Black and White and Red all Over

The lofts by Mission Station really lend themselves to color desaturation down to black, white and red. When I saw this guy with shiny white shoes and red gloves strolling on a rainy day, I did a quick iPhone snap out of my car window. Here's the result, with a mono filter that leaves red tones. (Those bricks! That curb!)

I love accidental art. Or lucky art. Or just making up art as you go along.

Branching Out

In South Pasadena, we love our trees so much we even let them grow in the street.

Many of you have probably noticed these lovely old oaks happily obstructing traffic in the middle of the private section of Chelton Way. But most of you probably don't know their controversial story...

Back in 1907, the area had been subdivided into what was known as the Ellersbie Park Tract by a wealthy woman named Carolyn Dobbins. She had spent a holiday at South Pasadena's posh Raymond Hotel. One day, while looking out over the expanse pastoral land surrounding the hotel, Mrs. Dobbins noticed the thicket of oak groves. She decided she was going to buy the parcel of land, leave her hometown of Philadelphia and move her family to South Pasadena to build a house in a paradise shaded by magnificent trees. The trees you see in this photograph are remnants of Mrs. Dobbins' dream landscape -- and designated as Cultural Heritage landmarks.

But that's not the best part of the story. Back in 1950, sweet, upstanding South Pasadena got a jump start on 1960s rebellion by fighting a spirited battle to save several of Mrs. Dobbins' other oak trees. The ones in question happened to be growing in the middle of Edgewood Drive. South Pasadena city government deemed the trees a "menace." The City Manager at the time called them a traffic hazard, "obstructions," with "no place in a modern community." The government wanted change. The residents wanted their trees, believing they were integral, valuable parts of South Pasadena. They wanted to keep them right where they were.

After heated City Council meetings, with passionate pleas made by numerous citizens, the council inexplicably made the decision to save two of the trees -- but cut down a third.

This is where things got interesting. One would think our kindly, rule-abiding townspeople would have accepted the compromise. Instead, when city workers showed up with their saws and a city ordinance granting permission to remove the hundred year old oak, they ran across a mob of angry townspeople. I am not sure if there were any pitchforks, but public record reported an automobile blockade, at least one snarling dog and a less-than-cordial group of men, women and children waving sticks, brooms and rolling pins.

"There is too much useless destruction going on in the world these days," one South Pas resident told a reporter for The Review. "...in a small way we're fighting for the same things our boys in Korea are fighting for. The maintenance of freedom and the carrying out of the wishes of the majority." Another anonymous resident wrote a letter to The Review in the form of a poem:

I think that I shall never see
A Council lovely as a tree.

The tree brings beauty to the town.
The Council orders it chopped down.

The writer concluded his Joyce Kilmer homage with this couplet:

Laws are made by men like these
But only God can make the trees.

The mid century treehuggers' story went 1950s viral -- gathering interest across the nation and symbolizing a group of ordinary people standing up against a government that didn't listen to its citizens. Telegrams and letters of support arrived from all over the country. "Save the trees!" They said. "Axe the City Council!"

After so much national coverage, the city government backed down and the trees were spared. While the beautiful old trees that stirred up such a debate eventually died of natural causes, their younger siblings on Chelton Way still thrive as reminders of South Pas heritage, preservation and, yes, proud symbols of ass-kicking rebellion. Right here in our polite little town.

For more on the great tree controversy, as well as other amazing stories about South Pasadena's past, you can't beat Jane Apostol's definitive South pas history book, South Pasadena 1888-1988 A Centennial History Second Edition with Chronology: 1988-2008. For more on Jane, you can take a look back at my interview with her from last year.

Self Explanatory

Really, now ...how can I add anything to that sky?

There's a metaphor in here somewhere...

...but I'm fresh out of cleverness and I've been sick for over a week.

When Little Bit was home sick last week, we had to come up with a lot of "fun" things to do inside all day. I put that fun in quotes because there is nothing, repeat, nothing fun when you are ill and stuck in the house. Add a sick five-year-old to your own sick-in-the-house mix and the word fun becomes a taunting little monster, forcing you to remember those halcyon days when fun actually meant doing something fun, not just coming up with anything, anything, to keep two feverish family members busy. The only creatures having any fun last week were all those little bits of virus staging a rave in my upper respiratory tract for days on end, finally crashing in my laryx where the little suckers stole my voice and have not bothered to give it back.

But back to finding things to do while quarantined in the house, just me and my poor ailing child. After the first dozen Disney and Pixar movies, about ten rounds of Hi-Ho Cherry-O and enough exploration on Jumpstart to risk having a video game induced seizure, Little Bit and I moved to the old school standby of lining up dominoes and knocking them down.

Whee.

It's a good thing we have such a great house to be trapped in. And speaking of great houses, I'd appreciate it if you would have a look at my latest column and video on South Pasadena Patch. (It should be up sometime before lunch.) It's all about the many wonderful places to live in South Pas. The kindly Patch powers-that-be are letting me produce photo slideshows to accompany my articles. And that really IS fun. (Even with laryngitis.)

As it grows wiser and older...

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

--Robert Frost

Plein Air Writing

All you need to do is find a chair. (And maybe WiFi?)

My Sentiments Exactly

Sometimes a picture really is worth a thousand words. Or in this case, a couple of dozen questions...

Caption this photo (#44)

I need help with this one.

Through the Glass: Brightly

My longtime friends here will recognize this window.

