Nostalgic for the old Red Cars
One of the consolations of old age is nostalgia. Even at a time when our memories are becoming fuzzy, we cherish things from our youth that no longer exist. Does their absence fuel our fondness for them?
We may find out if Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa’s dream of mass transit improvements becomes reality. His plan would mitigate freeway gridlock with rapid bus and train service funded by the half-cent sales tax (approved by voters two years ago) and a federal loan. The mayor, who sits on the county transportation board, also proposes to complete the project in just 10 years, providing a boost to the economy and local jobs.
I admit to harboring a deep resentment toward the automobile, tire and gasoline interests that pushed our beloved streetcars onto the trash heap of history, or at least to some Orange County museum. To be fair, General Motors, Firestone Tire and Standard Oil of California were acquitted of conspiring to monopolize transportation in what became known as the Great American Streetcar Scandal. Although they were convicted on lesser charges, the penalties imposed were miniscule.
My childhood freedom and, to some extent, independence depended almost entirely on the streetcar, which carried me to the beach, the library, the movies and all manners of entertainment. In the days before television or electronic games, we relied on simpler diversions. We played outdoors with the dogs, the swing set, bicycles, roller skates and the fearsome Flexible Flyer. Absent brakes and with dodgy steering, the sled flew in a headlong rush down Hillcrest Road often crashing into boxwood hedges or scraping across neighbors’ lawns to avoid the cross street.
When the weather drove us indoors, I played vinyl records (78 singles), transcribing what I heard to the piano, read forbidden books or hung out in the kitchen where I was sometimes allowed to stir, lick spoons, inhale delicious aromas and absorb the subtleties of cooking.
For sheer escape, however, the streetcar was needed. I could walk a block and a half to Santa Monica Boulevard, wait maybe 10 minutes, drop a coin or two into the glass meter thing and head west to the village for a chocolate soda or a movie. The last line to the beach was closed in 1950 but I could still get a transfer to the bus that went north on Veteran Avenue and west on San Vicente to 26th Street. On that corner there was the new Brentwood Country Mart and the old drug store with its marble soda fountain. A short walk through a lovely residential neighborhood took me to where the horses were, where I got my first jobs at the polo fields flagging goals, posting scores on the big board or walking hot ponies after their sponge baths.
When I got my Driver’s License, I shared a car with my dad. He bought a Nash Rambler convertible, a simple, thrifty coupe with a little panache. And I abandoned the streetcar.
The rules were: Drive Dad to the studio (a couple miles), go to school (just next door), pick Dad up at 5 p.m. sharp and take him home. This gave him a chance to monitor my driving skills and made me feel more responsible, if somewhat less free.
In 1954, they shut down my beloved streetcar line, but I didn’t miss it right away. By then, the family had moved to Malibu, and like everyone else, I had to rely on an automobile to get just about anyplace. The new freeways-Hollywood, Pasadena, San Bernardino and Harbor-were open but already seemed congested, and the downtown (Cloverleaf) interchange was always problematic. Helicopters, one for every TV station, monitored the flow, or lack thereof caused by crashes, slowdowns, high-speed chases. “Rush hour” and “crush” joined the lexicon.
Someone once said: If you keep widening roadways and building express lanes, by the time they’re finished, they are obsolete. Whoever said it got that right. Caltrans keeps “improving” freeways but before the cement dries and the K-rails are removed, more cars clog the extra lanes. There seems to be no time of day when traffic flows smoothly on any major road or surface street. Without reinstating light and heavy rail lines, transportation within the city and suburbs will always crawl, wasting gas, fouling the air and spurring road rage.
Industry pushed for and got this insane dependence on personal automobiles. And housing developers fell in line, mapping out subdivisions where walking is discouraged, if not impossible, and even the simplest errand requires taking out the car.
Well, my hat’s off to Villaraigosa. May he prevail in his effort to solve, or at least abate, the city’s transportation woes. And while I long to ride once again on the streetcar, the shiny Red Car that gave me freedom, I realize how unlikely that is.
We can just chalk that up to nostalgia.