Sunday, December 26, 2010

Thanksgiving with the Grump

Apparently, with Grandpa Grumpy, there is an expiration period for frank talks. Those of you who check in here from time to time may remember last holiday when I had it out with the old guy. Not in the screaming-in-your-face kind of way, which knowing him, would have resulted in immediate banishment from Sweetpea's beloved grandma, but in calm, direct debate (and a raised middle finger behind my back). I thought we'd worked out the main kinks, but apparently, like many old folks, his short-term memory is very short.

Grandpa Grumpy is kinda-sorta my father-in-law. Not really, but to have him hear it, he grafted onto my husband's family when the kids were all grown, and takes territorial possession due to marital imperative. And since he has no contact with his biological children from marriage number one, his step-children, their spouses, and grandchildren have become the psychological equivalent of crash-test dummies. He's constantly working out his angst about the fact that his own flesh and blood cut him off, clumsily poking and prodding in the only way he knows to connect to his current 'kids'. These kids being three step-sons, and relationships are problematical. One of the brothers has found a way to connect with him, and gives him his due, something I find difficult given the old man's penchant for thrashing me about at any opportunity.

One problem I have, among many when it comes to Grumps opinion of me (as a woman, a mother, a wife, and generally in pretty much every aspect of my life) , is a particularly toxic ball and chain around my neck. Nothing I do or say can ever release it. I've committed the most egregious sin of all:

I'm a Canadian.

Grandpa Grumpy is a dyed-in-the-wool, blue-blooded American Patriot. Current Tea Party Member, proud card-carrying member of the NRA, hell, he even keeps a squirrel rifle leaning up against the living room wall (antique and de-commissioned). And he despises anyone who has the temerity to live in this greatest country on earth and not be a citizen. To him it's as inconceivable that I would actually choose to remain here and not take the oath. In the past I toyed with the idea, given that Canadians are currently able to carry dual citizenship, but rumors that this might end have put the kybosh on this idea. I've been a legal resident of the U.S. for decades, and so far it's worked out fine. I mean, Dan Rather said it quite eloquently during the Vancouver Olympics earlier this year, the U.S. and Canada are political pals, and share the longest peaceful border in the world. Heck, we're practically married.

But in Grandpa Grumpy's view there is no namy-pamby UN in this messed up world, and he has taken jingoism to new heights when it comes to his belief that America is the only nation in the world worth living in, or for. And my reluctance to swear allegiance to it that has finally pushed Grumps to new heights of fury, for as all fanatical, true-believers of any radical ideology will concur when it comes to a line in the sand: yer either in or yer out.

And I am most definitely out.

It has escalated in the last few years, partly fueled by his advancing age and the fact that he is now fixated on the WWII years, especially the Pacific Theatre. To an interested listener, his weaving in and out of both sides of the Japanese-American conflict is a fascinating dance of blame on both sides, and is a chilling portrait of the hell of war. From his now-distant perch he obsessively relives the last gasp of a world conflict, cleaning up the rotting remains in Nagasaki, running security detail at the War Crimes Tribunal, seeing hunger and starvation from the streets of his adopted home of over two decades. He will freely hold both sides accountable for the atrocities committed in the name of freedom, with a generous mixture of compassion and sympathy for the plight of POWS tortured in Baatan along with the millions of civilian Japanese diaspora who returned home to starvation in a devestated land.

All this ceased to be fascinating years ago when he told it for the second, then third time, then on and on. And as the daughter of another elderly raconteur stuck in a loop, I'd be content to simply nod and listen, except that it just ends in the same place: I'm a Commie Pinko, and should be run out of town on a rail. On all matters regarding this issue, his logic gets very fuzzy when it comes to fighting for liberty. But to spare you the long version, it boils down to this: Fought for the U.S. Worthy. Fought for any other Allied country: Not worth mentioning. Apparently you can only defend liberty if you are an American. His idea of liberty, freedom, and all the other ideals that go with it are country-specific. Uncle Sam's got the copyright, apparently. Literally and figuratively.

Grandpa Grumpy is the Ugly American. And who would want to line up for citizenship when faced with this kind of welcome? To borrow (liberally) fromWoody Allen, I'm not interested in joining any club that would have him for a member.

Grumps is a tough old bird, and has gotten back his God-given mobility after knee surgery (over a year ago, sibs take note), and as much as I'd like to make peace with him, we have reached an impasse. It's an ironic one, as you might have guessed. I am as loyal to my birth nation as he is to his, and the only difference is that I keep my mouth shut. Which, for those of you who know me, isn't easy. Keeping quiet mostly entails a dumb, wide-eyed expression when he tries to bait me during what seems like an ordinary conversation (he is very good at approaching the subject from any manner of obtuse avenues). This puzzled look allows him to get to the punch line, which is usually a direct insult to me, Canada, or any number of Obama connections to our socialist policies, like health care for the disabled or sick children. Here's an example:

