Walgenbach Ancestral Home

CURBSIDE VIEW OF OUR HOME: 2944 EAST ELDA STREET, DUARTE, CA 91010

The pictures in this post come from California Real Estate Multiple Listing Service or the CRMLS.

Here is a curbside view of our ancestral home at 2944 East Elda Street.  You can see Tom's Toyota Camry with automatic, 6 cylinder that he purchased from Al and Linda across the street.  This photo is terrific for its ability to bring me back to the days that I lived there, hanging out with Kevin Moore and Sean Moore and other friends.  My mom would always have a sprinkler going during the summer to keep the grass green.  She absolutely loved her garage door that I believe was installed by Bill Pickering's outfit.  Don't know for sure.  Will have to ask Joe.  I miss this house terribly.  From the day that Charlen came home from Immaculate Conception church with her new husband, John Larkin, to me sneaking a 125 Honda Enduro on the side of the house.  Chuck Pullman told Dad that the bike was mine, and I caught hell for it.  I guess that there are lots of people who think that I am some kind of innocent, goody-two-shoes who lives some kind of a privileged life; I feel this because so many people seek my demise. 

Tom tore down all of my dad's fruit trees after he died in 1988.  And he replaced them with the ugliest palm trees, eucalyptus, and pine trees.  I liked the eucalyptus but they were too young and so we never really got to enjoy them.  If he wanted shade, he should have kept the huge Chinese Elm tree that shaded almost half the yard in the afternoon.

The magnificent backyard of the Walgenbach home.  What seems like an infinite number of events and memories.  How many barbeques did we hold back here?  How we enjoyed watching Tommy the dog and later Cowboy run wild around the yard after one of us cut the grass.  So many wonderful trees we enjoyed back here too.  I loved that old Elm tree; Mom didn't like it so much because of the millions of tiny leaves that it shed.  I loved it.  It had a thick, scaly trunk, tiny leaves with clustered branches that formed the best outdoor cover.  The branches formed a very comfortable and beautiful umbrella.  Next to that tree was our beloved plum tree.  Why beloved?  It had these terrific white blossoms in early spring that we admired against the dark wood.  The plums that it produced were either too sour or we just couldn't wait and picked them prematurely.  Next to that plum tree was a highly productive lemon tree.  And next to the house was that morass of a banana tree.  Back in the corner, which would be the southwest corner, was an avocado tree.  It was fairly productive, but not great.  Before that, however, that corner contained our peach tree.  Running east next to the avocado tree was our aged and struggling apricot tree.  It was productive and the apricots were sweet and sour.  They were delicious.  To the east of that apricot tree was a beautiful Magnolia tree.  I loved that tree.  It was tall, had large leaves, and nearer to the top of the tree it had huge white flowers that I loved.  I think that was the end of our trees.  The east end of our yard didn't have trees, but at one time or more than one time we had gardens.  I remember seeing my first onions, carrots, and tomatoes grow there.  It was fun.

And there was the recreation of the backyard.  We had a dough-boy pool.  We loved it.  I remember that Mary, in particular, loved it; or at least I remember her satisfying expressions as she waded around the pool once she stepped in.  Dad's efforts to give us happiness were endless.  I remember assembling that pool, filling it up with water, and smelling that plastic in the hot sun before it was filled with water.  And then I remember swimming in it.  Loved it.

In this backyard, we played so many different kinds of sports.  Our family played crochet.  We played badminton.  We played volleyball.  The boys played pickle.  I remember when Sally got me a catcher's mitt for Christmas, I played in the backyard like I was Tom Haller of the Dodgers.  On more than one occasion did I play like was a Dodger.  I pretended to be the All-American Paul Popovich, who used to barehand ground balls hit to him at second base.  I would play catch with my dad.  He would throw a ground ball to me and I would barehand it and throw it back to him.  He would Vin Scully the action and call the play,  "Ground ball to second.  Popovich barehands the ball, flips to Versalles, fires over to Parker at first . . . double play!"  I used to pretend to be Don Drysdale throwing his 68 consecutive no-hit innings.  In fact, I was sitting in my dad's 62 baby blue bug in the Ralph's parking lot in Arcadia when Harry Wendelstedt called the hitter back to the plate after he walked into a Drysdale pitch.  One of the things that my dad bought for me was a pitchback seen here.  I practiced with that for hours.

This view seems so empty.  Chuck's bedroom at the left is vacating his possession for a move to Norwalk.  The dining room is empty and lifeless.  So is the living room with the exception of that storied fireplace that Pete Ramsey from across the street helped my dad build.

