The Orwolls leave La Mirada.
You may not know us, but it is still something very important, at least for us. Three generations of our family have lived in our house on Elmbrook Drive since August 1955. There are not many people who have been in the same house in La Mirada longer. And now, for practical reasons, we have sold the family home.
Mom died a few years ago. Her husband, Fred, my stepfather, passed away last year. My sister, my brother and I have made our own lives in other places. So we put the old place up for sale.
I was only 18 months old when my mom and dad moved from a small apartment in South Gate to our new three-bedroom apartment in La Mirada. It was the only house I knew for the next 18 years. My sister, Vicki, was born there a couple of years later, then Bob came and then Matt (RIP). Since she was the only girl, Vicki had her own bedroom, while us boys had to share it.
We could only change the channels on the living room television with pliers, because we broke the channel changer during our many fights over what program to watch. There was a man in the 1950s and early 1960s who went from house to house with a camera and a Shetland pony and took photographs of children on horseback. We still have some of those photos.
At some point, Dad realized we needed more space. I don't know if they won a lottery or just took out a big loan, but my parents eventually decided to expand the back of the house, including a living room with a fireplace and a huge bedroom. But even though our house got bigger, we weren't big shots. Oil was still dripping from our worn-out 1953 Chevy Bel Air, leaving large stains in the driveway.
Sidewalks were added to our street in 1963, and that meant we could skateboard. I dismantled a pair of Vicki's skates (with metal wheels) and nailed them to a 2 foot long piece of wood. Southern Californians invented skateboarding as we know it sometime in the previous decade, and we La Mirada kids were there, part of it all, as it became more and more popular, building jumping ramps with warped plywood and listening to the Beach Boys.
Every morning at 6:30, my job was to run out to the driveway and deliver the Times to my father at the kitchen table. That's where I learned to love the literary sports ideas of Jim Murray and the folksy humor of Jack Smith. It's also where I learned to like coffee, reading the news with my old man.
From our house we could walk to school at Escalona Elementary. McNally Intermediate was a little further away, but still walkable (although a bike was easier). And Neff High was less than a 15 minute walk away.
When we were teenagers, my friends and I surfed. We hitchhiked up and down Beach Boulevard. We smoked weed in Neff Park, Windermere Park, or any park, really, as long as we had an exit strategy in case the police showed up.
We lived just a block from the mall and the 15-cent three-scoop ice cream cones at Thrifty and the sodas and hot dogs at the JJ Newberry counter. My family got “fancy” products at Ohrbach's, and at Allied Arts Vicki learned to dance and I learned to play the guitar. We all swooned over the two-wheelers at Spence's Bikes and bought penny candy at the Karmel Korn store.
Back then, in La Mirada you could go anywhere as a child, it was a safe and friendly place. On our block, we would often hear a neighbor yelling his children's names from the front porch at 7 pm. The streetlights were on. Dinner was on the table. It's time to enter.
Many people leave their places of origin and never want to look back. I don't. After going to college, then San Diego, San Francisco, and New York, I loved coming home to La Mirada.
After my parents became empty nesters, our house continued to host many gatherings and, eventually, visits from fun, rowdy grandchildren. My brother and his family stayed in town for many years and my sister's family moved to Riverside. And although the house didn't change much, La Mirada did. The mall is now half the size; Much of its land has been occupied by an urbanization. Our old high school, Neff, was razed and replaced by a warehouse. And the city is more exclusive. However, I always feel like I'm entering a time warp when I go back.
But being sad that the Orwoll family would no longer be residents of La Mirada was not reason enough to keep the house after my stepfather's death. And after it was on the market only a few weeks, someone made a solid offer.
I almost wish they hadn't.
Mark Orwoll is a writer living in New York's Lower Hudson Valley. But deep down he is still a La Miradán.
