After visiting Tarzana – during our October whirlwind trip to California, Arizona, and Nevada – we headed to San Pedro, which is kissing cousins to Long Beach. Stacey, Rich’s daughter, was staying on a tall ship affiliated with the Los Angeles Martime Institute (LAMI) in San Pedro (below).

Long before Los Angeles became a mecca of millions, navigating through miles of multi-laned bumper-to-bumper traffic, it was an oasis of adobe bungalows, Spanish-inspired, tiled buildings with narrow roads that wove through the foothills through orange groves, eucalyptus trees, and blossoming bougainvillea. The pace was slower. The west coast was new and clean, a haven from the crowded, grimy, tenement- and sweatshop-filled east coast cities.

Annexed in 1909 by the city of Los Angles, San Pedro was a major seaport. A working class neighborhood dominated by fishing. The hills circling the water are dotted with small homes once owned by fishing families that came from the Mediterranean and Adriatic. They established commercial fishing docks and helped turn San Pedro and Terminal Island into the largest fishing industry in the United States with nearly 500 boats and 15 canneries in the 1930’s.

The depleted ocean coupled with work moving offshore to lower-wage countries like American Samoa, Puerto Rico and the Philippines has reduced the size of the San Pedro fishing feet to a few dozen boats. These photographs by Wayne Oberparleiter capture what is left of the once mighty San Pedro fishery.

Location made San Pedro ideal for Navy ships. In 1934, fourteen battleships, two aircraft carriers, fourteen cruisers, and sixteen support ships were based in San Pedro. The charming downtown with tile-roofed two- and three-story buildings soon sported tattoo parlors and other haunts that buoy mariners.

The town and surrounding area seem to have frozen in time. The marinas, once crowded with fishing vessels, are now filled with pleasure boats, many in disrepair, long forgotten by their owners. Rich’s father once had a 45-foot sailboat, called the Pyewacket, moored in one marina now named the Dill Pickle Yacht club.

A short walk from the marinas is Ports O’Call Village, a tourist destination built in 1963, which I remember visiting as a child. At the time, it had quaint New England style shops and restaurants, cobblestone walkways, along with street performers. I recall being delighted with the plantings and had purchased a bouquet of dried straw flowers.

Many of the shops are now closed or rundown. The Los Angeles Board of Harbor, however, recently approved federal funding for the San Pedro Waterfront Project, which includes a network of public promenade and walkways, renovations to the Ports O’ Call Village, and other amenities to support more year-round tourism.

One facet of the area that is strong is the San Pedro Fish Market. In a warehouse-sized space are a dozen or so fish markets with large refrigerated cases and open tanks of fresh and prepared seafood. The variety of fish is extraordinary as is the selection of fried, steamed, and marinated platters of seafood and bowls of ceviche. For twenty dollars you can get a platter of steamed jumbo shrimp with garlic bread, bag of sliced lemons, and condiments. Seating is outdoors or under large canopies with rough wooden benches and tables, and roving seagulls looking for hand-outs. 

We were at the fish market on a Sunday morning. As the sun burned through the fog, the tables at the Fisherman’s Market filled with Hispanic families who’d spread newspapers on the tables to create a “clean” eating area. Young girls in frilly dresses and long, lustrous ebony braids tied with showy satin ribbons darted between the tables, followed by rosy cheeked boys in pressed jeans and boots. One the tables were platters of seafood and pitchers of beer. The mood was festive with grandparents doting on grandchildren, young parents with babies in their arms, and older people enjoying the food and mariachi music. Stacey, whose boat is docked within eye- and earshot of the market, said that the music plays until the wee hours on Friday and Saturday evenings.

There are also traditional restaurants in the area. We ate on the patio of the Acapulco Mexican Restaurant and Cantina, where were could see the Vincent Thomas Bridge, which connects San Pedro to Terminal Island and directs your eye to the massive container and cruise ship facilities in the area. I took quite a few photographs of Stacey’s ship and the other sites. Here’s an online gallery, which shows the breadth of the San Pedro maritime industry.

The Port of Los Angeles World Cruise Center in San Pedro hosts numerous major cruise lines, including Celebrity, Costa, Crystal, Cunard, Disney, Holland America, Norwegian, Princess, Oceana, Regent Seven Seas, Royal Caribbean, and Catalina Express. Carnival Cruise Lines depart from the neighboring Long Beach.

Just for fun, I looked at the cruise calendar. There are forty-one cruises to Mexico in December, ranging from three to twelve nights. The least expensive is an inside room on a three-day Carnival cruise for $149. The twelve-night Royal Caribbean “Christmas” cruise costs $4,049 per person.

In a sense, the cruise ships, shipping facilities, and traffic that streamed across the Vincent Thomas Bridge seemed like a mirage that clashed with the rest of San Pedro. The town remains picturesque with walkways lined with bottlebrush (left), adobe and brick buildings, tidy bungalows nestled in a bowl around the harbors, ethnic population, and the return of the historical Waterfront Red Car Line. If you squint your eyes, you can see the Los Angeles of yesteryear.

The day after my high school reunion in late October, we zipped to my old digs in Tarzana (San Fernando Valley).

