Paula
1927 Rodney Drive, was the address of our new home in the Los Feliz area. Located in the middle of the adjacent streets: Vermont, Hillhurst, Finley and Franklin Aves., it was just a stone's throw from the heart of Hollywood. The large white colonial reminded many of it’s admirers of a smaller "Tara" in the 1939 movie, “Gone With The Wind.” One could just imagine an anxious Scarlet O'Hara edging her petticoats through the front door, in a defiant search of her beloved Ashley.
Enormous fir trees stood to the right of the house, with an expansive stretch of lawn that rolled smooth to a wide quiet street. The California palms that lined the curbs of Rodney Dr., were wide and thick on our side of the street, and on the other, they were tall and skinny. Our front porch secured by six columns ran the entire length of the house. Under its veranda, our friends and neighbors gathered to share their stories and troubles. Shaded from the piercing California sun, the porch proved a calming respite. The soft, Jasmine scented, evenings lingered with an air of calmness, despite the turbulence within.
When we first moved in, I ran through every room of the large house. I could not believe all the hiding places. Once inside the large front door, a spacious living room stood to the right. To the left were lovely French doors that opened to a formal dining room, with walls that were papered with and to my horror, huge cabbage-like roses.
“Do I have to sleep in that room?” I asked.
“No, don’t be silly, that is the dining room.” answered my mother. “Isn’t it beautiful? And, I intend on keeping these French doors closed, so we will, at least have one fine room. It will be used only for holidays.”
“Fine, by me.” I thought to myself. My eyes landed on the wooden stairway, straight ahead. The steps were wide, and had a banister of mahogany. Wow! Those’ll be fun to slide on.
“One of the first things that I’m going to do is carpet the whole downstairs and the stairway.” My mother, assessed. “The kids will just have to learn to use these back stairs to the kitchen.”
Hummmm. Things weren’t looking so good. There was a pass way to the right of the main staircase, which led to a small telephone room and a wood-paneled den, that was lined on all walls with shelves and bookcases, save for a massive stone fireplace. Our kitchen was in the shape of a T, and had five doors, one, lead to the dining room, one, to the green breakfast room, where we were to eat every meal and do our homework, also, one at the foot of the back stairs; another, that lead to the rest of the house and last but not least, by any means, was the back door that led to the screened in, back porch; which accommodated the refrigerator and washing machine.
One of my jobs at night, after the dishes were done, was to make the school lunches. This meant going out to the porch for fruits and cold cuts. Screens did not provide much protection from monsters or murderers. I had to gather up my courage and quickly grab the lunch makings and dash back for the kitchen, slamming and locking the door behind me. It really got to be a drag to go through this every night. When it was time to return the food, I'd turn off all the lights, peer out the window of the back door, quietly unlock it and hurl the food back into the fridge. As I’d run back in for safety, I'd hear a deep menacing voice, laughing from the darkness, "Heh, heh, next time. Next, time." In my own defense, I was not the only child with imaginings, about that porch. We all were afraid from time to time, even, my mother.
Upstairs, were four bedrooms and a large screened-in summer room. One of the bedrooms connected to the other by a bathroom, just like at my Grandmothers house.
“This will be perfect for when Grandma spends the night.” said Mom.
“When Grandma comes to sleep over . . . will Mr. Garcia come with her?” I asked.
“No, Mr. Garcia will stay at his own home.” Dad laughed, as he mussed my hair. “This is so new to you kids, but you’ll get used to it.”
And, we did. I was to live in this house for the next fourteen years, and then some. Unfortunately, this beloved landmark of my childhood was sold by my Uncle to aggressive New York developers and demolished in 1971. Now, in its' place, stands a horrendous sparkling apartment complex, with a large banner that reads, "Villa Rodney . . . Now Renting!” The thick palm trees still stand, singed with a circle of black from a furious block fire that happened when I was seven. Those people who remember, look at the growth, measure the years and fondly reminisce about the old days and the homestead that was used as the breeding place for the pods in the horror classic, “The Invasion Of The Body Snatchers.”
