Map Collection History

Retro 2004

                   The Map Collection: a Reason to Believe

 

                           

 

 

              “I have an existential map. It has “you are here” written all over it.”

 

                                                           -Steven Wright 

 

 

      Those who toil in the Technicolor weirdness of Central library subject departments probably hear the same ghastly question I do when our occupation comes up: "why in the hell do you want to work down there?"  That one ranks up there with my Mom’s "don't you ever dust?" for inquiries that set my teeth on edge. True, in my time at Goodhue's masterpiece I have seen more than a carnie barker and heard stranger things than any waterfront bartender or prison shrink. Yet, there is another side to this sideshow.  There must be some reason why I have Bataan death marched past the fire, walked over the hot coals of Spring Street and moved through the dark shadows of LL4 to follow the LIII map quest in History. It would be easy to go mad and join the crowd out in Maguire Gardens after some of what I have seen and smelled but we tread the razor blade between madness and enlightenment while tottering on shaky Central legs. Pour a couple of drinks down any one of us and the truth will come out that despite the goofballs we are actually proud of this place if not this time. You see, down here we have the cooling balm of our collections to soothe away the endless hours of handing out newspapers, emptying trans-logic carts and listening to the genealogical equivalent of “Finnegans Wake.”

     With my fellow staff members disappearing like the dark whiskers in my goatee and porn monkeys crawling all over our computer research stations I ask myself the “what am I doing here?’ question frequently.  I could be writing columns on the great new addition to the Cerritos Towne Center, something with Shoppe in the title or reading "Dinosaur Bob and the Family Lizardo" to little tykes in the boonies but instead I am still in the History department. I am here mainly for two reasons: my mortgage and my love of the map collection. Sure, I share my dungeon with some excellent librarians and nice support staff but maps are cool and don't talk back like genealogists. I apologize in advance for the seemingly egotistical, solipsistic quality of this story. The maps and I have sort of become one in the past fifteen years like Chang and Eng.  A friend once described a similar interchange that went  “well enough talk about me, what do YOU think of me?”

     The Map Collection is something to bust buttons over and it is one hard copy collection that is actually growing and thriving. In the past year we have actually increased our size in Shaq sized leaps, adding many historical foldout maps, several hundred historical topos and sixty volumes of Sanborn Fire Insurance atlases. All of this without spending a penny since all of this largesse came from our public. Like Wynona Ryder we have filled our shopping bag without putting out a red cent.  Try that at Nordstroms.  What is now near 100,000 maps plus a whole lot of other cartographic stuff had fairly humble beginnings. One of the earliest inventories of maps at LAPL was in 1891 where 104 graced the collection. The focus of Los Angeles might have been quite simple, comprised of the original 1849 Ord Survey and a few variations on the four square leagues of the original city.  Before the land booms of the 1880's there wasn't much call for local maps. So few Angelenos inhabited our fair city that mostly you could stand at the plaza and point:" yeah, Mr. Alvarado's place is up on that hill, near Eternity Street just past them sheep up there." Some five years later when the library contained signs that curtly stated "Ladies: this room is for reading purposes, not for conversation" the collection had swelled to almost two thousand.  It was a time of complicated wool outfits worn in summer, before dry cleaning. Can you imagine what a reading room smelled like in those days?

     When the wise ones planned the glittering new library at 5^th and Flower in the 1920’s the early blueprints designated a map room attached to the History department. As Goodhue’s masterpiece opened in 1926 there were some 5,000 maps in several departments. The much-revered Mary Helen Peterson who eventually would have the map room named in her honor was put in charge of gathering up all the cartographic materials and joining them in one tidy place. By the time the library was divided into subject departments in October of 1927 the History department was given the bulk of the collection with Science handling geologic and soil maps. Rumor has it that little Roy Stone used to take breaks from organizing the scrolls in rat alley to shelve maps in the five cases we had at that time. Those cases were World War I vintage and had once contained detailed plans of the European theater of battle. Much later, in 1986 the tough old cases would come in handy.

     When WWII arrived it brought an influx of public need to see cartographic documentation of the theaters of battle and the countries on both the Axis and Allied sides. The addition of the whopping Army Map Service map collections and the status of government depository of these official maps gave rise to a separate map facility in the History department called the Army Map Room. The Map Room was one of those eccentric little cubbyholes in the old building that was both creepy and quaint. It was small, cramped and overflowing with backlogs of all sorts of maps arriving like spam in an AOL account each day. This eccentric little space had a nobly institutional character with a steep ramp downward to the magazine pool, sunlight that cascaded through a pair of smudged windows and drawer upon drawer full of mysterious treasures seen mostly by the staff and a few dogged patrons.  Downstairs, where the Ronald McDonald Children's Charities Southern California Multimedia Center (try to say that after your second margarita!) sits today were large wings or binders containing attached USGS topographic maps of California. Of course, those of Hollywood or Los Angeles were more often in somebody's den since they were frequently torn out for souvenirs of a visit to the Central Library. Some things never change.

     In June of 1949, the first of two map mavens took the reins, as Anne Mueller became librarian in charge of the map room. Miss Mueller was responsible for much growth and conservation of materials while building the Map Room into an important reference source for the West coast. In 1958 Bill Wise was brought in as a library assistant and began a distinguished career preparing, indexing and servicing the collection. The distinctive handwritten notes of Mr. Wise still direct patrons and befuddled librarians to find the answers in a haystack of sizes, shapes and applications. On January 27, 1971 the Army Map Room was officially designated as the Mary Helen Peterson Map Room. Peter, as she was affectionately called by staff held the collection in good stead between puffs on her camel cigarettes for the rest of her fine career in History. However, like most of pre-fire Central the map collection was not easily accessible to the public and the need for a subject specialist in the field gave rise to the position of Map Librarian that was given to Dorothy Mewshaw in 1970. Dorothy, my predecessor was known for her sharp mind, organizational skills and large ubiquitous bags that she hauled. No one knows exactly what was inside those bags but one can assume much of it was about maps and mapping. When Miss Mewshaw handed me the reins she held more map knowledge in her little pinky than I had in my entire head.  She was more than ably assisted by Dennis Alward, the library assistant for the map room who left a legacy of detailed and insightful suggestions on how to use the collection. His profuse notations include how to fold them, how to treat them and how they compared to other sources and editions. The man drank a lot of coffee and loved maps.

