One Year Later...
Well, it’s been exactly one year since my longtime friend NayNay encouraged me to start blogging. Although she’s effectively retired from blogging, she still posts an occasional response to my posts, and I still think she is, as my mom used to refer to her, one “hot shit.” Thanks for getting me into this. I’ve come to enjoy it a great deal, and it has sparked my interest in serious writing again.
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Events of the Last Year (The ones I remember anyway)
--We spent a fun, four-day, Labor Day weekend on Mustang Island at the Port Royal.
--Got the bathrooms and the kitchen remodeled.
--Paid off the house.
--Paid off all our bills except for the three cars and a student loan.
--Took a week off to tend to The Warden after surgery.
--Got my 3rd nice raise in 3yrs, with cash bonus, stock bonus and stock options.
--Invested in my company’s stock in anticipation of an IPO.
--Started a Roth IRA
--Started a 401K
--Started the ball rolling to start school again
--Decided (just yesterday) to start my writing again.
--Posted 143 Blog entries, including this one.
--Prepped the house for sale (probably sell next spring)
++++++++++
Events of the Last Year (The ones I remember anyway)
--We spent a fun, four-day, Labor Day weekend on Mustang Island at the Port Royal.
--Got the bathrooms and the kitchen remodeled.
--Paid off the house.
--Paid off all our bills except for the three cars and a student loan.
--Took a week off to tend to The Warden after surgery.
--Got my 3rd nice raise in 3yrs, with cash bonus, stock bonus and stock options.
--Invested in my company’s stock in anticipation of an IPO.
--Started a Roth IRA
--Started a 401K
--Started the ball rolling to start school again
--Decided (just yesterday) to start my writing again.
--Posted 143 Blog entries, including this one.
--Prepped the house for sale (probably sell next spring)
++++++++++
Memory du Jour:
Every time I eat an apricot, a peach or a plum, I am immediately taken back to the house on Stepney Street in Inglewood, California. We lived there (in two different houses across the street from each other) for two years. The back yard of the 2nd house had many fruit trees, apricot, peach and plum among them. I used to climb the trees and eat fruit to my heart’s content. It was a beautiful neighborhood and I have wonderful memories of my mom and sister in that second home.
Quote of the Day:
“And the question is, are we going to be facile enough to change with—will we be nimble enough; will we be able to deal with the circumstances on the ground? And the answer is, yes, we will." George W. Bush —Washington, D.C., July 25, 2006
Graphic du Jour (Click me baby. You know you want to):
11 comments:
Heart felt thanks to Renee for being the catalyst for Carlos's (Karlos's) blogging career. Speaking for myself (and everyone else too - just trying to act humble) - you are a great person! Thanks for sharing your thoughts, MDJ with us and the "Quotes"
Give yourself a pat on the back for being such a good husband, father and son!
The Roth IRA was a really good choice!
George said "facile" but can he spell it? For some reason I doubt it.
Congratulations on your year of blogging. I've really enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing your life with us and here's a toast to another wonderful year.
Somehow the bubble wrap was weirdly theraputic. Happy anniversary.
with the way I feel today, popping the bubble wrap sure felt good.
congrats on the bloggy b-day, karlos!
Happy Blogiversary! You've got me beat there by about ten days.
Hello!!!
I love bubble wrap!!!
And truly Madman was the man who started it all. ;)
Sheila: Thanks for the kind words. You’re too sweet! :-)
Y: Hey, I’m glad Nay got us back in touch. It’s been great getting to know you again after all these years.
Jules: I’m glad I could be of assistance...and thanks!
WebMiz: Hope you’re feeling better.
MissCellania: Nya nya nya nya nya nya! ;-) Thanks!
Nay: You love bubble wrap cuz it’s snappy like you! Where the fuck have you been?
Karlos; I think I remember you from Inglewood Ca., Circa 1965. I lived a few doors down from you. My Father was with the I.P.D. that was about 5 years before the big change. i went back to Stepney a few years ago, its a graveyard.
Len K.
Hello Len. Not sure you have the right person. I was very young when I lived there. I lived there from around 1966-1968. Lived next door to a girl named May on one side and our landlord, Mr. Hendricks, on the other. He was a retired railroad conductor.
