Park Pals

Jimmie has spent his fair share of time in parks. Years ago, when our son was between the ages of about two to ten, Jimmie took him to various parks around the San Fernando Valley. When we lived in North Hollywood, they headed east to parks in Burbank, and occasionally to the North Hollywood Park. When he was seven, our move to Van Nuys moved us closer to a park in Studio City, where parents who didn’t work 9 to 5 gathered with their kids. They were friendly adults with diverse interests with whom we wiled away the hours on the bench: musicians, stay-at-home Moms and Dads, unemployed actors and stage managers with call times after dinner. Okay, so I was the only stage manager.  Our camaraderie was mandated by our kids’ fickle friendships. The summer days drifted by, punctuated by frequent trips to the ice cream truck and the parks’ recreation office.  We came and went according to the napping or eating needs of our children.

I remember more than once miss-timing those needs and carrying our squirming squalling four-year-old son under my arm back to the car, while waving jovially over my shoulder to the other parents. The benches were hard concrete, but it didn’t deter us; Jimmie took two daily two-hour sessions at the park. Sometimes when Chris was older, they’d ride to the park on their bicycles – Jimmie, seventy, Chris, seven.

Jimmie used his time in the park productively, working on writing his memoir, or tossing around a baseball with Chris, sometimes visiting with our friend Jason, who’d walk over from his house on nearby Teesdale Avenue. Park denizens in the 1990s had few distractions. No one took endless Instagram pictures of their children, or checked email, texted, or tweeted. Cell phones weren’t really a thing yet. We spent a lot of time reading books and magazines on the bench, doing the crossword puzzle while glancing up periodically to make sure no one had died.

And then, almost as abruptly as our park adventures had begun, Chris outgrew the park, and we no longer went.

Fast forward twenty-four years. Chris now goes on outdoor adventures with his wife and baby, camping and hiking in Northern California. And we are city dwellers, amidst an ever-increasing forest of high rises in downtown Los Angeles.

But there’s still a park next door, with a playground lousy with climbing apparatuses and slides, nestled on a cushiony surface that allows young children to fall and jump without damaging their ankles, or skinning their knees.

More relevant to us now, though, are the many benches scattered around the park. Jimmie has his favorite he likes to head to when he goes to the park. His visits are, as in the old days, daily, but only once a day, in the afternoon. He rides his scooter over to his bench, near the south end of the park, positioned at a busy corner good for both people-watching and viewing the changing northern facing skyline. On the rare and very happy occasion where I can join him for a park visit, he narrates about the regulars habitués of the park. To our left, the seventy-year-old Korean couple who come to the park every afternoon; he precedes her, always carrying his newspaper. They enter the park from the south west. He’s better dressed than she, who wears the same park outfit most days. For the longest time she wore black slacks and an oversized orange checked flannel top. Recently she has changed into a beige top. He sports a natty powder-blue track suit, the jacket zipped up. He likes the shade and she prefers the sun, so they sit on separate benches. They don’t talk to each other much while they’re in the park. He’s a voracious reader; when finished with the paper, he frequently pulls out a Kindle and reads that. She goes through a series of exercises, meanwhile adjusting her slacks at the waist, rolling her shoulders forward and back. Usually after about a half hour, she’ll stand up and leave the park, leaving her husband on his bench without a backward glance.  Jimmie and the man have never spoken to each other beyond the one time when Jimmie said “hello” on his way to his bench. Their benches sit opposite faces of a small lawn measuring about 20′ square, Jimmie’s on the south side, and his on the west.

I always marvel when I visit Jimmie there at how sacred the regulars’ spots are. No one ever sits on Jimmie’s bench, and rarely have I seen anyone other than the Korean couple on theirs.

When I got home for dinner today, Jimmie said eagerly,

Something interesting happened at the park today.

He’d entered the park as usual, from the north west, gliding on his scooter under the mosaic clock tower and scooting south parallel to FIDM. Halfway to his bench, he stopped short, chagrined to see a stranger had commandeered his bench. Quickly, he reconnoitered, pointing his scooter due east toward one of the benches under the shade of a bougainvillea-cloaked pergola. He parked, got off the scooter, and sat on the bench looking back across at his own regular bench, keeping his eyes on the man on his bench and willing him to get tired and leave. But the man, in his forties, casually dressed, looked settled in and content there, sitting and taking in the park. Across the grass, sat the Korean man; his wife had apparently already left.