     On the terrible, terrible morning of April 29, 1986 arson fire started in the stacks of Fiction, next door to the History department and swept westward through the tinderbox of Central's stacks. The inferno blazed across the magazine pool, passed directly through the upstairs map room and on toward the ultimate obliteration of Science, Social Science and the Patents room. When hundreds of broken hearted library staff waded in the dingy water the next day Dorothy darted up the stairs to find the Mary Helen Peterson map room pretty much intact. By the miracle of the robust WWI cases most of the collection was unscathed, save a few smoke stains. One exception was the irreplaceable roller maps which were scorched in the closed stacks of History near the 92 N's that went to book heaven, followed by oceans of the saving waters of LAFD fire hoses. Maps that were as large as a wall went down to the arsonist's evil but many were saved. Without hesitation, Dorothy Mewshaw and her now intrepid assistant Roselynn Lee started to ensure the safety of the collection with an inventory upstairs and downstairs. Dorothy treated each one with the delicacy of a nurse in the maternity ward.  Like the rest of the gold in Central the old friends took a holiday for several years but one fine day in 1988 they came back home and were unloaded hand over hand by the crack movers of Crest. Maybe it was the crack-smoking movers. Seems they weren't too familiar with the concept of filing and hand over hand meant an entire collection was now snug in drawers like a tossed salad. Luckily Frank Louck was in the house and the History department hall of famer meticulously put the piles back in order, drawer by drawer by drawer by... Frank was a patient man; after all, he supervised me for twenty odd years.

      When the library finally opened their doors on Spring Street the maps were placed in a public area on the second floor.  This set up problems never before seen by the collection that had been protected like a Jewish grandchild. The rowdy chess games that raged on the border of Art and History often involved the use of topo maps as sketch sheets, place mats for illegal lunches and even impromptu megaphones for one group of library delinquents. In these uncertain and confusing times Dorothy Mewshaw saw it through to 433 Spring and decided to go no further. Like Roberto Duran before her she dropped her gloves and said “no mas!” So, in a fierce battle for the  “Subject Specialist in Maps” job I was chosen to carry on the torch that had been so nobly gripped by the likes of Anne Mueller, Mary Helen Peterson, Bill Wise, Dorothy Mewshaw, Dennis Alward and Roseleynn Lee.  Competition was stiff, I was the only applicant, they gave me the job and was ridden through the streets in triumph by my friend Teresa. I could recount how I was not a map person, knew next to nothing about the science of cartography and was only in it for the money but you can read all that on my tiny slice of a buddy's website at http://www.garbell.com/creas/creason-smile-und-Sp99.html   In a nutshell, I was a freshly hatched egg and I had to take each and every map from the drawers and find out what it did and why it was here at Central. It took me several years to scratch the surface and during that time I fell deep in love with pictorial maps. That has little to do with this article except that this love finally was consummated by an exhibit at Central library and an article in the Mercator's World magazine: September/October 1999. For fifteen seconds my map collection was famous and appeared in two newspapers, one radio program, Los Angeles magazine’s to do list and the WAML Bulletin (the Western Association of Map Librarians.) This also meant I was photographed in my Harry Potter-like round spectacles, a holdover from the 1980's. My daughter has never let me forget that.  Despite my many entreaties to Toria and LAPL bigwigs to have another exhibit of my maps my career seems to be as dead as Millie Vanilli's. I can't even get on the card at Branson, Mo.

     Anyone who wants a tale of the map collection in a succinct fashion can always look at http://www.lapl.org/guides/map_coll.html but that really doesn’t tell you how these letters on the screen can help in answering reference questions or helping students gain some understanding of history. We have about 100,000 maps now, the bulk of which are United States Geological Survey topographic maps of the entire country. They typically cover about 64 square miles per quadrangle and show the physical features of the landscape. The library keeps all USGS maps on California even after they are made obsolete by newer editions. Older topo maps for California are placed in a precious historical file. Discarded maps of other states are used to wrap my Christmas presents each year.

     There are nautical charts of both domestic and international shores. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration creates the ones of say Santa Monica bay and the Defense Mapping Agency would get you the coastline of any country you wanted to invade since they had weapons of mass destruction or something like that. In the same vain we also have aeronautical charts for air lanes across the globe and as close as the horrors of LAX. Of note and frequent use is the Army Map Service map collection that pretty much got LAPL's map room on the map. These dandies from the late 30's and 40's are detailed topographical looks at places that no longer exist in the case of bombed out Europe and are favored by genealogists trying to find Uncle Heinrich's birthplace and historians trying to determine just who ruled Danzig when. In the new and improved drawers you will find other curiosities and useful cartography including detailed maps of the Vietnam war, maps of the U.S -Mexican border, maps of the United Kingdom, Canada and even Antarctica. Once, I found chicken bones and a Penthouse magazine in the atlas cases.

     For local history, Central has an impressive map archive that can even be considered fun stuff at dinner parties. Here you will learn what charming name your neighborhood had back in the old days. It might be Zelzah or Garvanza or one of my favorites: Mesmer. You can see where the streetcars ran, follow the Zanja Madre through the Pueblo or even discover exactly where those good time houses were in old Chinatown. There is a fine copy of the copy of the Ord Survey of 1849 that Colonel Ord marched over the saw grass of the old town to measure and a roller map of East L.A. that even City Hall's sacred map vault did not own. There are maps of California when it was thought of as an island, atlases showing the immigrants best trails westward post potato famine and auto club foldouts and street guides taking us back to before Central stood at 630 W. 5th street. H.H. Stevenson made a fascinating color plat map which shows the owners of the tracts around downtown done in 1888 which is astounding in its detail and Hansen's county-wide from the 1870's shows plainly how the city began as a block at the Plaza and then tilted at Hoover and became a grid. Another dear treasure is a minutely rendered Birdseye map of the city done in 1909. Every building from the courthouse to that so called University down by the Sizzler sits in relief.