My father had followed his father in business, opening as garment factory in downtown Los Angeles on Santee Street, the heart of the garment district. His factory was called Doriann, a combination of my mother’s first name (Doris) and my middle name (Ann). Five days a week, he left early in the morning to miss the traffic and oversee the operation of his factory, which made dresses for Fred Rothchild, a designer and manufacturer of high-end women’s dresses and suits.

It was the era of polyester. Amazingly, you can occasionally find Fred Rothchild dresses for sale online, such as the dress to the right. My father contracted to make a similar dress. The top half of the sleeveless dress was white with a lime green, orange or pink drop waist skirt. The large sailor collar matched the color of the skirt and was finished with a patterned tie in a range of psychedelic patterns and collars. I still have several dozen scarves and ties from my father’s factory.

When I was eight and my brother ten, my parents purchased a quarter-acre lot in Tarzana on Shenango Drive (four miles south of Venture Boulevard, off Vanalden Drive) with a view of the Braemer golf course (below). At the time, there weren’t many houses in the area and at night you could hear the coyotes howling in the hills. Being Southern California, my neighborhood was also the home of rattle and garter snakes, horny toads, rabbits, gophers, roadrunners, and an occasional deer or bobcat.

My parents built a sprawling four bedroom, four bathroom ranch house (below) with the latest gizmos and amenities, including an indoor char broiler, built in osterizer, huge walk-in closets, wood paneling, and 100% wool, live green shag carpeting.

They hired a Japanese gardener to landscape, using mature bonsai bushes and trees along with attractive foliage that needed little water. My parents were big on conservation and gardening. On both sides of the house were areas to plant vegetables and herbs.

A year after the house was finished, my father died of a heart attack. He was fifty.

Following my father’s death, my mother reached a new level of paranoia and not only put bars on the windows, but installed a home-made burglar alarm that worked sporadically. She also had heavy metal posts cemented into the ground from which were stretched heavy chains to prevent drivers from turning around in our circular driveway. Adding to the glory was my mother’s sharp tongue and intolerance for most people and tasks – from carpooling kids to school once a week to cleaning and cooking.

Nevertheless, the location of our house presented many opportunities to find and sell golf balls to good-natured golfers, race across the golf course on our bikes (infuriating the golfers), buy junk food at the course’s food shacks, and hike in the surrounding hills (and get poison oak).

It also exposed me to people in the movie industry. The Moders lived towards the top of Shenango Drive. Mike Moder was the director or production manager of dozens of movies and TV series, such as Little Big Man, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, Matlock and Perry Mason. He and his wife, Patty, had five kids.

Jane Moder was the same age as me. Her older sister, Debbie, married Steve Stone (or was it Jeff) who lived at the very top of the street. John was a few years younger than Jane. He gashed open his face when he attempted to ride his bicycle down one of the drainage culverts cut in the hill opposite the golf course. Jyl was the youngest girl. Like Jane, she was a bit of a tomboy, slender with light blonde hair and freckles. Danny, who married Julie Roberts, was the youngest. My first recollection of Danny was him running down the street in his diapers.

Next door to us lived DeeDee Copeland who was the sister of actor, Bill Barty. DeeDee was a stewardess (before the advent of “flight attendants”) with two rambunctious Labrador Retrievers who I used to pet-sit. I also helped serve food at several of her parties. At one of these gatherings, a famous astronaut attended. I have his autograph… somewhere.

Across the street (below) were the Rices’ – Joey, Wayne, Darrell, Babe, and Denice. Wayne, who was a year older than me, hung out with several Taft High School football players. Scott Blakeley was one of them; he drove a very cool, custom-painted blue Corvette. I was enthralled with the car and spent many hours staring out it from my barred window. Actually, I was hoping that Vince Pone, another football player, would grace the street.

All of the Rice “boys” were popular, personable, tanned, and primed for success. Joey Rice supposedly grew up to be the agent for Robert Englund (a.k.a. Freddie Krueger). Wayne is the producer of “Dude, Where’s my Car?, Chasing Liberty, and other flicks. Denise writes screenplays. And their father, Alan, is also a producer.

My mother was good friends with the Vlahos who lived a few houses away on Vanalden Drive. Petro and his son, Paul won an Oscar for Blue Screen Compositing Technology. Prior to their invention it was challenging to blend together an image shot on a blue screen with a stationary or moving background, such as people in a moving car or flowing hair.

Down the street from the Vlahos was the Manner family. Several times, Kim Manners, who was in his late teens, early twenties at the time, would drive me to my ballet lessons when my mother was out-of-town. He had a cool Mustang. Kim grew up to produce and direct the X-Files. His father, Sam, was also a director for TV shows like The Wild Wild West and Route 66.

I just read that Kim died in January from lung cancer. Hard to believe. In a sense, my childhood of growing up around movie people is also hard to believe. My “Valley Girl” accent has long faded away. I prefer the cloudy Pacific Northwest to sunny Southern California. Instead of longing for the latest fashion I prefer “gently reused” clothes from the Bellevue Goodwill. As Thomas Wolfe wrote, "you can’t go home again."

