's a splendid uncrowded foray. When you finish and collect your license, be sure to linger in the lobby where there are historic and changing portraits or posters displayed. The restrooms are coolly elegant too.
5. The Cornfields. For this one I ride the Gold Line to Chinatown station. Just before alighting, you will note a 32-acre evolving park. We used to refer to it as The Cornfields, which harks back to a time when kernels germinated there accidentally, but now it is an historic park of El Pueblo de Los Angeles. It may sound funny to take a train in order to take a walk, but I do recommend strolling from station to park and then walking its periphery. What was once a dusty old trainyard is now a farm lab, a grassy oasis, and a wildflower garden. The park is an exemplary L.A. juxtaposition of nearby buildings from our manufacturing past, our progressive train system, and the greening hope of reclamation. Often I feel that by walking a place, I understand it more. That's my sensation when I walk The Cornfields and look up at the big sheltering sky.
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