    Probably the most rewarding of all resources are the Sanborn Fire Insurance atlases that show us neighborhoods in great detail as far back as 1888. One of the many wonders of Sanborn research is the old-fashioned serendipity of discovering what was in a hood at a time lost from personal memory. The irony of the site of Central library once being inhabited by “the Normal School” never ceases to amuse me. When Historic Resources Group gave a gift of some sixty volumes of these beauties to the collection this Summer it gave new meaning to urban discovery. Seeing the familiar volumes covering places like Hollywood, Glendale, Venice and even my own Glassell Park in living color with little patches of pasted over corrections on the sheets makes history come alive. Patrons who labor under the hallucination that somewhere there is a history of every house on planet earth might even be astounded to see their dear little craftsman actually on the map right next to the tuberculosis hospital or a school for wayward girls. It further amazes me to encounter the occasional Silverlake hipster-historian who views the 1950’s in L.A. as if it were a time when saber toothed tigers roamed wild and wooly mammoths thudded down Figueroa.

     The map collection is not just a bunch of paper stuffed in musty old drawers. It is a living and breathing resource that can give insight, answer mysteries and explain the path of this ramshackle city some 200 plus years after the fundadores picked a cozy place near the Porciuncula River. It is detailed Gillespie, Renie and Thomas brother's street guides to the county going back to 1925. These dandies will show you stuff like the location of Wrigley Field where the PCL Angels played or Queen of Angels hospital where millions of Angelenos first saw the world. They contain not expected answers to phone exchanges, early postal codes, pre-freeway neighborhoods and the dreaded street railway questions. LO-67773, yeah that was my phone number back when those mastodons roamed. There is also the incredible microform set of Historic Maps of Los Angeles that reach back to the mid-nineteenth century and provide printable maps of everything from lovers lane in 1871 to the Payne map of downtown done in 1931 showing each and every building including the cool Hamburgers Department store. Want to trip the light of memory fantastic? You can pick up the Nirenstein atlas from those far away 50’s that gives a plat map and aerial photo of prime retail streets on the west coast including Broadway, Hollywood boulevard and North Hollywood’s Lankersheim.

     This could go on and on like the thousands of sheets of history held in these atlases and map sets but I really should return to the original thesis. You can explain it all in intellectual terms but the reward of the struggle is evident in one little story. Once upon a time I went drawer by drawer looking at each and every map we owned. Things like the pictorials broke up the boredom and others claimed a spot of fascination in my imagination. All of this scrutiny paid off one sleepy Tuesday afternoon in the mid-90’s.  A dapper Chinese gentleman asked if we might have a map of Shanghai before the Japanese occupation. A little spark fired back in the vestiges of my brain and five minutes later I spread out a glorious map done of the old city in 1934. The man’s face literally glowed as he bent to inspect this rare thing, so long forgotten in the drawers. I returned to mundane tasks for a few minutes and returned to find my patron with tears streaming down his face. This humble sheet of paper, filled with symbols of a city seventy years lost unlocked some sweet memories, sweet enough to bring him back to his childhood and the joy he knew in Shanghai once. He held my gaze and shook my hand with vigor unexpected from a gent of his years. He thanked me, he blest me, he explained about losing his sister in the war. This “A new directory map of Shanghai” by Chia-yung Soo took him once again to the streets he had shared with that sister, to places of joy and innocence.  The ghastly “why do you work down there” question was answered for me in the gratitude of this gentleman. What he took from our library was dear to his heart, dear indeed to all people everywhere. 

The Things He Handed Down retro 2006

 

The Things He Handed Down

 

     Once a year the greeting card folks make a buck on a jejune holiday dubbed father’s day.  Compared to the Super Bowl of parental celebrations: Mother’s Day this one goes off like a preseason semi-pro game in Keokuk.   A few lucky Dads will get breakfast in bed or a trip to the IHOP but for the most part this day is only a period of nods of approval and allowances for Pop’s annoying idiosyncrasies. In television and film most Dads are portrayed as hapless oafs who need close supervision or they will burn the house down making toast.  Then again, many of my male role models could not make toast without a spouse’s intervention.

     Yet, as I look back over the mists of the twentieth century I begin to understand some of my own father’s influence. I inherited many a trait better left behind but I still pull a boxcar full of his best stuff. I snore like a beast, do too much sport eating, like wine a tad too much and have a temper best suited to professional wrestlers and Jack Nicholson roles. I also am butter soft around the heart, a sucker for girl’s tears and furry creatures. Maybe I love my Dad more now because we saw his big ship steam off into the sunset back in 1992, leaving all of us in the leaky dingy of our own adulthood. Life hasn’t been quite as easy or fun since.

     The current culture is cancerous with lousy, non-participant fathers, those selfish bums who procreate and vanish. In my opinion, this sickness is responsible for a country-full of social ills and degradation of morals and manners that lie in the laps of these absentee cowards.  It’s not the TV, the celebrities or the Internet that breeds criminals, cheaters, gangsters, SUV bullies, cell-phone boors and hooligans. Fathers are the foundation on which responsible living is built; their roles cannot be underestimated. Those of us who have lifted up our kids to see the monkeys at the zoo or got a squishy hug from our own know just what these no-show fools have missed.

    With that seriousness in mind I reflect on my own Dad, with his copious flaws and depression-era values that drove us crazy for a half century.  Despite his occasional meltdown with neck tendons tightening and forehead veins showing he imparted many a balance to the hard world we often encountered over our lifetimes. What he gave us continues to grow in importance, growing like an old garden full of fragrance and loamy goodness. These include a love for musical theater, which was cemented by repeated visits to the Biltmore Theater and “Fiorella,” “My Fair Lady,” “Bye Bye Birdie,” “The Sound of Music” and even the terrors of “Hello Dolly.”  To this day, my totally tone-deaf brother can take a whack at  “Poor Professor Higgins” because of those magical moments out in the audience.  Imagine the thrill for kids raised in front of the five-inch screen black and white television to see an entire stage full of beautifully costumed singers belting out  “Climb Every Mountain.” Because of him we love music and theater and arts they never knew existed back when the Biltmore shone that original light on our little souls.