A few weeks ago, I attended my high school reunion. No, I’m not going to reveal the year. Many people who attended William Howard Taft High School in Woodland Hills, including myself, also went to Wilbur Avenue Elementary School and Gaspar de Portola Junior High School in Tarzana (named after Edgar Rice Burroughs who lived in the area and introduced the civilized world to Tarzan of the Apes).

The summer before my senior year, however, I moved to Oregon and completed my final year at Beaverton High School in Beaverton, Oregon. As the years passed I longed to know what happened to the people I knew from first through eleventh grade. When the reunion was announced, I wrote to the organizer, asking whether I could attend. His response was “Yes.”

A month or two before the reunion, I pulled my eleventh grade album off the shelf and flipped through the pages; I was surprised at how few faces I recognized. The people who seemed so important to me decades earlier were now simply pictures of strangers. Even though Rich had purchased the tickets for the reunion, I wondered whether we should go.

I was so on the fence that I never bothered to buy a “cocktail” dress for the upscale event that was going to be held at the Woodland Hills Country Club. Instead, I wore an outfit I’d bought in Texas (probably at Ross or Marshalls); black silk pants with a red silk jacket with black and gold oriental symbols, mandarin collar and red frog closures. I added sassy black shoes and chandelier earrings with red rhinestones.

For Rich, I chose black slacks, navy blue checked dress shirt with blue and black patterned tie. He looked very dashing.

Our trip started at 3:30 a.m. on Saturday morning when we caught a 6 a.m. flight to Las Vegas. After loading our luggage in a rented Suzuki Firenza, we grabbed a bag of pretzels and drinks at a 7-Eleven then drove to Anaheim, California to see Rich’s step-brother, Ralph. On the way, we stopped at Carl Jrs for Santa Fe Chicken sandwiches (wickedly good with charbroiled chicken, green chili, cheese, and gooey sauce).

We luckily encountered little traffic and were zipping by Knotts Berry Farm (Anaheim) around 1:30. Rich had plotted out the entire trip, assigning times for when he expected to reach each destination. He was only off by half an hour. After a quick visit with Ralph, we aimed for the freeway and speed to “the Valley.”

By the time we got to our motel, we were both tired from the early flight, long drive, and pelting California sun. I continued to have doubts about the reunion. Nevertheless, once we got into our “dress-up” clothes, we were eager to go and more importantly, quite hungry. We arrived early. Once we had our “memory” pictures taken, we awkwardly stood in the nearly empty banquet room, waiting for others to arrive. Every time someone walked by, Rich asked, “Do you know him or her?”

“No.”

There were an occasional “yes,” but for the most part, the faces I knew from elementary through high school were indistinguishable. It occurred to me that I’d done little with these people outside of attending class. By the time I’d reached high school, my spare time was spent babysitting, working at Pioneer Chicken, cooking, cleaning, gardening, and doing “stuff” with my mother. The latter felt my school work and social life were secondary to her needs. And I was too beaten down to rebel.

I’d missed out on high school, and now, I naively believed I’d be recognized and embraced by my peers. I was an outcast then and remained an outcast that evening. I was determined, however, to delve into these strangers’ lives. I was convinced that they’d been commendably successful in their careers and personal lives. It was shocking to learn that Jay, who graduated with honors, was now selling first aid supplies in Reseda. Marc was a car salesman in San Diego and Karen a receptionist in a law office.

No doubt, the people who came to the reunion were a fraction of the nearly thousand who were in the graduating class. And most of those who came still live in California… and have a southern California attitude and physique. Many of the women were dressed in short, black cocktail dresses with strappy sandals, and long flowing hair – more brunettes than blondes. A surprising number came in groups or by themselves. One woman inquired about Rich thinking her was a friend rather than my husband. I wish I’d responded that he was simply hired for the night. I would have enjoyed seeing her response.

When one woman walked towards the more brightly light bar in the ballroom, there was no mistaking what she was wearing underneath. A while later, Rich turned to me and remarked, “I think I can see that woman’s belly button.” He wasn’t exaggerating. Her black sheath was almost sheer, except for a patterned area across her chest and around her hips.

To their credit, or perhaps self-control, most of the women hadn’t gained a pound since high school. Some may have lost weight! Squinted my eyes, it wasn’t hard to imagine that I was at a high school prom. Throughout the evening, people sang bad karaoke while groups of women and a handful of coupled danced. Others bounced from table-to-table, excitedly talking and gesturing.

The mediocre food further reinforced the prom atmosphere. On banquet tables were rows of steamer pans of overcooked broccoli, unseasoned carrots, lumpy mashed potatoes, cold poached salmon that was supposed to be hot, and sinewy slices of nondescript beef. Dessert was a table of cookies, brownies, and other pastries, fresh from the grocery store to the Woodland Hills Country Club.

We didn’t stay more than a few hours. It was apparent that I no longer had anything in common with these people. As we left, we paid $10 for two memory key chains, which contained teeny photographs of us.

I didn’t bother to take other pictures. The memory of the evening will linger in my mind for a year or two then drift away like most of my school years.