"Hey, I met a gal from Queebeck the other day at the cemetery when I was paying my respects last week."
Looks at me.
"You know why I was there, right?" Cocks his head, stares with a smile. I nod politely.
"Well, I dunno what you do, but that's what we do on Veteran's Day, pay our respects to the men and women who served our country to protect the freedoms you enjoy here in America." I nod, try to mention the poppies we wear as the Canadian symbol of respect for our armed forces. He cuts me off and moves on.
"Well, anyway, she was an interesting lady. I wish I'd taped our conversation."
Looks at me (I keep my expression neutral).
"Yeah, she said she loves it here, and that there ain't any place in the world like America. And if you don't want to be a citizen she says you should get the hell out and go back where you came from!"
Grins and stares at me, as if waiting for a retort. Which does not come.
Then he sits back and puts on his best Kansas drawl. "Yeaaah, man, that's what I'm talkin' about."
Looks around the room to see if anyone agrees with him, but surprisingly the others are all picking lint off their clothes or staring at the ceiling.

After a long period of these one-sided conversations, when he starts to relax and get chummier, we might exchange a few friendly shots across the bow. Only a few mind you, because this more direct approach inevitably ends in a tirade, or a shouting match with his wife (my mother-in-law) who recently has begun to object to his abuse. Then I go to bed, where I am now, writing this to you all.

On this trip I did learn something remarkable - we both share ancestry to the Mayflower. My father's family descended from John Howland, made memorable by his fall from the ship mid-Atlantic, and his frantic grasp of a trailing lanyard that got him hauled back on board. A true survivor, he married another Mayflower passenger and had many children, which led to half-million of us in future generations. GG has a similar chart, but I didn't stay long enough to figure out from whose loins he eventually sprang from. It was as annoying as hell for Grumps to find out my people had been here at the first Thanksgiving, a claim he has long reveled in, being the champion American that he is. Unfortunately, he sees this as further proof that we are elitist fops of the first order, snuff-sniffing, poppinjays who defended the evil King, and ran tail when the Revolution began. So now I'm a Commie and a turncoat.

Oh, Canada!


Thursday, December 23, 2010

Life With Iron Giants: Where the Improbable Meets the Possible


No matter how many times I try to explain how special San Pedro is, I get a lot of blank stares in return. The nicer ones make a real effort to see this place through my eyes, and I give them credit. But part of me knows that when they go back to their comfortable suburbs, they'll get stared down if they try to defend the place, and soon, the bright feather of enthusiasm will drift away, untended. I've heard more than once about the secrets we keep within our sea-crashed borders, inured to the slings and arrows of outsiders, and in some ways it's a bit disingenuous to expect others to be able to draw away the curtain without spending some serious time here.

It's okay, I want to tell them, I do understand. Take my friend Ernie, for example, whom I see regularly at one of our local cafes. This is a man with a history that, at first blush, appears to be less reality than reality show. To begin with there is his implacable certainty that he is the illegitimate son of Howard Hughes and Katherine Hepburn, though no evidence can be found that this lovely but solitary woman ever gave birth during her extraordinary career, despite a fling with Hughes during her younger years. But should you be quick to dismiss the white-haired gentleman with a flowing beard and the piercing stare of a bluejay, you would miss the amazing story of his life. One that would lead you to believe that he very well could be the offspring of a genius aviator/engineer and a genius actress. If the proof is in the DNA, his seems to flow with potential from both parents.

Ernie, who will soon be the guest on my first podcast in the "Life With Iron Giants" series on this blog, is actually a very accomplished, and intuitively brilliant engineer, and designer of famous cars and speed boats, some of them fetch in the high six figures, they are so rare and coveted. As the owner of a cutting-edge design company, he led the high life for many decades, and when I see the photograph of him in his prime, suntanned, blonde and wickedly handsome zenith (and yes, a Hughes look-alike), I can understand why he married so many beautiful women in his ultra-modern, Newport Beach house. He has made and lost vast fortunes, and in his early years, he was a child of the kind of early 20th Century power and privilege few of us have ever experienced.
At birth, he was adopted into the Ford Dynasty in Detroit, by the brother-in-law of Edsel Ford (his mother was a Ford), and grew up during the WWII years when his father was often called to Washington to help with the war effort. Ernie lived amongst the technology and political giants of his time, and although he was a self-proclaimed non-conformist in many ways, never attending university, he had a natural talent for engineered design, doing much better than his blue-blooded parents might have envisioned. His innovative, cutting-edge creations can be found on enthusiasts' sites all over the net. And even though he hasn't produced one in many decades, his name is legend.

But Ernie's more complex nature won out in the end. When his business failed spectacularly in the 80's (all due to a steam engine he developed for cars then selling the patent to an automobile company that promptly mothballed it), Ernie lost his many homes, wives, boats, and other trappings of wealth. He took to the sea full time as the captain of his boat, then a became a spiritual seeker, diving into the mystical plane where he spent many years in various ashrams and retreats. It sounds eerily parallel to Carlos Castenada, who explored "the known, the unknown, and the unknowable" in his Don Juan series. Ernie may have crossed paths with him, so similar were their journeys into the nova of human consciousness.
And as you talk to Ernie, these two lives, engineer and yogi, intertwine in fascinating rhythm, only adding to the confounding mystery of this son of greats, and his possible biological legacy. As for his claim that he is Hughes' son, there is no denying that Ernie displays the same single-minded obsession with engineering challenges that the famous aviator did, even now he is constantly scribbling designs on napkins, and his innate understanding of natural principals a constant inspiration.