Sorry to hear the news about Stepney. My mom went back for a drive-by in the late 1980s and was sorely disappointed. I can't imagine what it looks like now. Shame. It was a beautiful neighborhod, and Centinela park was awesome.
My Name is Len Kloth. This I wrote some time ago. I was born in 1960;
Stepney Street June 1966
Stepney Street is clear today in my mind as in my earliest childhood reminiscences. From Centinela to our house, down the steep hill to Centinela Park, I remember it as it was. I have been back two, maybe three times; all I find is a graveyard, part of the present necropolis of Inglewood. The bona fide memory of how it was as a boy is fixed, unchanged in my mind. The lawns, the people, the wood slate covered homes, even the gardens as they were from my earliest memory, memories that extend back to about 1965.
Off Centinela was first a business, well several businesses in the same building over time. It was constantly being remodeled. After that building an ally, then a collection of apartments too small to be called apartments, they were in reality closely packed collection of duplexes, all built sometime in the 1950’s. They sat on the north side of Stepney, as did our home 20 or so homes down. The homes on that street were mostly small, some too small for whole families. Mother at one time knew most of the residents of the street. Old ladies lived in several of the small homes, small houses, yet most included rather spacious yards. Several had fruit trees in their back yards like ours, mostly peach and plums.
-There was a fat old nurse friend of my Mother living in the duplex-apartments. Mother worked for her when employed at Inglewood Convalescent Hospital on Centinela. The lady was big and scary, with interlocking eyebrows and broad shoulders like a linebacker. To us kids she was frightening. Through intimidating in appearance and overall structure her always friendly, offering me cookies and milk, a complete betrayal of her frightening stature. Across the street stood a far more interesting structure, a four-square Pentecostal church. Known for their loud Sunday sermons and ramblings the police were summoned time to time by local residents to quiet the raucous parishners. As a small boy I would peek into the church from atop a scaffold and watch the ‘spirit slain’ congregants flailing about. I saw mostly young girls in cute dresses praying at a stage, in communication with their God with less fanfare than their noisy parents.
Next to the church was the ally, then the row of homes. The street took a sudden right turn where the homes began. I did not know most of the people who lived in the homes that lined the south side of the street. Most of the small homes were stocked with working class white and Hispanic.
-In the first house past the ally was homely woman with three children. My Mother had baby sat her kids who always had runny noses and colds. Whenever she baby-sit them I knew I would soon have a cold.
-A man named Fernando Fernandez with several children lived about five homes down from Centinela. He was always mad at the neighborhood children who stole the roses that hung over his fence, easily reachable from the sidewalk. I figured since he grew them where any kid could snatch them, what else did he expect?
-A few more homes down stood a small four unit apartment building always occupied with unsavory tenants the owner rented to. They came and went, often in the middle of the night, sometimes leaving quantities of toys to be snatched by neighborhood kids, like me.
-A few more homes down were an old man and his wife, a retired railroad man. He could usually be seen in front of his house in a lawn chair, simply watching the day go by as a small pile of beer cans piled up beside the lawn chair. Sometimes he broke into profanities, yelling at the kids. When this happened his wife led him into the house. Mother said he had, ‘old-timers-disease,’ or something like that.
-Across the street from us were Mr. Martin and his invalid wife, Emma. Their house was perhaps the smallest on the street. Mr. Ralph Martin was old, very old. Sporting overalls, everyday he would come out to work in his yard carrying a shovel or pick. He endeavored to garden the small yard in front of his diminutive domicile. He waddled back and forth, crippled with age and arthritis. He never achieved much, his productive years long past. He just took care of his aged wife. Once I was led into her room that smelled like stale unwashed laundry. She attempted to sit up, offering a withered but warm hand to me, her pleasant smile making me feel sad. “What a nice boy,” she said, and then slumped back into her bed. The story was Ralph Martin’s grandfather had come across the plains with the pioneers, part of the ‘Martin’ company. As a child he had left Utah and the Church with his Mother and went to San Bernardino. Ralph Martin was rather bitter about the church.
