My Grandparents Lived in Santa paula

Richard Nichols 2.15.2011

My Grandparents Lived in Santa Paula

My mothers family moved from Waco Texas to California in the early 1930s. My grandfather worked for Union Oil Company and the family moved because of work in the oil field in the South Mountain area above Santa Paula, in Ventura County, about 70 miles north of Los Angeles. In those days Santa Paula was a small town and still has that feeling despite the inevitable growth of Southern California. Oil production (much diminished) and citrus have been the economic engines of the town. When my mother was young the family lived up in the hills near the oil wells, and came down to Santa Paula for school.

My father rode the rails out to California from Missouri during the depression, and being an enterprising man, soon found work in Santa Paula, in a tire recapping shop. My parents met at a baseball game played by the local semi-pro team.

I was born at Whittier Hospital in 1942, and lived in Whittier, Pico Rivera and Montebello. During childhood my parents took us to see my grandparents several time a year. For my entire life now, I have returned to Santa Paula and Ventura to visit: my Grandparents as a child, my  Aunt and Uncle later, and my sister.

Some of my earliest memories are of trips to Santa Paula. In the late 40's, before freeways, Los Angeles was still a big city, and my dad would drive the big black (so it seemed) Chevy across the LA basin, on surface streets. There were a few special places that we always badgered my father to drive by. The Wrigley Mansion was one. This grand 'house" of 16,000 SF was built by the gum magnate in 1929 on Orange Grove Drive in Pasadena for his wife so she could watch the Rose Parade in comfort. He died in the place only a few years later. We drove slowly by the mansion and sometimes circled for a second look, and commented on the huge size and elaborate exterior, green lawns and palm trees gracing the grounds. We also clamored to drive by a spooky looking overgrown mansion with castle like towers. We always said it was haunted or that a witch lived there. Another attraction, and must do, was to drive across the narrow bridge spanning high above Arroyo Seco.

Out into the countryside, we drove through the tiny hamlet of Thousand Oaks. We often stopped along the two-lane road at a place called Jungleland that kept exotic animals used in Hollywood movies. The elephant was brought out at noon to be fed, and if the timing was right, we watched the spectacle. It is all gone. A six lane freeway bisects the valley of the thousand oaks, and 130,000 people live in the city.

Turning toward Santa Paula at Castiac Junction with a gas station and cafe called Sam's Place, ( now Magic Mountain amusement park is nearby) the road took us down Santa Clara Valley, full of thousands of acres of citrus and avocado ranches. The dry rugged mountains within Angeles National Forest define the valley, and the home of the Sespe Condor Sanctuary is in that country. Even today the citrus industry is thriving and the valley is much as it was 60 years ago. 

My grandparents lived in a modest old frame bungalow on Park Street lined with other bungalows. The little front lawns were not fenced so the lawns were a playground and the neighbors were friendly. My Grandmother was the main attraction. She simply glowed with warmth. A hug from her was like being hugged by an angel. Her kitchen was always full of the smells of cooking, always something good to eat. I can't remember what all that good food was, but I suspect that peach pie was one of the treats, because there was a peach tree in the backyard full of juicy ripe fruit. I adored my Grandmother like no other member of my family.

The street dead-ended at a hillside, and at the end, a man kept fruit trees. He kept the birds from the fruit by shooting them with an air rifle. My dad and I would often take the steep trail up the hill and I played and ran among the fragrant Eucalyptus trees.

My grandmother got sick in 1950 when I was 8 years old. In those days people who were ill often stayed at home. Grandma was in her bedroom, and our family was gathered in the living room. In the early evening my sister and I were sent three doors down to the neighbors house to have a treat, or some such ruse to get us to go. Later on in the evening a terrible indescribable feeling came over me and I dashed tearfully out of the house and down the row of lawns. The lawns, the little concrete walkways, and the houses flashed by in my panicked sprint. Back in my grandparents house in the little living room, everyone was in tears. The room suddenly felt oppressive. My warm and sweet grandmother had died just moments before.

In recent years I've gone to Park Street to see that little house, the container and symbol of the warmth of a loving grandmother. The house that meant so much to me as a child is still there, but now stuccoed over and characterless, all sense of bungalow gone, the peach tree is gone, and the small lot covered in asphalt.