So what is the truth? Ernie typifies many of the challenges we face in San Pedro, a town as misconstrued, stereotyped, and unknown as he is. We are not available to all comers, especially those who lack curiosity, or the ability to breath into and travel into new territory the way Peter Mayle managed in A Year in Provence. Provence didn't need a PR campaign, so we're in a deeper hole, because the veil that separates the reality of life here and the perception of others is an intimidating divide.

And that itself is part of the mystery. And still news to a lot of people.


Friday, December 17, 2010

Life With Iron Giants: Squeaky Wheels and Small Victories

Our park - before construction began.....


Going up against the Port of Los Angeles is as mythically challenging as it gets. David and Golaith time, except in this case, David had his slingshot taken away in an earlier skirmish and is left on the battlefield with nothing but his courage and a lot of bravado. "How's it going, Golaith, old buddy? Hey, that's my head you're tearing off....."

Despite the documented carcinogenic fallout from industrial pollutants that for the better part of a century poured into San Pedro, Wilmington, and all cities north (including you folks up in the Westside), decades more went by before the Port took responsibility for its wrongdoing and started to clean up its act. Too many mega-interests in the financial, political, global manufacturing, and labor spheres, were caught up in a bob and weave dance of conflicting self-interests to worry much about the deaths and shortened lifespans that were a result of our free market system. But hey, we still had lots of landfill-bound junk from China coming in like there was no tomorrow. Talk about uber-denial.

In the past month, we reached a landmark of sorts. The journey started over 20 years ago when some of the local citizenry (mainly those with downtown business interests) thought it would be a good idea if the Port actually did something with the industrial wasteland tthat separated San Pedro's downtown from the water. Ports O'Call, a leasee of the Port, once a thriving dockside retail and restaurant tourist attraction, had fallen into dingy disrepair, the entire place was a sad mess.

Langston Hughes asks what happens to a dream deferred. Does it dry up, like a raisin in the sun? That raisin was as withered as it could get around here. But in the last decade, the blood, sweat and tears of many have begun to bring that raisin back to life. Perhaps the start of this change began when huge multi-national conglomerate, China Shipping, peititioned to build a larger berth in the Port, along with mega-storage for containers. Environmental groups got involved (thanks to those dismal pollution studies) and supported assorted squeaky wheels in the community, and during the contentious debate that followed, some of the most significant cracks appeared in the wall of resistance built by the Port.
A large sum of money (in the multiple millions) was set aside for what they call 'mitigations', kind of a trade-off system. This included new parks, money for waterfront improvements, etc. Some of the money went to form a new elected body (PCAC) made up of local citizens and Port staffers, with the purpose of transparency and input on all matters pertaining to POLA. The City of L.A. was making its own changes in local representation - Neighborhood Councils were created through a charter, with the purpose of adding more in-depth discussion and direct input from communities on issues affecting them.

All of this happened before I got here, but I jumped into the fray because the job of watchdogging an entity like the Port is never done. The Bridge to Breakwater project, an ambitious 1.5 billion dollar investment, was unveiled this fall and all of us squeaky wheels (past and present) jammed into a local gymnasium to find out just how much impact we'd had.

What The Port wanted:
  • Bridge to Breakwater billion-dollar development of parkland and interconnecting boardwalks from Vincent Thomas Bridge to Cabrillo Beach
  • lots of concrete parking structures
  • disconnect between waterfront and downtown San Pedro
  • new paint for ageing Ports O'Call
  • mega liner ships parked in front of the town beach
  • permanent street closures, parking nightmares during tourist surges
What we got:
  • Bridge to Breakwater billion-dollar development of parkland and interconnecting boardwalks from Vincent Thomas Bridge to Cabrillo Beach
  • Real development funds for Ports O'Call refurbishment
  • underground parking structures covered with grass rooftops
  • removal of acres of parking lots - converted into parkland and boardwalk
  • mega liner berths postponed until further study
  • construction of 7th Street people pier, connecting to downtown businesses
  • electric powered transport for passengers travelling to outer harbor berths (if constructed)
  • LEED-certified green building practices and energy efficiency in all new construction

And, one last thing. The big dirt pile at the end of our street, once a home to oil storage tanks, was in debate for 10 years. The Port wanted to build condos (block our view), research institute (better but not great), shopping mall (yikes!), but the scrappy folks in the Coastal San Pedro Neighborhood Council helped secure a new park for this acreage. The park, under construction since we moved in two years ago, will have it's grand opening in December. The trees are small, plantings, new, but it is a hell of a long way from the tank farm Bob used to play in when he was a kid.

Things are looking up.

The new park is pictured below...

22nd Street Park - California landscaping, drought tolerant


Even this gets criticized from some of the upper Pedro residents who can't imagine a park that isn't a lawn. Just as our front yard does every year, it will change with the seasons, with blooming lavendar, fennel, sage, lush in the rainy season and fallow in the dry. What you see in the upper end is a playing field.