     The Old Man, as we never called him to his face was also a generous and wise soul who parted with his money easily in the face of a sad story. The lesson was that money and keeping it is never as important as sharing your good fortune. Today, as millionaires proliferate and charitable donations dwindle I often hearken back to my Dad’s modest holdings and copious donations to everybody from broke ex-pugs to the crippled children’s Rams-Redskins charity game. We didn’t have to know Barney the purple dinosaur to visualize sharing; it was part of our lives. We don’t have much but it has never killed us to part with it either.

     While my Dad wasn’t educated past Huntington Park High School he could tell a story when he felt like it and left behind some pretty good epics. He also pronounced chile relleno like “rell-lenno” but could take you to a great restaurant in any city within one hundred miles. He had a homespun, direct approach to communication and gave me the greatest compliment ever by telling me I was the pick of the litter when it came to creativity in the family. Since he loved dogs beyond anything reasonable in this world this had a depth of feeling that lasts.

     Lastly, he taught my brother and sisters and I about responsibility despite his angling to get the most out of life and his loose interpretations of the rules sometimes. When I bragged about hoodwinking a high school teacher to avoid some character-building work he forced me to get on a bicycle, peddle four miles and admit my mendacity to the same teacher. That wronged teacher, Mr. Heideman, mercifully accepted my apology and then sentenced me to three hours, hard labor on a precious Saturday. The character building was only postponed, and then reinstated by the Patriarch.  Our childhoods, seemingly over in several sweet heartbeats were filled with this influence of morality that sometimes gets lost today in the flood of electronic hyper stimulation.  Today I look back at my Fathers days and long to tell the old guy I finally understand what he meant, even if he did pronounce relleno all wrong. There is a song that says it too:

  

”You may not always be so grateful
For the way that you were made
Some feature of your father’s
That you’d gladly sell or trade

And one day you may look at us
And say that you were cursed
But over time that line has been
Extremely well rehearsed

By our fathers, and their fathers
In some old and distant town
From places no one here remembers
Come the things we’ve handed down”

 

Glengarry History department 1996

 retro 1996

Monday morning- History and Genealogy, Social Science Philosophy and Religion workroom. Bob Timmermann paces about as Glen Creason, Michael Kirley, Glenna Dunning and Carolyn Cole straggle in. They are waiting for Cynthia McNaughton but Timmermann grows impatient. He speaks to Linda Moussa:

Bob: “Well, I’m going anyway. Let’s talk about something important. PUT THAT COFFEE DOWN. Coffee’s for closers ONLY! You think I am fucking with you? I am not fucking with you. I’m here from the fourth floor. I’m here from Cecilia and Anne. I am here on a mission of mercy!

Bob: “Your name’s Creason?”

GC: Yeah

Bob: You call yourself a librarian you son of a bitch?

GC: I don’t have to listen to this shit.

Bob: “You certainly don’t pal. Cause the good news is that you are fired. The bad news is: you’ve got, all of you’ve got just one week to regain your jobs. Starting with today, starting with today’s reference desk.

Bob: Oh, have I got your attention now? Good, cause we’re adding a little something to this months reference contest. As you know, first prize is a happy donut. Anybody want to see second prize? Second prize is a sour ball from Cheryl’s desk. Third prize is you work desks with David Brenner.

Bob: Do you get the picture? You laughing now? You’ve got the desk tools,  Susan and Cecilia paid good money. Get their questions and answer them. You can’t give them full text, you can’t  find census EDs, you can’t find Sanborns, you can’t find shit. You are shit! So hit the bricks pal and beat it because you are going out!

GC: “the online periodicals are week.

Bob: The online periodicals are weak? The proquest is fucking weak? You’re weak! I’ve been in this business ten years.

MK What’s your name?

Bob: Fuck You! That’s my name. You know why baldy? Cause you drove a Ford Probe to get here today. I drove a Toyota Camry. THAT’S my name!

Bob: (turns and points to Creason) And your name is you’re wanting. If you can’t play in the man’s game , you can’t remember the details, you go home and tell your cats your troubles. Because one thing counts in this life: get them to leave the department. You hear me you fucking faggots?

Bob: (at the blackboard) A, B, E…Always…Be…Evasive  A, I, D, A…Attention, Interest, Decision, Action! Do I have your attention? Interest: are you interested in hard copy? I know you are because it is fuck or walk. You close questions or you hit the bricks. Decision, have you made your decision for Christ? And action like the ALA.
Bob: Get out there. You got the genealogists and internet bums coming in. You think they came in to get out of rain? A guy don’t walk in the reading room lest he wants to inquireMK: you're such a hero, you're an acting senior. How come you come down to LL4 and waste your time with such a bunch of bums?

Bob: You see this Nakamura bobblehead doll?

MK: yeah

Bob: That doll cost more than your pink plastic tote bag. I made $50 a game on stringing last year. How much did you make? You see pal, that's who I am and you are nothing. Fussy guy? I don't give a shit. Good pet owner, fuck you, go home and play with your cats.  

You want to work here, close questions. (walks over to Glenna) You think this is abuse? You SPNB-ite. You can't take this, how you going to take the abuse you get on a desk. You don't like it? Go work in Soc or Infonow.

I can go out there right now, the desk tools you got, and answer like twelve gen or map questions in one shift. Can you? Can you? Go and do likewise. A I D A Get mad you sons of bitches, get mad!

You know what it takes to work reference desks? It takes brass balls to hand out newspapers and empty trans-logic carts. The nuts are out there, waiting to give you their psychotic rambling. I've got no sympathy for you. Antlers, Evil, Frevele, the Genealogy bum, the chairman! You want to go out on those desks today and close questions, close, it's yours. If not, you're going to be ironing my shirts. And you know what you will be saying, a bunch of losers sitting around McCormicks: "oh...I used to be an reference librarian...it's a tough racket."

    These are the new databases. The Glengarry databases. And to you they are gold and you don't get them. Because giving you access would be just throwing them away. They are for closers. I'd wish you good luck but you wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it.

