A Man in the House

Life continued as normally as was possible during a world war. Not only were there two babies in the house, but my mother’s family had also always kept cats. The cats had full run of the house and the surrounding hills. Unfortunately, one of my sharpest memories of my grandmother’s home is of the smell of cat urine. It was a pervasive smell and hard to ignore. I have always said that if my home ever began to smell like that of my grandmother, I would no longer have cats.

In the 1940s, resources were in short supply and the idea of spaying and neutering cats and dogs had not really taken hold. In addition, veterinary services were rarely sought unless a cat of dog needed to be put down. I can remember being upset when my sweet grandmother quickly drowned a kitten that had been born deformed. My aunt buried it in the backyard alongside other feline graves. The number of cats varied, but several arrived to be fed each day. The cats were pets, sitting on laps, climbing in cribs with babies, and producing kittens with some frequency. Because they were not neutered, it was common for the male cats to spray to mark their territory; this was one of the primary sources of the nasty cat smell in the house.  I really did not notice the strong smell when I was very young; I imagine I was simply accustomed to it—living in the house every day. (When I was older and came back to visit, I was repelled by the odor.) 

Apparently, my mother’s favorite cat was a queen called Iggin. She was a polydactyl cat with extra toes she used like fingers. She liked asparagus, which she held by the stem with her toes while she ate it. She apparently was a good hunter, too. Her most frequent offerings to her people were lizards—often lacking the tails they had shed during the hunt. Unfortunately, the household cats tended to be a bit inbred, because of the frequency with which they reproduced. Apparently, one of my first full sentences reported Iggin’s demise, poisoned. As she collapsed in front of my high chair, I announced: “Iggin fall down dead.” Since I was under age two, my announcement was met with surprise and then dismay when Iggin’s death was verified by my mother. 

After the Allied Forces declared victory in Europe, various units of the United States military were demobilized and sent home. Ahead of their trips home, soldiers and sailor attempted to send gifts home to their families. Unfortunately, many packages were plundered by people handling the mail. It was not uncommon for packages to arrive at their destinations virtually empty. My father did manage to bring my mother’s favorite French perfume, Arpege, from France. My brother promptly poured it out on the floor. My mother mopped it up with tissues she stored for many years in a tight jar. I remember her tucking them into her bodice so that she could wear the scent.

When my father arrived home, he moved into the house with my mother, my grandmother, my aunt, my brother and me. I was terrified of a large, loud man in the house. I had not bonded with him as an infant, and he and I had a rough start that was punctuated later in my life with many misunderstandings. My father was apparently quite overwhelmed by coming home to two babies he had never met and a house full of women. The situation was traumatic for everyone, but the adults tried to make the best of it.

After spending time in the Civilian Conservation Corps as a firefighter, my father had hoped to go into the US Forest Service or into state forestry, where my maternal grandfather had earlier been a deputy director. Those hopes were quickly dashed by the need to make a living as soon as possible. To obtain and be processed for a civil service job typically takes considerably longer than to acquire and start a job in the private sector. The urgent need for an income caused my parents to ask my mother’s two uncles, who worked at the Wonder Bread bakery, for help. My father always had excellent mechanical skills; he was a motor pool sergeant during his stint in the Army—even though he was a paratrooper. He was offered and took a job as a maintenance engineer in the bakery. He worked the swing shift there for the next twelve years.

Clearly, the family had already outgrown my grandmother’s small house, so once my father had an income he and my mother started to look for a house to buy. Before long, the house next door to my grandmother’s house became available and they were able to purchase it. It was a one bedroom, one bath house with a closed in porch, which my father turned into two small bedrooms.

My sister Laura was born not long after the house was purchased; she is only three and one-half years younger than I. A year later my brother, Stephen, was born. He was a not unwelcome surprise. The two tiny bedrooms were now full. In many ways, life did not change much for the children in the family; we still had access to our grandmother and aunt. My father, I’m sure, was relieved by moving even next door.

An Oasis in the City

The property where my mother and aunt were raised was less than eight miles from the center of downtown Los Angeles. We had access to a grocery, pharmacy, family doctor, and bakery within six or seven short city blocks. The neighborhood was densely populated and mostly White in the 1940s. It was a bedroom community for many people, including my aunt, who worked in downtown Los Angeles. 

My grandmother’s best friend owned a neighborhood bakery that bore her name—Maybell’s Bakery. It was located on the southwest corner of the York Boulevard and Milwaukee Avenue intersection. Next to it was an Italian grocery store that had a good delicatessen counter. I remember their sandwiches very well. The same family that owned the grocery owned a liquor store across the street on the north side of York Boulevard. Our family doctor was located a block east from the bakery also on York Boulevard. For many years, there was also a pharmacy on the southeast corner of York Boulevard at Avenue 57.  Diagonally across the street from the pharmacy was a general grocery store—one I remember my mother sending me to when she needed one or two items. Thus, we could walk to get almost anything we needed.  

1029 Milwaukee Avenue, Los Angeles

The house where we lived at 1029 Milwaukee, still exists. The outside appearance has changed; in fact, it has improved. It originally had green siding (probably containing asbestos), and it is now beige stucco. There was a low chain link fence around the front yard; it has been replaced by a wrought iron and stucco fence.

My grandfather, Warner Lincoln Marsh, had landscaped the yard when my mother and aunt were young. (A third child, a girl for whom I am named died at the age of six.) Warner Marsh was one of the original landscape architects in the United States, and he planted many fruit trees and exotic plants in the yard. The most prominent fruit trees were two feijoa trees, commonly known in the United States as pineapple guavas. At least one is still alive and visible to the right of the house in the photo above. During my childhood, the trees were heavy with fruit each autumn. The fruit dropped gently into deep Saint Augustine grass, which cushioned them.  It was the job of the children in the family, even at toddler age, to gather the fruit. We ate a great deal of the fruit while we collected it. Somehow, my grandmother knew that the fruit was a great source of Vitamin C, so consumption was encouraged. 

The property was terraced. The lower level had additional fruit trees, including a tall persimmon tree on the south side of the house and a white fig tree near the clothesline in the backyard. In addition, there was a giant apple tree that bore three different varieties of apple. My grandfather had grafted three kinds of apple onto a hearty tree. I have clear memories of sitting on the back porch peeling apples for pie with my mother and grandmother. Looking back, it surprises me that they gave me such a sharp knife when I was less than nine years old.

My brother and I had the run on the entire yard, even as toddlers. We played in the dirt; I can remember putting sweet alyssum blossoms as meringue on my chocolate (mud) pies. We spent most of the year barefooted over the objections of my mother who had very tender feet; she constantly worried we would step on something sharp or be stung by bees. Both happened, and we survived.