Have you ever watched a reality TV show and felt inspired? Seldom, perhaps…but recently my husband and I have been binge watching Married at First Sight. If you haven’t seen it, couples are arranged by “experts” and married without knowing anything about the other. A blind date that is legally binding. After two months, if the couples don’t get along, they can get a divorce.
As you can imagine, some of the couples implode from the beginning. We are not sure what the experts were thinking with those crazy matches! But some couples actually thrive and fall in love! When the relationship lasts, it is quite beautiful to see two like-minded people make compromises, acknowledge their vulnerability and share their goals and dreams for the future.
To help foster intimacy throughout the experiment, the experts assign the couples various activities. One such activity is to visit the childhood haunts of their spouse. Experiencing the old stomping grounds of their new forever partner can give them insight into their psyche. Whether we like it or not, our formative years can be quite revealing!
“Seeing the old stomping grounds of their new forever partner can give them insight into their psyche.”
That being said…one day I thought it would be interesting to show my husband, K, where I grew up in West Los Angeles. K had once shown me around where he grew up as a free spirited lad in Lake View Terrace, but we had not ventured to my ancient neck of the woods.
Now we have been to West LA many times for one reason or another, but never as part of an unofficial tour of the apartments where I lived, and schools I attended. We live about 40 minutes away from those spots, but I haven’t been back to see them in decades. The vastness of Los Angeles and the freeways create a psychological and physical barrier.
Perhaps I am feeling sentimental because I recently turned 60 years old. Or just watching the Married TV show had sparked the traveling back in time idea…I’m not sure which. My childhood was not an easy one — though whose is, really? I hadn’t wanted to go back earlier in my life because some memories are too painful. As a society we subscribe to the idea of perfect childhoods, and that is what every parent truly wants for their kids. I know my parents did; however life threw them a few curve balls.
To quickly summarize the first eighteen years of my life: my parents, two older brothers and I moved to Los Angeles from my birthplace of Detroit when I was the tender age of two. My dad had been a chemist in Michigan and had a job awaiting him in glamorous, sunny California. They left everything behind to start a new life.
Apparently, the job that had been promised to my dad fell through. When we arrived in California after the cross country drive, we couldn’t afford to pay the movers. We slept on our apartment floor for weeks until dad could secure employment and we could afford furniture. It was the beginning of my dad’s bad luck in the work force, and moves that lasted my entire childhood. We seldom lived in an apartment more than two years. As a youngster, I didn’t comprehend the logic or the reasons. As a teenager, I understood the reasons but couldn’t do anything about them. All I know is I just learned to adapt to new surroundings, go with the flow and pack up my stuff. A feeling of sadness and disappointment accompanied each move.
It was also the reason that as I grew older and started my own family I desperately wanted a house of my own. I craved stability. This has played out in my adult life — I own and have lived in the same tiny home for almost 14 years, through the very good, the very bad and the somewhat ugly. The thought of leaving it (mostly to escape California’s high taxes!) has more than once crossed my mind…but is hard for me to fathom a departure at this moment.
Meanwhile, as I planned the itinerary for our trek to the depths of my childhood Westside, I figured out that I had lived in at least eight apartments and one house (the house for about a year). I’m pretty sure there are a few places I can’t remember in the mix. I attended two elementary schools; by some miracle, however, I went to only one junior high and one high school. I met my BFF in junior high!
Fasten Your Seatbelts…
To start the day, K and I figured that we would takeout a quick bite once we arrived in West Los Angeles and eat in Rancho Park, or better known as Cheviot Hills Recreation Center. This park is where I used to go play on the swings and sandbox, swim in the public pool and pester my brothers who played basketball (they never, ever let me win when I joined them for a game!). Our first stop was John O’Groats for homemade biscuits and coffee…we ate in the car because it was too cold outside.
Rancho Park in the early morning mist.
Next stop was the first apartment I remember living in on Almayo Drive. This apartment was only a couple of blocks from 20th Century Fox Studios, so it was an easy place to remember. So many fun things happened here! A few highlights: getting bullied by a mean boy who taunted me with his snarling poodle, receiving my first bicycle — purple with shimmering tassles on the handlebars — and reading the World Book Encyclopedia, particularly the section on dogs, every night like it was the Torah. What amazed me most about this first stop? It was still standing! In Los Angeles most buildings are torn down after a certain number of years. It certainly felt strange looking at where I used to live with my family and play outside with my friends. Here it is in all of its unglory:
If I showed you pictures of all the places I lived and where K and I drove by that day, you would be reading this article until the pandemic was finally over. That being said, here is a sampling of our drive by time travel tour of West Los Angeles:
A favorite dead end down the street from the house we briefly lived in on Fox Hills Drive (near Century City, in the background). A great place to ride your bicycle and throw a ball around with friends! We got our dog, Suzy, while living at this house. Once I found a dead baby bird on our front porch. We held seances for Helen Keller at my friend’s house down the street. Good times!
