My father’s siblings were all faring well, however my father was floundering. My mother gripped to anyone who would listen, "All I do is worry . . . worry, because of that man. Every time he starts a new job, I find out a month later that he hasn't even been there. How am I supposed to put food on the table?"
Dad, in his defense would mumble, "It's not my fault. What can a man do? Every time I start a job, there's a cut back. 'Last hired, first fired.' That's how it goes these days." Looking down, he would shake his head in resignation.
"So that’s why you buy drinks for everyone at the bar?" Mom, quipped.
She hated alcohol, except for crème de mint, of which she kept a bottle of, to pour over her vanilla ice cream. Dad was a changed man and my mother was notGrandpa's dream was coming true and he felt even more blessed with the children his wife was bringing forth. Grandma gave birth to one boy and two girls. My mother, the youngest child, was born on September 14, 1914, with hair so white, that her father refused to acknowledge her as his. He banned her from all family photographs. Angry, as hell, my Grandma, finally got sick of his attitude and said to him, "Well, if she isn't yours, she is surely mine!" impressed. Mom's priority was money and the security it bought. She had endured enough of poverty's sting when she was growing up and wanted more for herself and her children. She never blamed her impoverished childhood on her widowed mother, for Grandma had worked hard her entire life. Caterina Morengo Servetti, a tall Northern peasant from Cherasco, in Provincio Di Cunio, Italy, had a giving heart and a quick temper. She immigrated with my grandfather, the debonair Bartolommeo, to America, on the La Gascogne, from Benevagiepna Italy, in 1907. He was thirty-four years old and she was twenty-six. They pushed on to California, where my grandfather, on an earlier solo voyage had bought land. It was a very fertile piece of earth in Culver City, where farming grapes was proving successful.
The couple had a chance at a good life, but unfortunately, my grandfather began drinking from his fruits. Later in life, Grandma would often explain this to us in her broken English. "He was a bum!" Her hands would wave in the air. "A, bum!"
As the story goes, my grandfather went out for one of his frequent nights of drinking and gambling. He was driving his horse and wagon, with his seven year old son, my Uncle Albert,riding in the back. Upon returning home, my grandfather was so inebriated, that he lost control of his horse. His wagon flew into a ditch, rendering him unconscious. My young uncle bravely ran out into the dark for help and found some people who rushed Grandfather to the hospital. His lungs were crushed. Within a few days, infection set in and he died.
My grandmother, who barely spoke English, was suddenly alone. She couldn’t speak much English and she had three children to support, my mother being just a babe in arms. My grandmother was forced to sell their land for pittance to the Pathay Studios, in order to pay off my grandfather's debts. Managing to find janitorial work for the Board of Education, scrubbing floors, she provided for her children as best she could. Home, in the rough section of Boil Heights, was a tiny walk up with two rooms and a community latrine at the end of the hall. It wasn't much, but Grandma was a determined woman. She would earn her citizenship and then later, buy a home of her own in a safer neighborhood. During World War II, she finally bought her cozy clapboard, but hitting her broadside, were the new plans for the Hollywood Freeway. The lanes, in the name of progress, were to run directly through her house, but Grandma was not ready for defeat. She hired movers to take it to London St., near the Silver Lake area, where the house still stands today.
Uncle Albert was a loving and brave little boy with a sense of responsibility far beyond his years. He dropped out of school in the second grade to help support the family and never went back. He sold newspapers from door to door. They lived near the Union Station and my uncle remembers riding home on his bike and running into people who were putting up ropes in the streets. Once you were let through the rope you couldn’t go back. My mother also happened to have a little friend spend the night, the night before, which was a big deal for her. The adventure gave way to a disastrous conclusion, for her little friend was running a high fever and delirious by early morning. Later that day, the nervous authorities, pronounced the little girl quarantined. By the end of the day the neighborhood was in a panic, for it was clear, that deadly the Bubonic Plague had invaded their lives. My mother remembers a group of people all in white and wearing protective gear, coming into their flat and putting her on the floor while they thoroughly inspected her body. She was terrified. It seemed that her friend was bitten by fleas from an infected rat and had caught the disease. Soon, to everyone's horror, the Bubonic Plague was raging through Boil Heights taking victims helter-skelter. Huge bonfires soon burned in the streets, in order to destroy bedding and anything that could carry contagions. Grandma not knowing how to protect her family scrubbed their flat, continually. There was nary a rat nor flea ever to be found there. Her children survived, but many others were not so fortunate.
Fascinating! I'm so glad you're writing this. Do you remember your grandmother well? That's a lot of good, iron will your women were handed down in that family. Ahhh, good old alcohol again.
I remember my grandmother's perfectly, skin, her scent, her courage, her strength and her temper! I loved her ver very much. She was the main stability in my life. There has never been a woman such as she was since, in my life.
Once again, you have put us there in the moment! Ahhh yes, the alcohol! A disease that destroys every glimmer of hope for happiness with everyone involved! On to the next Chapter!
You know the written word is strong. I knew it was a factor, but reading this over, and putting it out here, made me realize just how much of an impact alcohol did make. Thank you Betty.
EASY TO BE HARD
Often, there was the question of how, when or where. What matters most is why...
They say there is but five degrees of separation between all of us.
This is my story and observations about growing up under the infamous Hollywood Sign, in the 50's 60' and 70's. This is also a story of my entering the fast lane, and finding that if I wanted to survive, I had to get off it, but... it wasn't that easy.
Paula 
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