-Moving east from the Hanson home were several smaller indescript wood frame homes, then the steep drop-off to Marlborough Street. Situated on the steep slope was a yellow home with a boy who narrowly survived a harrowing accident. He was on a bicycle when he was sideswiped by a truck making a right from Marlborough. The boys head hit the street splitting his skull in the middle. A passerby pushed his brain into his skull and held it closed until the paramedics arrived; at least that’s what I was told. He survived the accident, but was in a special school. My Mother once pointed him out to me, and it was clear he was not all their. After the yellow home Stepney turned right towards the park.
-There was the home of Beth Bellyeh. (Spelling?) My Mother had known her for decades. Many times the lady baby-sit me. She had a teen son who was drafted in 1964 and sent to Vietnam. This stressed her out to no end, actually making her sick. Often I would see her walking the streets of Inglewood, wondering why with all her walking she still managed to be so fat.
-A few houses further down was the home of ‘Donny.’ Donny was the neighborhood bully, as small boy I had a few clashes with him. As I rode my bicycle by he would toss a broom handle into the spinning wheels of my spinning tires, causing them to lock up sending me spiraling to the ground. When he did this I would here his parents on the porch laughing, finding such antics humorous.
-Then there was Miss Olsten’s home. Two of Miss Olsten’s three sons had died in her home. The story was the boys developed a rare blood disease when they were toddlers, resulting in their death about 1935. Her other son was killed in World War 2. Her husband had a stroke in 1960, and as a result needed around the clock care. Everyday for years his wife, who worked for JC Penny’s on Market would come home by 3:00 PM. He barely managed to care for himself, but he managed to take some needed medication. One day, knowing his wife would be late, he wrote her a love letter, saying, among other things that he loved his wife too much to be an ongoing burden to her. Then he took all the pills. She came home and found him dead. My Father was dropping me off at the house and Mother came out to tell him what had happened. Both had been close to the couple. It is one of a handful of times I ever observed my Father become tearful. Once a month or so Mother would visit the old woman, who ‘never was quite right’ and always smelled like mothballs. Her home was always creepy; I would feel, experience things in the little home and dreaded those visits.
-Next door was Mr. Goodwin. Mr. Goodwin had a wife who died about 1965. He had been an officer in the British Army, being in India during the time of Gandhi. Once or twice, possibly on British holidays I saw him in full uniform, all white, complete with a British officer’s hat. He had two daughters who had several daughters my age that I played with. In the summer I would play in the bedroom with his grandkids. In winter when visiting his home it was a struggle not to fall asleep as he always kept the heat up past eighty degrees. He had an aviary in his back yard filled with tropical birds. Whenever playing in the yard I would hear their delightful singing.
-On the other side of our home was Mr. Hanson. His home we called the ‘jungle house’ by all the neighborhood children. He had a successful Gardening business and often he, with his trademark khaki overalls and hat could be seen mowing lawns anywhere in Inglewood. His yard was filled with plants of all varieties and sizes, enough plants to stock a small nursery. A hug Avocado tree provided a canopy for most of his yard, giving it the final touch, the ‘jungle look.’ He claimed to be a Marxist and was not shy about it. At night I could hear him listening to ‘Radio Moscow.”
Moving east on Stepney I remember little of the other homes or residents. Once a few doors down from Hanson the Police were called as a young man on drugs went crazy and destroyed much of the house in a rage. Mother baby sit a few children from further down, but little else I remember of those residents. Every morning I would walk to school east on Stepney, past the little wood framed homes, down the steep decline then left towards Centinela School. Mother in winter would grossly over dress me for school, putting several layers of sweaters and jackets on me. Several times walking down the step slope I could hardly walk due to the bulk of cloths. (This I did from second until forth grade, when I was sent to Chapel of Peace Lutheran which required I walk the other direction, down Stepney to Centinela, to the right all the way to La Brea.)
Dad said until the 1930’s the steep drop was a cliff where Stepney ended. About 1940 it was leveled off and made into a continuation of the street. Its grade was so step no child could ride a bicycle up it. I could ride down the slope of the hill, gaining great speed but never, no matter how hard I tried, could ascend its steep grade. Mother and Dad told me in the 1940’s the Packard’s and other low level cars would often bottom out, their ‘running boards’ being torn off the side of the car on the periphery of the steep hill as they attempted an ascension.