(Walks back to MK to get his Nakamura bobblehead) And to answer your question about why I am here. I came here because Anne and Cecilia asked me for a favor. I said the real favor, follow my advice and tranfer all these losers to Ascot branch because a loser is a loser.

My Friend Teresa

 retro 2000

                        “My Friend Teresa”
 
                                                
 
 
“If I could forget to breathe
It's happened down through history
And surely I could lose my head
Some night I could drink too much
And take it off and just forget
And I will learn all languages
I will speak in every tongue
From highnesses to savages
And to all beneath the sun
 
Someday I will paint the sky
I will build a ladder, make a roller
That could reach that high
 
And nothing that I do will pass
Everything I will and make and feel
And dream and know will last
 
I will rid the world of sorrow
Stop all wars and pain
I will tell you of tomorrow
As I rule the wind and rain
 
I can do it all it's true
But only when I've done all that
Oh will I turn away from you
Only when I've done all that
Oh will I turn away from you
 
“If I Could Forget to Breath” by John Gorka
 

     The last time I saw my friend Teresa I went home and piled up my photo

 albums and I took a trip through the past thirteen years. That was the short,

 happy stretch of years in which I made the acquaintance and then achieved the

  lasting friendship of this rare and wonderful woman. There she is at the

 circulation desk in her pink triangle t-shirt. There loveseat lounging at my

 Christmas party.  There at a long-ago birthday in rainy Pasadena.  There

 dancing a graceful meringue with Beatriz.  There tearing into a Dodger dog at

 the Opening day of the baseball season.  There hugging my little daughter. There she is; forever young, forever beautiful, forever full of life. It is no coincidence that she seems to be at the center, in the middle and

 always, always lighting up the frame with her resplendent smile. It wasn’t

 because someone had just said “say cheese!,” she just loved being around her friends. Hers wasn’t just a smile, it was a

 supernova! She had a joy , a robust, positive attitude that was a tonic for

 everyone around her. When I say “my friend Teresa” I do so with a pride and

 love that is unbounded by mere words. When I say “my friend Teresa” I feel

 the joy of her presence in my life again, a presence that has enriched me and

 my family immeasurably over these past thirteen years. Teresa wasn’t just a

 person you got to know and forgot, if you knew her, truly knew her, you would

 love her and never want to let her go.

      It seems like yesterday when I went to visit her and her partner Eva and we fed Mr. Bunny milano cookies together. It seems like yesterday that we traveled to Chicago for a Wrigley field holiday. She was fearless, she brought adventure to my days, she took me places I never would have been: like next to Vin Scully in the most precious photo in my collection or amongst 300 sweaty, dancing women in Chi-town’s biggest gay bar. Even when we had standing room tickets to a Cubs game she exhibited that uncanny charisma and “gaydar” as she spotted a “sister” who then seated us in the midst of forty-plus members of a gay tennis club. It wasn’t so bad that I was the only heterosexual but it was that I was a Dodger fan. That night I saw my dear Teresa on the dance floor celebrating another Cub loss in her real natural habitat: in the middle of the action, dancing joyfully, gracefully, admired and desired. To tell the truth, she was ham but a very delicious one who didn’t shrink from the spotlight or shy away from a soapbox.   After all it was the call of fame and fortune that brought her out to California to be movie star when she was the nineteen year old “Terry Manning.”  Who can forget her brilliant turn as a sultry garment worker in the cult classic “Dead Women in Lingerie.”  It also seems like yesterday that I looked across the dusty softball diamond  at my teammate Teresa; pitching, hitting and holding our team together. She was as good an athlete as she was a person, in softball parlance she was “nails”. Playing with her was so much fun it truly made winning totally unimportant.

      My friend Teresa was without airs, she was simple and good-natured, most

 definitely childlike in her gentility and wonder at the world. She took

 delight in things like “Cantinflas,” or Garfield the  cartoon cat and she used to laugh with me as

 we repeated dialogue from her favorite movie “E.T.”  She would point at her

 forehead and imitate the little alien and say “I’ll Be Right here,” or

 “telefono a casa.” I think that is why I loved being around Teresa,   because

 she was so playful and honest. She had a big appetite for life. She had a big

 appetite for food too but mainly she was never afraid to throw back her head

 and laugh or take to the dance floor and break a sweat. She took chances, she

 stood up for what she believed and she was unafraid of ignorance and

 dishonesty.  I don’t know anybody in my twenty years at LAPL that made more true friends than she did in the relatively short time she had with us. All you had to do was hear her laugh and you were ready to join the club.  Mostly  it was just cool to hang out with her.  When the word got out that Teresa was ailing people lined up to see her and give her best wishes. Some friends stood particularly tall like Henry Garland or the wonderful Eva Cox whose boundless big heart was Teresa’s rock through the best and worst of times. I write the words here but they traveled the hard road with Teresa.

     While she was an unbelievably hard worker in the library she never let the job get in the way of fun.  Unbeknownst to our supervisor at West

 LA branch we used to play old fashioned “burnout” in the workroom on busy

 Saturdays when the patron’s were driving us crazy. Burnout, for those who

 didn’t grow up on a playground is throwing a baseball as hard as you can back

 and forth from about thirty-feet until one players hand gives out. Just as it was to the very end of

 her life, Teresa never quit. It was my hand that gave out first.