Westwood Elementary School.
At my first elementary school I saw a snake eat a mouse, got socked in the stomach by a bully (there’s a theme here…), and saw a wrecking ball demolish the old auditorium. I also got my first crush on a boy from Canada with blond hair. I use the word “crush” lightly, as it wasn’t so much a crush, as the first glimmer of opposite sex awareness. We also had good, old-fashioned 1960s Cold War take cover drills.
Fairburn Avenue Elementary
Fairburn Elementary School. Sigh.
This stop made me emotional and I’m not sure why. I went here for 4th thru 6th grades. Though my family went through some very tough times those years (my parents didn’t always get along and my mom was recovering from breast cancer), I remember the school fondly. First of all, I had great teachers: Mr. Turner and Mr. Barrington — both of whom wore white shirts and ties! We had paper drives back in the day when people read newspapers. I remember my first taste of cafeteria food such as fish sticks, rice with gravy, and a brownie that was to die for.
It was here where I went to escape, perhaps, too. I relished playing handball at the courts shown above, and dodge ball on the playground. I also started my love affair with reading. I read Beverly Cleary books about Henry Huggins, his dog Ribsy, as well as E.B. White’s classic, Stuart Little. White’s Charlotte’s Web is on the top of my list, as well. I started to blossom at Fairburn, taking up violin, joining Girl Scouts, and becoming the teacher’s pet. In other words, I became a good student and found great joy in learning.
For me, this is one of the biggest takeaways from my sojourn to those childhood habitats: I hadn’t realized how much solace I found in school. It wasn’t always easy, for sure. There were kids I didn’t like and who didn’t like me (those darn bullies!). But the feeling like anything was possible started right there on that playground and in those books. As vulnerable and scared as any kid might be, I had my safety net behind those fences. Looking through the chain link fence, I got a glimpse of that little girl again — hopeful, sometimes lonely, shy and sensitive. Sniff.
Emerson Junior High. Note Mormon Temple in the background.
Junior High. I couldn’t have felt more awkward as my hormones raced and acne, frizzy hair and an overall unglamorous appearance took over. I got bullied yet again, but met my BFF and had the BEST ENGLISH TEACHER EVER. Thank you, Mrs. Scott, wherever you are! Mrs. Scott was young, pretty and a newlywed. She wore purple eye shadow and a lot of mascara. Journaling every day I discovered the writer within! For the first time, I found an outlet to express myself. She believed in and encouraged me. I owe a lot to beautiful Mrs. S.
University High School. Used to be the Warriors, now they are the Wildcats.
High School Journalism. That’s it. That is all. End of story.
My Journalism teacher, wise cracking and brilliant Monserrat Fontes, a classroom filled with typewriters and witty, angst ridden teenage journalists. Here I interviewed then Mayor Tom Bradley, went to writing competitions, cried after being yelled at by a teacher about a story I wrote about him, and in my senior year finally met my first boyfriend. It was busy, rewarding, and much, much, much better than Junior High.
Mayfield Avenue.
Above is the apartment where we lived while I was in my last year or two of high school. Creepy fact: only a few blocks away the famous OJ Simpson murders took place. We were long gone from there when that horrible event happened.
Mayfield. Where I used to walk my dog, Suzy. RIP sweet girl.
My tour of childhood places ended with a feeling of gratitude for the good times and an inner hug for surviving those bad times! My husband had a deeper appreciation for my roots, or apparent lack of them. Moving a lot was difficult, but I realized that it fostered my ability to cope in adverse situations.
As K and I ended our day, we ended up at a Westside institution, The Apple Pan on Pico Boulevard. I once worked at a bakery down the street, before Wells Fargo unjustly took it over (that’s a story for another day.) It was fortuitous because they had Boysenberry Cream Pie. K had been searching for boysenberry pie for the longest time!
The Holy Pie Grail.
What does your childhood experiences say about you? Would taking a trip down memory lane be a good experience to share with a loved one? I can say for sure that it was eye opening for me. I got in touch with my inner child and shared her with my husband. We also got pie. Now that is a good day!
Cheryl Thatt-Burbank 