Ours was the only home on this culdesac to have this view of the foothills, or Van Tassel, from our front living room seats.  Mom loved that view.  The sunshine invigorated her.  She talked about it as though it had power for her, and for a young girl growing up in the freezing climes of Denver, I am sure that it did.  This was the perfect house to suit her private personality.  How many wonderful memories I have of her here.  One afternoon it had been raining.  I was on my way home from school.  I had reached the corner there in front of Blazer's house.  Mom was standing on the front porch, watching the rain pour down from the roof overhead.  She saw me at the corner and called for me, so I ran to her.  As I reached the lawn and took one step on the concrete landing I slipped and fell flat on my backside.  Mom laughed and said, "Come on, Mike.  Get up and get inside."  She felt bad for me and loved me for running to her. 

A lot of things missing from this scene.  One, Mom's large, guild frame mirror over the fireplace is missing.  Two, Mom used to keep an old decanter of a bust of John Wayne on her mantle.  Gone, too, are Dad's baseball trophies that were used as bookends on the mantle.  And because she loved Joe's carpentry work, she used to keep his glass-top table to the left of the fireplace with a bric-a-brac shelf above it.  Her love seat is out of sight at the bottom right of the picture.

 

So many dear and sweet experiences took place in this room.  That chair there to the right with the Mexican blanket tucked neatly into it was one that my mom enjoyed for other people.  She enjoyed them sitting in it comfortably.  That was important to her.  Is that a natural wish of any hostess or does it conjure up memories of her own mother who used to sit so that she and her siblings could attend to their mama while visiting the orphanage?  I miss that fireplace.  We had some beautifully stoked fires there.  We took it as a point of pride to see what kind of raging, sustained fire anyone of us could produce during the winter months.  As kids, we used to sleep on the floor there next to the fireplace.  I remember sleeping thereafter I broke both of my wrists from playing basketball.  I remember sleeping there on the floor during the 1971 San Fernando earthquake.  We always had a coffee table that sat directly in front of the sofa.  Different kids of sofas over the years.  One year I went with Mom to pick out a ranch-style set of a love seat, sofa, and chair at Sears in Hastings Ranch Pasadena.  She loved shopping for new furniture.  It was a renewal for her.  She used to sit on the love seat in the mornings sipping her coffee and snacking on her mini 3 Musketeers bar with the LA Times and catch up on yesterday's news.  The exercise was good for her.  Then she'd start her daily chores--washing, dusting, folding laundry, ironing some of the laundries, water the front and back lawns, rake leaves if there were any, and trim a few shrubs around the perimeter of the house.  Then she'd come in for a rest, get a beverage, return to her place on the love seat and take in the morning television.  Then it was back up to clean the bathrooms, then wash the dishes and start a late-afternoon dinner for her sons.  It seemed like her work was never done.  When we'd get home from work, she'd ask us to pick something up at the store.  During the summer, I would take her to the Santa Anita Mall just as it opened and promised to be back by 12 or 1pm to pick her up.  When I'd return to the mall to pick her up, she'd have her hands full of bags, a little tired but satisfied.  She would often purchase shirts for her boys.  Imagine that.  Mom was thinking of me while she shopped.

Over that mantle above the fireplace laid nailed to the wall for years a large, gilded framed mirror.  She loved that mirror.  Whether you were walking into the house through the front door or walking out, one could not help look at oneself.  From the living, one could see people in the kitchen, mainly at the sink.  And from the kitchen sink, one could see people coming through the front door.  The loss of this home has produced for me bitter feelings.

That wood laminate flooring was put in on the advice of the real estate agent, Mark Peterson.  Prior to that there the dining room floor was carpeted and the kitchen had linoleum tile.  

Wow.  I can't tell you how many memories I have of this great room, the dining room.  That hardwood veneer is new.  It was laid in preparation for the sale of the house.  It used to be carpet, the same colored carpet that ran throughout the house.  So let's see, what is missing from this room that gave it its life and beauty?  Well, the first thing that I notice that is missing is the Van Gogh painting "The Pink Orchard."  I remember when she picked it out.  Catherine Carlassare was kind and generous enough to lend me Chato's print catalog, and I remember how Mom chose the picture judiciously since she was ready to accept the idea of having art hanging on the wall of one of her guarded rooms.  But this room, this dining room was special.  My dad used to write his Christmas cards on the oval table in this dining room.  He'd be up early penning his cards, drawing a rosy face of Santa Claus with phrases scrolled on the face of the envelope "And a Merry Christmas to your Mailman!"  Though he read mostly at the bar, which is just behind this photo, Dad did enjoy sitting at the table on occasion and sprawl the LA Times or the Herald-Examiner.  His favorite comic strips from either paper were Blondie, Hagar the Horrible, Family Circus, and Beetle Bailey.  As I remember, I think that he began to tire with that last one.  He was not a fan of the British humor in Andy Capp; nor was he a fan of BC.  Actually, from inside this room, there were so many memories for me.  It was in this room that I'd heard in 1988 Oral Herschieser's consecutive inning record performed and that of Don Drysdale walking onto the field to congratulate him.