            We knew her mostly in the library where she was prompt,  loyal and hard-working, almost to a fault. She could be a tough boss who expected as much as she gave which wasn’t always easy for most of us. When we were shelving books after the move to Spring street I found out that if you wanted to keep up with Teresa you had to have a hearty breakfast and lots of coffee. If you didn’t do the job, she told you so and more than once she corrected my attitude. There was something in her directness that made it ok and spurred you on. Yet, I bless  the library because it is where I met Teresa, first at West LA where my confidence was shaken by my best flirtation gaining no effect. Later, as we put Federico Garcia Lorca  on the Literature shelves  pre-Spring street,  she “came out” to me, much to my relief. Actually Teresa and I turned out to have some things in common: a love of cats, baseball, music, and latin women. It was about that time that we took in the new girl named Linda DeLaPena to our circle and an unholy triumvirate was formed. For almost ten years the three of us took breaks, lunches and  occasional “civilian” moments together,  We made an unlikely team of an old white boy, a Puerto Rican lesbian and a tattooed Chicana. It wasn’t all like an episode of “Friends” either, as we got so close we fought like a family; broke up, refused to speak to one another, exchanged  hurt letters but always made up in the end and were better friends for it. When Teresa and I stood up as godparents for Linda’s daughter Alicia it was almost as if we were blood. We, all three, ditched work one crisp February day and climbed to the top of Will Rogers park where we carved our initials into an old bench and gazed out across the coastline toward Catalina. I stood looking out and thinking how lucky I was to have friends like these. Yes, indeed.  Once I was called into my supervisor’s office and was told that I should “cool” my “romance” with Teresa and I was forced to explain to him what that “Peppermint Patty” meant on her T-shirt.  I could literally go on for days about how much fun I had with Teresa and I will eventually, in installments. As long as I have breath I’ll continue singing the praises and telling the tale of the too short life of my dear friend .

            Yet, there was another Teresa, beyond my little world, there was a powerful woman, a role model, a leader and a brave soul. As Billie Connor said to me “Teresa was a very important person for all of us.” When she came out she came out smoking and met homophobia head on. She helped form the library’s  first gay and lesbian organization (GLUE)  and stood tall in the fight against the bigotry endorsed by library administration in the Langston Hughes controversy. She wrote an essay of such power and conviction for the Communicator that it was later chosen for inclusion into an anthology of library literature. Eventually, through the efforts of Teresa and other strong gay  workers, the library actually adopted Gay and Lesbian month, the first such accomplishment in city history. She was at every gay pride parade, at demonstrations shaking her finger at Pete Wilson and chanting “shame, shame, shame! She was there, under the rainbow flag offering support to her fellow Latina Lesbians and providing young women an inspirational model of pride and dignity. She even had me marching one day down Broadway beneath a banner that read “We’re Here, We’re Queer, Get Used to It!” Wherever and whenever there was a battle to be fought against homophobia she was there to put down her comfortably-shoed size 10. Eventually she allowed me to see that the “lifestyle” was not something strange and mysterious but a life that was completely fulfilling and as normal as a Norman Rockwell painting.  Teresa  showed us on a day to day basis what true love was all about with her relationship with Beatriz. This was a true love story, an honest to goodness fairy tale that had no knight on a white horse but a Puerta Ricana in a gray pickup truck. Certainly, one of the most precious gifts from Teresa was the introduction to her wonderful life partner. They were a perfect match, Beatriz, the adorable and intelligent counterpoint to Teresa’s exhuberant and earthy charm. They had a magic together that will last forever. Thanks to Teresa and her friends,  my daughter will never suffer from the terrible disease of homophobia, it just could never occur to her to think ill of someone like Teresa. She was the kind of woman I want my daughter to grow up to be like. I can think of no higher compliment

 

 

I hope that wherever Teresa’s spirit is right now she is happy and free

 of the corporeal burden of the last year. I hope it is a place where she can

 dance to hot salsa music, play catch with her brother Jose, listen to

 Streisand records, stretch out with a cat like Big George and most

 importantly I hope it is a place where they have WGN and the Cubs win every

 single game. Wherever she goes it will be a better place for her coming and I

 am also sure that within a week she will be bossing the angels around and

 organizing a softball game. To say I will miss Teresa is the greatest

 understatement  of all time.  Going forward without her will leave a great

 void of love, joy and friendship approximately the size of the grand canyon

 in my heart.  How sweet, how passing sweet were these past lucky thirteen years.

 I am going to hold on tight to those photographs and keep these memories close. The pictures in my album of

 that lithesome, beautiful  forever young woman with the luxurious curls and

 dark joyful eyes will never fade and neither will my love for my dear friend.

 Again I’ll say to my dear Teresa, like her favorite little alien E.T. as

 I point at my heart “you’ll be right here.”

 

     What I find impossible to say but can only type is  her last words to me

 on earth.  As they put her in the car to take her home that last Saturday

 night. I had whispered in her ear as I kissed her cheek and she said "I love

 you too."  How could I ask for more. It was all too short but it was very

 sweet.

 

 

                                            

2003 LA MAG GALA

 Retro stuff   2003

She Said I am the glamorous type. I said “SO WHAT!”

     -Stanley Kowalski in  A Streetcar Named Desire

 

    I thought I knew what it was like to be invisible when I last visited a college campus. A Middle-Aged man strolling past co-eds apparently does not register on the girl radar. The Oji-san smell (Japanese term for men over 45) and bland autumn colored wardrobe sort of make the man like shrubbery for recognizability. Anyway, the point here is that I fielded a question from Los Angeles Magazine bounced my way a month or two ago about an unsung, great book about Los Angeles. Being a map guy, I immediately thought of W.W. Robinson’s Maps of Los Angeles. As I told the editor at LA Yupazine this amazing little book of maps does more to trace the early physical development of the city than all the words in 979.41 l881 section. Somehow, because of a lack of time and other resources or someone at the magazine who actually read books they chose my selection. Thus, after layers of administrators demurred  attending a “gala reception” at the Peterson Automotive Museum in Beverly Hills I was chosen to represent the library.

     Imagine arriving at a true palace of automobile art in a 1992 Toyota Corolla with no side mirrors, 233,000 miles on the odometer and more dents than Charles Bukowki’s face. I knew I was in for it when I saw the parking valets were perky babes in hot pants, neckerchiefs and hairdos. They, known as “the Valet of the Dolls” bounced around the Beemers, Escalades, Range Rovers, Maseratis and such while my tired ride sputtered to a noisy stop out on Fairfax. Approaching the “welcome table” I saw yet three more products of the beauticians arts. Unfortunately, neither my name nor institution could be found on the guest list while I stood sweating like a gate crasher at Studio 54. Finally, they did find something under Richard Riordan Library. I squelched the desire to inform them of our nickname for that phony moniker: “the Big Dick” and humbly accepted a blank label because they didn’t seem to have the printed one. Like the official printed one that every single other person in the building was wearing. It was also at this time that I noticed that everyone else appeared to have paid some designer to dress him or her in the latest Sex and the City designer clothes. That might mean a many thousand-dollar Armani suit or some really sweat producing poly blend disco shirt over toreador pants. Most of the women had exposed tiny waists and hair on men’s heads was definitely out of style. Since when did baldness become the dominant gene? I also saw a resurrection of the little boys coiffures of my 1950’s youth. For gay men, the current beau monde of hair is this grown out crew cut with some kind of butch wax holding the hedge up in front. I think this came from Will and Grace but I have never seen Will and Grace except on a stalled airplane in the Pittsburgh airport.

