52 Years and Counting

Labor Day weekend 1973 my parents and I moved into my dad's favorite house in Palos Verdes. We had moved from my grandparents' house in Inglewood and became a part of "white flight" from the South Bay onto "the Hill".

I had only ever lived in one house in Inglewood. And, while I understood the growing racial and dangerous issues, I still hated to move away. I had no friends. I was forced into a public high school - having only attended Catholic elementary school. I think it took a couple of months for my parents to realize the adjustment wasn't happening - it never even started. There was no adjustment to be made.

I left in 1977 and only spent two nights in the house until 2005: the night my father died in 1986 and once in early 2005 when my mother was dying. After she passed, it took another 3 months for me to finally move in. By then I had several households to combine into mine: mine, Mom's, Grandma's, Great Aunt's, Mom's best friend's, etc. What a time I've had.

I retired last year and have finally made this house my house. It has been painful and expensive but I believe I belong here - finally. I've done some upgrades: new roof, air conditioning, and new landscaping, front and back. Currently working on fencing for all three sides. I might just take a breath and relax.

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