“Sad to report that all our childhood homes on the cul-de-sac of Enchanted Way are gone,” Roberta, my oldest playmate from Pacific Palisades, reported. After five days of watching the terrifying news coverage from my cottage on the East End, I wondered if the house where I spent the first part of my life had survived. Now I knew.
I have minimized my feelings of loss, fearful that sadness might overcome me. After all, I have not lived in that house for over 60 years. Is it permissible to feel mournfulness when so many have lost everything?
Unspeakable. No words. Speechless. Those are the sentiments conveyed by the folks who endured the destruction.
I cannot hide my melancholy as I grieve the loss of my childhood home. Are degrees of sorrow and sadness measured and quantifiable? The layers of grief are complex, a conglomerate hellish nightmare of bewilderment and devastation. Over time, the anguish will be sorted out gradually. Eventually.
I rifled through old photo albums, searching for two particular photos I remembered, and, after hours, I found them.
In one, I am 3 or 4, sitting in our backyard, holding our black dachshund, Widdie, in my lap. Widdie and I are the same age. I am sure of this; we got her as a pup when I was a baby. I am wearing my favorite outfit: a cowgirl getup with a black skirt and vest trimmed in bright white fringe.
In the second photo, my dad kneels beside me, smiling. I know he is proud. He has provided his family with safety, love, and a brand-new home in one of the most beautiful, peaceful neighborhoods in Los Angeles. Our cherished American Dream home is in a community filled with hard-working dads and apron-clad, stay-at-home moms.
Our house had a swimming pool, one of only a few in the area. My parents welcomed the neighborhood kids to swim during the summer and on weekends. Our backyard butted up against open, raw land. It was a newer development, built in 1957. There were few trees and vegetation then. We were not fancy, and none of the homes around us were fancy. Life was simple. Kids rode bikes up and down the sloping roads and played handball with a big pink rubber ball against garage doors. Innocent games of tag or foursquare were interrupted only at lunchtime. If we were lucky, Roberta’s mom fed us. She made the best tuna sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.
When I was 6, we had to sell our house and move to New York, my dad’s hometown. He had worked at the local Mobil station pumping gas but needed a change, and New York offered him greater opportunities. I was sad when we left. Saying goodbye to all my friends, who all attended the sweet local public school, Marquez Elementary, was hard. Our parents vowed to stay in touch.
Throughout my life, my dad and I have fondly recalled the happy times spent on Enchanted Way. When he turned 99 and his fragility increased, he moved into an assisted living facility in nearby Santa Monica. I visited him three or four times a week. On good days, when he felt chipper and energetic, he’d ask me to take a drive up to the Palisades.
“Steffie, let’s go see the old house.”
We’d drive 15 minutes along Pacific Coast Highway, turn onto Chautauqua, and then cruise down Sunset.
“Look, Dad, there’s where the old Bay Theater and Mayfair Market were. And remember Wil Wright’s ice cream parlor and the Hot Dog Show?”
“I remember . . . those were the good old days,” he’d say softly.
I wondered if he really did remember.
We’d continue along Sunset, passing the new Gelson’s Market and Pali High School. Then, Marquez Avenue, Jacon Way, El Oro Lane, and, at last, Enchanted Way.
“Oh look, there’s Roberta’s house and the Newmans’ too,” he’d say as we wound our way up the hill.
He did remember.
My dad and I made the drive at least once a year. A month before his passing at 104, we took our final spin around the old neighborhood.
I am grateful my dad never witnessed the destruction of the place he held so close to his heart. It might have killed him to see everything reduced to ashes.
Stephanie Blank’s writing has appeared in The Los Angeles Times and the collection “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive, Live Happy.” She lives in East Quogue and Marina del Rey, Calif., and can be found on Instagram @StephanieBlankWriter.