     I digress.  After being handed a blank nametag and not being able to see well in the muted light I pressed forward with a hand-lettered ID that read LA Public Libr (the label ended and the border began without a line of demarcation.)

I confess that the cars were spectacular and as I strolled I made obligatory eye contact and nodded several times to no response to the other “revelers.” After all, not all of these people were glitterati and some were even shopkeepers, bakers, ice cream scoopers or (shudder) even a library administrator from Cerritos PL.   Being a rather inept icebreaker but decent schmoozer I looked for an opening to attach myself to anybody willing to listen to the desperate ramblings of a liberrian. There were no takers. I found no eye contact, no shared pleasantries, no winks or come-hither looks. In short, I was HG Wells’ invisible dude except I was wearing a short sleeve shirt instead of wrapped gauze. By the time we were herded up to the reception area I had bounced my goofy smile off at least twenty stony-faced people. As I stood drooling at a shiny Cord automobile my stammered “to think I came here in a 92 Corolla!” whizzed over the head of a big-haired beauty whose nametag screamed “best club booker.” Considering this woman was a trendoid twenty-something who spent her hours arranging all-night wing dings at places like Spaceland the pairing with a 50-something librarian seemed perfect but her response was something like “yeah, fabulous cars!”

     The coup d’ grace took place after I migrated with the herd to a large hall filled with the golden 101 where small cocktail lounge tables dotted the floor. I took to one and set down my complimentary magazine and a glass of two buck Chuck (Charles Shaw Cab $1.99 at Trader Joes). There I read of gay rodeos, posh handbags, deejay Jun, perfumes, reptiles and my dignified, scholarly book astoundingly described as “Barns and opium joints pepper W.W. Robinson’s Maps of LA…bla bla bla. Just as I reeled from this dissing of dear Mr. Robinson’s life work I spied a trio of glitties heading my way. The man in the suit that cost way more than my car asked if they might join me and I accepted them as my own. I searched in panic for a nice “best” but I saw the words Neiman Marcus. That was enough for a man whose wardrobe hails mostly from Value Village and Territory Ahead sample sales. It was the NEIMAN MARCUS SHOE DEPARTMENT!!! Since I am a little weak on my Flower-painted Badgley Mischka mules or bejeweled Dolce Gabbiana boots with grommets I merely brought up the corners of my grimace while they chatted about cash business and marvelous sense of style. The trio was lead by an unctious Britisher who rang like a cash register when he saw money. The young porcelain doll-faced woman of the three looked at my crudely lettered badge, saw the word library (no doubt) and I was then treated as if I was dusted with Anthrax powder. They spoke not to the form across from them, chatted vacuously about almost exclusively business, sales, marketing, high style and fashion. Only brightening  when the two owners of the most fabulous gay bar (not that there is anything wrong with that) in town floated toward our ghetto of library Oji-san. The owners of  the Abbey squealed with delight at seeing these queens of footwear and I instantly became as welcome as a turd in the punchbowl. When they returned from the champagne fount they gazed at me with rolling eyes and said “ooh , there just doesn’t seem to be any room!” I bolted with uncharacteristic quickness away from this cabal of stylishness and wandered, dazed into the bullring of bull ca ca. It felt something like a scene from a Fellini movie with me as the wounded, bleeding animal. I set down my wine glass, turned heel and took off for the exit like I was being chased by a pack of Canary Island cattle dogs. When I reached my miserable Corolla and jumped inside to the smell of loamy floorboard flotsam and dirty sweat socks it met my nostrils like a perfume of Sarah Horowitz-Thran’s custom “best” parfumerie. I needed TV, I needed baseball, I needed real people. I needed to get the hell out of LA Magazine.

 

  

A Greg Story

     

     I would like to begin by repeating one of my favorite stories from Sheehy lore. It involves a teenage Greg being lectured by his depression generation father who was hammering him on the necessity of hard work and sacrifice. The wise fifteen-year-old Greg lowered his eyelids like Ricky Nelson and told his Dad  “I’ll find an easy way.”  Imagine if you will, the face of the old,  World War II vet and man who got up a 4 am to go to work when he heard those words. Looking back from this sad day, however, I think the kid may have been right. Or maybe it was just that Greg made it look easy. However, as a song he liked says.

“All good things have  got to come to an end.

All good times, all good friends

All good things have  got to come to an end.”

      Going forward without Greg seems impossible to me since he has been my treasured friend literally since I was embraced by the Sheehy family in South Gate more than seventy years ago. Remember that the bond between our two families was forged before either of us were born. My Dad was Greg’s godfather and Greg’s Dad was my much-loved mentor. I loved him like a brother. This bond knew no boundary, it followed from Annetta,  to McNerney, Seminole, Midvale, San Francisco, Veteran and Ohio, Palm Desert, Church lane, Club Virginia, Lemon Grove, the Dump house, Tremaine, Holly Knoll, Dillon, Lavell drive and finally to Francis avenue. We also had special places away from home in section C of the coliseum, sitting in Lawry’s cozy booths listening to Christmas carols, annually gathering as a dozen fans in the reserves at Dodger stadium, on Orchestra east at Disney Hall or playing ball on dusty old diamond 2 at South Gate park. We both loved Downtown and one of his favorite gigs was delivering flowers for his Uncle Johnny Tassano for the Athletic Club Flower shop. Even when he wasn’t working he did ride-a longs with Cousin Kevin. The man loved LA with no apologies.