I've snuck it into this blog a few times before. While I love so many things about my house, I rarely get a chance to hang out in this room. It's where most of the books are. Someday we'll get around to having someone build custom bookcases to match our home's original mahogany built-ins in the next room. But for now, our Ikea particleboard shelves manage those hundreds (and hundreds) of volumes just fine. We call the room The Library, although it it's a mighty highfalutin name for a 10 by 14 foot space that doubles as our guestroom.

When we moved in, we put one of those dark wood frame futons in there. You know, one like everyone had in an apartment at some point in the nineties, the kind that folds up into a couch. It was a leftover from younger days -- a placeholder until we found the distinguished leather sofa that would so perfectly suit a room called The Library. But when our first guest arrived and we pulled the futon out to make a bed, we never folded it back because there are few things more wonderful than a well-stocked library, but a well-stocked library with a bed in it is right up there.

Life is a little too hectic (and Little Bit is a little too much of a handful) for much stretching out in The Library With a Bed in It. But we've all been under the weather around here, and there has been a lot of stretching out in the last few days. While stretching, I noticed, again, the comfort of little familiar objects ... the ones we get so used to seeing we don't even really see them anymore. I love objects. And so does our local poet friend Linda Dove, whose book (one of the hundreds in this room) In Defense of Objects pays a sort of homage to the meditative loveliness of stuff. It's the stuff of our lives that accumulates and turns shelves and tables into little alters of us. And since I'm not a religious person, it's a place like this -- with treasured stuff, and piles of books, and those I love nearby -- that comes closest to being my version of holy.

The stuff on this table always makes me smile. It's flanked by a couple of those Ikea bookcases, in front of a window that catches the most incredible morning light. The old moon clock doesn't sound an alarm, it just glows brighter and brighter -- supposedly waking you up in a more natural way than with some kind of electronic chime. Well, it never once woke me up. But it did once shake me up, in a happy way, when I was using the second hand to time two minutes on the pregnancy test that told us our Little Bit was on the way. The phone isn't old, but it looks it, and makes a great Philip Marlowe-worthy brrrrrring when someone calls. There are a few novels on the table that I like to have handy. One was written by a friend. One written by someone I wish could have been a friend. There is a little book of sonnets. There is also a big layer of dust. And although not evident in this picture, there is a sleeping cat who has decided the bed belongs to her.

Years ago, I found those lace curtains at an estate sale. The woman had been some fabulous old Hollywood bit player in the early 30s. I loved the lace, but never had a window the right size to put them in. Until this house, this window.

So, I like looking at this window. It's a reminder of how life can surprise you by suddenly bringing you to just the right spot. It's one of those Hallmark card metaphors about fitting in and feeling at home. And it's also a just great place to read a good book, or recover from a bad cold. (Or blog in a daily blog when you've got nothing else to blog about.)

Look! Pretty!

Your faithful blogger is still sick. So, um, here's a nice view from Monterey Hills. I've dragged my camera to this position many times, but for those of you who might not have enjoyed this particular vantage point, I'll offer a little tour. Forget trying to spot the Arroyo, it sneaks along beneath the trees. Crossing the Arroyo is Pasadena's historic Colorado Street Bridge, there on the left. (I just can't bring myself to use its common nickname of Suicide Bridge. The beautiful structure is far too romantic for that.) The Richard H. Chambers Court of Appeals is right of center. The Spanish Colonial Revival building dates back to 1920, with additions made in 1930. It was once one of the region's most prestigious resorts, the Vista del Arroyo Hotel. During World War 2, the War Department acquired the property and turned it into McCormack Army Hospital. It housed a variety of federal agencies for decades before being designated Pasadena's Court of Appeals.

Our beloved San Gabriel Mountains are lost in a cloudy haze, but then again, so am I.

Well I'm hot blooded, check it and see...

Remember my glowing words about how delighted we were to move here for the divine South Pasadena Public School system? Well, this is the fifth virus poor Little Bit has brought home to our family since school started in September and I've caught every one. Including another one last week that we were barely through sniffling with. I'm ready to move to a compound for a life that would make Howard Hughes have said, "hey, dude, don't be so paranoid." Little Bit is almost over the latest, just in time for me to catch it. I don't remember having a fever of 103 since I was a kid. But hey, I haven't had my husband sing a Foreigner song to me in, like, ever.

Kindergarten is not a classroom. It is a petri dish. With crayons.

I did not need a Halloween costume. I was Zombie Mother from Hell. In bed with the chills. Feeling about as good natured as, well, I don't know. But Joan Crawford would have played the role.

I have a brand, spankin' new column and video up at South Pasadena Patch today, sometime around 10:00 AM. It's all about Mission Street. At least I think it is. I'm delirious and I swear I might have included something about psychedelic monkeys. Please read it and comment. I'm sick, here!

Boo!

Just look who I caught leering at me as I walked past Videotheque yesterday. If you're in the mood for the perfect Halloween movie to watch -- or maybe something to forget the holiday altogether -- check out the shop's amazing collection of films. We're not talking your average video store ... Videotheque is the San Gabriel Valley's independent source of indie, foreign, cult, classic, documentary, new and rare cinema DVDs and Blu-rays. Their
catalogue is so vast even Quentin Tarantino might find a movie he hasn't seen before.

And for spooky South Pasadena stories, if you haven't already taken a look, check out my Halloween column with video at South Pasadena Patch. Patch also has a great round-up of events around town and some wonderful photo montages of our town's best ghouls and goblins.