Ascending that hill, facing west one could clearly see the lights and buildings of LAX. At night it glowed like Christmas lights. First it was a tricycle in front of the house, then a bicycle with training wheels, and then I learned to really ride a bike, all on the 500 block of Stepney. For me the slope to the east served as a ‘natural barrier’ and Centinela to the west served as a borders. As a child everything across Centinela was the wild neither regions. Those were the defined limits to where I could ride, at least when a small boy. Once on a dare I crossed Centinela with another boy to see some friends of his in the mobile home park. I would have gotten away with it except a church lady living in the mobile home park who knew my Mother saw me and hurriedly called Mother.
Down the hill and to the right on Stepney led straight into Centinela Park where Don Machado build his ranch in 1850. That was basically the core, the center of the city. Centinela Springs, with an abundance of clean artesian water was the fresh water source in the area dating back to the Ice Age. Prehistoric animals drank from these springs. Evidence for this was uncovered during excavations for the creation of Centinela Park in the 1920’s. The fossilized remains of these ancient creatures were discovered along the beds of the creek created by the springs which formed Centinela Creek. Ancient Indian artifacts were also found during these diggings. The springs, which no longer flow to the surface, originated from a site in the central section of the Centinela Park, the green slope just where Stepney empties into the park. The old springs flowed west in the form of a small stream, crossing beneath Centinela avenue all the way to La Canoga Boulevard as it headed northwest. For approximately one mile it ran parallel to the San Diego Freeway along the east side. It eventually became a tributary to La Ballona Creek, which flowed to the beach. The rivulet created by Centinela Springs passed directly below the hill where Machado constructed his adobe. The high ground with a vast panoramic view and the proximity to the fresh water spring probably influenced Machado's decision of where he was to build his home. Seeing the layout the North Slope where Machado had his ranch house one can clearly see it was the perfect place, year round water and slightly elevated so as not to flood during El Nino years.
As a boy I learned Centinela Springs is still flowing and is pumped below ground by the Inglewood Water Department for the city's use. The springs were commemorated by a granite drinking fountain in Centinela Park, near the swimming pool. A monument stands next to the fountain with a plaque placed there by the State Department of Parks and Recreation in cooperation with the Historical Society of Centinela Valley. It is registered as a California Historical place.
Machado’s adobe, pre-Centinela Park, 1890
Stepney Street branches into Stepney Place; both empty into the Park. The Park is technically a flood zone, thus no building was ever built in the wide ravine where Centinela creek flowed. To me as a boy the park was an immense playground. Dennis the Menace playground, the wading pools, endless church and school picnics, and the long ravine itself were all my childhood stomping ground. Sid Davis, a retired actor then film producer created many public service films, films seen nationwide in public schools. These films were mostly black and white, depressing, and corn-ball, by our standards. He had assistance in making these films with the Inglewood Police Department and often filmed in Centinela Park. Most of these films were made in the fifties, but the last of these, “LSD, Trip or Trap” was filmed in 1970. Growing up I had a several déjà vu experiences in grammar school, seeing childhood places in his films. One film showed a familiar burger stand on Manchester, but most showed several shots of Centinela Park, including the stone gate at the end of Stepney which led into the park.
Learning to ride my first bike, with and without training wheels happened on the 500 block of Stepney. The first childhood friends were found on Stepney. A solar eclipse, a comet, a huge plume of smoke from a massive petrolium fire in Long Beach, and several earthquakes, experienced on Stepney. My parents fought and divorced on Stepney, my sister screamed and chased Mother down Stepney. I saw my sister first pregnant with James on Stepney. I learned about love on Stepney. I saw my Mother taken away to die on Stepney. Good and evil, seen and unseen, first experienced on Stepney.
Every city has a story, as does every street, and every home on every street has a story, dramas unknown to most, important only to God and those who lived it. People were born lived loved, suffered on Stepney Street. Many homes, many stories. My story began on 557 Stepney Street.
Hi Len. What great stuff. It brings back great memories. The old retired railroad man was Mr. Hendricks. We lived right next door to him. I think I remember the drug crazed guy too. I remember someone getting carted off one night by an ambulance. He was bound and had a brush handle in his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue off (I think).
I think I also remember the kid who would put sticks in spokes. I don’t have vivid memories, but it’s too familiar. I’m not sure if he did it to me, or I remember steering clear of him to avoid getting it.
Write my email address if you’d like: f22sl25@yahoo.com. Be great to share more memories.
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