Suddenly, Jimmie noticed the Korean gentleman purposefully walking over toward Jimmie’s usual bench. He began to talk animatedly to the man sitting there, occasionally looking over his left shoulder at Jimmie indicating to the man that he was talking about Jimmie.

Jimmie could tell from the distance that he was asking the man to move to the adjacent bench. The man didn’t argue at all, but looked a little surprised to have been asked. The Korean man then turned to Jimmie and raising his arm triumphantly, he vigorously beckoned Jimmie back over to his bench. Jimmie stood, getting on his scooter again. Seeing that Jimmie was coming, the Korean man turned and walked back to his own bench. Jimmie smiled as he drove to his bench,

Thanks! You got my bench back!

As Jimmie told me the story at dinner tonight, he giggled, delighted by the unexpected kindness of the man. We laughed about the narration that he and his wife must have about us, and what he must have said to make the man change places to the other bench. And what might have happened had the interloper not been as charitable himself. I was happy that Jimmie’s made a new friend at the park. I told him he needs to take the man a present tomorrow. Perhaps he could share his New York Times with him.

Last week, we took our granddaughter to the park when they were visiting, and while there, observed the comings and goings of other young children and their parents.

But some my favorite interactions are happening in the sixty-and-over-set on the south side of South Park.

 

 

Hot Days and Cool Comforts

For those of you who live in Southern California, or anywhere on the west coast, actually, these past few days have been stultifyingly hot and uncomfortably reminiscent of my youth in Pennsylvania- so humid that when you walk outside you feel like someone just wrapped a hot towel over your entire body. I stepped outside of one of the SDA buildings the other day to go explore the new University Village campus at USC, and felt instantly beleaguered.

So, here’s my recipe for relief. I think it may be from my stepmother Joan’s kitchen, but honestly I don’t remember; I just know it’s delicious and very satisfying in these August
“Trump’s-on-holiday-and-we-hope-the-White-House-AC-techs-aren’t-Russian-agents” days. So here’s the recipe I promised my friend Allyzon from YAS DTLA.

GAZPACHO

1 peeled European cucumber

1/2 yellow bell pepper (peeled)

1/2 red bell pepper (peeled)

1/2 bunch of radishes (tops off)

3 large tomatoes (peeled and squeezed)

8 oz. can of tomato juice (V-8 preferred)

1 to 2 cloves garlic (I used 3)

Coarsley chop all ingredients, then puree in blender. Add 2-3 tablespoons olive oil, salt and pepper, tabasco sauce and cilantro chopped coarsely.

Add lemon juice of necessary (it’s always necessary)

Chill and serve in chilled bowls.

I’d been fantasizing about the gazpacho for about two weeks, not pulling down the wooden recipe box from the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet until yesterday when my darling husband had a tooth extracted. This is a horrible episode for anyone, but a trigger event for an actor. We are now on a self-imposed social exile for the next however-many-weeks until cosmetic dentistry is possible. And I completely get it. I thanked him last night as we sat down to sip our soup, for sacrificing a tooth so that I could have my gazpacho. That’s the kind of guy he is – completely selfless and eternally dedicated to pleasing me. You should all be so lucky to be married to such a person. 
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The other major event yesterday was the opening of the Trader Joe’s in the University Village at USC. The Trader Joe’s opened at 8AM, and I was there by 10:05AM, Jimmie still chomping on the gauze post-extraction in the parking structure below the store. Judging from the enthusiastic responses to our new acquisition at USC, Trader Joe’s will be the next best thing to… well…Trader Joe’s. I am overly zealous in my embrace of the company. I’ve been talking about it for weeks – heck, for years, since we learned of its promise in the planning of the University Village project.  I’d received a postcard earlier in the week announcing the opening and promising me a free shopping bag and entry in a sweepstakes for $50. worth of groceries. I thrust it into the hand of the cashier as I checked out my basket yesterday.

Do you want a free shopping bag?

Do I?!!!! Yes, please!

Two days earlier, I’d visited the Mini-Target next door, first peering into the TJ’s window like a divorcée at Henri Bendel’s. The shelves were fully stocked, and the staff was moving through putting the finishing touches on the displays, their Hawaiian shirts crisp, Trojan-themed colors bright. On Monday morning, when I got there, there were surprisingly few patrons in the store, and the shelves were amply stocked. I know that this condition is unlikely last.

Jimmie has a good sense of humor about his episode this week. He reminded me about the early 1970s when he had auditioned for John Boorman’s film, Deliverance and was asked if any of his teeth were removable. Wistfully, he said

I might’ve gotten that part now….