Writing Honorable Mention: “South Bay of dreams”
Photography Honorable Mention: “Relaxing Moon” by Brad Herbst
by Denise Kano
When I drive southbound on the Esplanade and pull my car in front of the three-story, Victorian house, I always wait to hear my grandfather’s voice calling from the front porch.
“Nell, get me another Budweiser!”
I have come to this house since I was born, and I still expect to see my grandparents sitting in deck chairs on their front porch, my grandmother reading a scandal sheet, like her favorite Star magazine, and my grandfather wearing an Ireland Forever cap, “watching the girls go by.”
The house with faded green paint is now dwarfed by cold, glass-and-concrete structures, but when Nell and Phil O’Reilly first came to the South Bay in 1954, it seemed like a castle to them, perched high above the Pacific Ocean. It took them a month to travel by car from Detroit, pulling an 18-foot trailer, but they never complained. It was better than the month it took them on a ship from Ireland to America. Specifically, Southern California, where my grandfather’s tool-and-dye buddies in the aerospace industry had promised plentiful work and good pay. So they buckled down and saved their pennies, and eventually moved into this house on the Esplanade, which came complete with renters. And having lived through the Great Depression, they saw no reason to boot the tenants out when the rental money would help with the mortgage payment. So they sacrificed a little privacy in return for some financial peace of mind. (Rumor had it that Gram had also wanted to buy the house across the street, selling for $12,000 at the time, but Gramps, always the conservative, vetoed the idea. And, of course, Gram never let him forget it.)
Abalone shells washed up daily on the shores of Redondo Beach like scattered jewels along the white sand. We slid down the prickly ice plant and ran straight to the water, gathering the colorful shells. We spent hours laying on our towels over hot sand and dreaming of Catalina Island, which we saw clearly across from us, every day. Periodically, we looked back up at Gram and Gramp’s house, waiting for the signal of closed curtains, which meant time for lunch or dinner. Sometimes evenings were spent back on the now-cool sand, tossing a football back and forth.
We always looked forward to Fourth of July. Fireworks were legal, and our entire family — mom, dad, aunts, uncles, cousins — all sat together on the cement ledge overlooking the ocean. Below us on the sand were huge crowds of people lighting off fireworks, along with massive, colorful displays off Palos Verdes and Redondo Beach Pier.
Every family occasion was held at this house. On Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, Gramps told us lengthy, detailed stories of growing up in Belfast while we sat at the long dinner table next to huge picture windows with the Pacific Ocean glistening. Gramps sat at one end of the table, Gram at the other end. Inevitably, his stories veered off into fiction or else lasted a little too long for Gram’s liking.
“Phil, you’ve had too many beers! It’s the beers talking!”
“Aw, go soak your head, Nell!”
Gram would roll her eyes. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.”
To someone standing outside the house, it probably sounded like domestic squabbling, with entirely too much yelling. But family get-togethers in this house were loud and fun, filled with animated storytelling, occasional swearing, and plenty of laughter.
Since Gram never learned to drive a car, she depended on Gramps whenever she needed to get somewhere. Their brown Oldsmobile Cutlass was a common fixture at St. James, the Wooden Shoe, Knights of Columbus, and Lucky’s Market, where Gramps would regularly stock up on beer. (One year in the seventies, he filled the pantry with cases of beer, convinced there was going to be a beer shortage, similar to the gas shortage at the time.)
Luckily, the house was within walking distance of the old Marina Theater above the Pier, the one place Gramps did not care to go and Gram lived for. She thrilled to tell people that the house on the south side of theirs had once been owned by Slim Summerville, a movie star from the 1920s.
On any given day, you could drive down the Esplanade and see Gramps on the side of the massive house, probably on a 12-foot ladder, working on one of his many handyman projects. Rarely did he hire somebody to do a fix-it job when he could do it himself. And on that same given day, you would probably see Gram on the porch yelling at him to get off the ladder. Well into his early nineties, he was still on that ladder, and still working in his garage workshop. Frequently, he needed help, which meant pulling Gram away from her beloved soap operas to assist him with an urgent project.
I once asked my grandparents, who also owned a trailer in Benson, Arizona, why they didn’t retire elsewhere, like so many other people seemed to do. To Benson, maybe, or Vancouver, another favorite destination.
“Are you kidding, luv?’” Gram said. “We drove all the way from Detroit to be near the ocean. We’re not leaving anytime soon!”
My grandparents are both long gone, but their green house still stands as a testament to what the Esplanade used to look like. Every time I want to be reminded of the joy of my childhood, I drive south on the Esplanade and pull in front of that house for a good look. The house reminds me of the California dreams they had for themselves and their family. ER
Photography Honorable Mention: “Icy Waters” by Matt MacMillan