     Greg was a superb storyteller; about half of my best ones, I stole from him. The great part of his gift was his appreciation of the small moments in life that make it delightful. The heroes of his stories were not actors or athletes, but they might be a sincere panhandler, his elderly aunt, the guy  next to him at a ballpark urinal or his black sheep Uncle Al. What people might think was mundane Greg made wonderful in the way he described an experience. That might include the way another Uncle tamped a lucky strike on his thumbnail or how a retired professor from Metcalf Road described the birth of Loon chicks with big vodka tears in his eyes. My dear friend had the soul of an artist. In another life he could have been an actor in Summer stock or a cast member with a solid baritone in any musical. He had an uncanny knack for remembering dialogue and he could recite the entire “Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allen Poe word for word. Not only word for word but in the exact recreation of Basil Rathbone’s version we listened to  on records borrowed from the library. He had fine voice that was used to belt out the best of Rogers and Hammerstein without flubbing a line. He just adored Dick and Oscar. He often prophetically crooned the last stanzas from Carrousel “Walk on, walk on/ With hope in your heart/ And you'll never walk alone.”  

     No one could imitate the unique speech patterns of my Dad or describe the idiosyncrasies of his own father with affection like this good son. The deepest and most sad part of his early departure is the loss of a treasury of wit and knowledge possessed by this extraordinary teller of tales. But…“We’re all immortal, as long as our stories are told.”  Despite his earthy demeanor he was a cultured and sophisticated gentleman who knew all about literature, music, and the theater. Yet, he also knew how to curse like his father at the failures of his heroes on the gridiron or diamond. More than anything he was the best friend you could ever have, and all here knew his warmth and generosity. He was not always warm about the rest of the world and was astoundingly critical of the Little League world series, Quentin Tarantino, other drivers, Father Gregory Boyle, Fathers and Mother’s Day and the hot mustard at Phillippe’s. He was not an animal guy except one best pup named Clairie who won him over.

Greg was a perfect match with Lissy. The luckiest day of his life was a forlorn Saturday when he decided to go to MOCA and found the love of his life. They both hit the jackpot in a gallery full of fine art. After a casual courtship they swore to share their lives for “better or for worse” and up  until the last year it was better and better. Lissy completed the man. If it were up to him he probably would have sat in his chair drinking red wine and watching PBS forever, but she got him up and visiting museums, attending concerts at Disney Hall, going to an occasional movie, playing golf, and travelling on airplanes like most people run to the market. He also did go to the market, Vons that is. He was a very skilled cook and was as good as it gets at roasting and carving meats and making mashed potatoes. Vegetables…not so much. He took great pride in his grilling skills and provided many a fine barbecue on the beautiful patio at Francis. He made a glorious potato salad in the tradition of his Mom. The secret was plenty of mayo. His medium rare rib-eyes were legend at the Opening Day post-game feast. He never ate dessert, preferring to get his sugar from whiskey I guess but boxes of See’s candy were often seen around the house. Lissy would give advice and he would plow ahead on his own course like an ocean liner. This couple created a wonderful life for their two extraordinary children and offered more happiness in the home they designed than anyone I have ever known. My heart feels like a cannonball thinking of those times when they rescued me from loneliness and sadness. Greg was my lighthouse when the sea of life got rough.

He had little ego for a man who was so learned and accomplished. He did not waste time on junk social media or television, but he did on computer solitaire and Law and Order reruns. He never tweeted, had no Facebook, did not know a Tik Tok from an Instagram but thoroughly read three newspapers each day. He was astute when it came to politics and was a proud liberal Democrat. He had  very strong opinions not suited to this gathering. Greg spoke to the television when he watched the news and often cursed like his father before him. If you took a drive with him you would probably hear the word “asshole” more than once or maybe worse. I believe every driver he cursed or flipped off deserved it, but he was my best friend, and I am prejudiced. Greg probably holds some kind of record for the most times threatening to kick somebody’s ass without ever throwing a single punch. He played a role that made us laugh but did truly disdain false emotion. He did not own a pair of jeans, never wore a t-shirt as an outer garment and was very fond of wicked-good slippers from LL Bean. In many a photograph you will see his glasses case in his front pocket.

 He loved social gatherings and was an excellent, engaged listener. He made every such gathering better with his presence. Plain and simple he was my favorite company for an entire lifetime.

For decades I visited him on Francis, and we listened to songs and sipped wine while going on and on and on about the old days in South Gate. We had a recurrent theme of  our existence as part of what John Cheever called “The glittering and stupendous dream. “  He put aside regrets or worries and let gratitude flow out for the place he had found himself at the end of his “easy way.” Late on those nights he might quote his literary idol Fred Exley “pouring out the dark, secret places of his heart .”  We did not need to fret about being judged by each other and bore our longings and dreams along with a deep gratitude for the great fortune we happened into when we were brought home to our families on Annetta avenue in  South Gate. We had wonderful childhoods and it made us soft in the heart despite the transparent curmudgeons we pretended to be. Our common theme for this fortunate journey is what Maya Angelou called “the rich tapestry of life” comprised of threads good and bad that must be included in the big picture. With the gold and silver threads of love and birth there were the heartbreaks and grim reality of our inevitable deaths. The rich tapestry was subject to the stains of living and the tears of loss. Today there is a prominent and tear-stained black thread present. We sometimes sat in silent thought together pondering the mysteries of mortality and mourning for Ed Carroll or Tim Balderama. Our fathers died weeks apart and his gentle understanding made the profound loss bearable. That terrible void has now come to be profoundly personal.  

So…

As a lonely swing-shift whistle echoes across South Gate park.

We will find that box at the Rose Bowl will be a little lonely for Bruin games.

The kitchen at Francis will no longer host his meticulous preparations.

The empty leather chair bearing his imprint  will lack that boisterous laughter and shouted curses.

The stars won’t shine as bright in the night sky over squam lake.

And our hearts will ache from time to time.

but his legacy and the stories will live on

 

Black Postcards

by Tomas Tranströmer

The calendar is full, future unknown.

The cable hums the folk song from no country.

Falling snow on the lead-still sea. Shadows

wrestle on the dock.
.
In the middle of life it happens that death comes 

and takes your measurements. This visit 

is forgotten and life goes on. But the suit is 

sewn in silence.