There are places I’ll remember
All my life, though some have changed.
Some forever, not for better;
Some have gone and some remain.

“In My Life” – The Beatles

I hope you will indulge me, thoughtful reader.  Because I would like to share a very personal moment, a milestone with you.  I said goodbye to Glendale, and my beloved city of the angels, Los Angeles, yesterday.  It was a meaningful day, filled with memories.  Time had turned even the bad ones into good.  I was reminded how life is like a hallway with thousands of doors.  You can’t see what’s behind each door, but you choose one.  In some cases, one is chosen for you.  Once you cross over its threshold, the door closes behind you.  All the other possibilities are no longer available to you.  And before you now lies your life.  Sometimes we wonder “what if I had gone through a different door?” but that is pointless, because the die was cast the moment you walked through the door you did. 

It has been two years now since I lost my father, four since I lost my mother.  And in that time, I have come to have a new appreciation for both of them.  It’s true what they say:  when your parents are gone, you will think of all the things you should have told them when they were alive, and you will regret leaving them unspoken.  So if I may offer some unsolicited advice:  if your parents are still living, tell them you love them, tell them you understand the sacrifices they made to make your life not only possible, but wonderful.  Apologize for your teenaged years.  Forgive them for whatever that thing is that has come between you, and realize that nothing – nothing! – is more important than family.

Curt and Richard, two of our longest-serving volunteers here at Stonewall Gardens Assisted Living, picked me up at 10 as Gordon looked on with a very worried look; he knows that when we get the transport chair out and I transfer to it from my powerchair, I’m going somewhere – he makes a face that says, “where are you going and can I come?”  I don’t travel much beyond my residence here in the Coachella Valley; given my disability, it is difficult:  wheelchairs, ramps, disabled bathrooms – it’s a lot of work for me, and anyone traveling with me.

Bathed in sunshine, we set out from Palm Springs on a bright, crisp desert morning.  Whizzing past the windfarm in the San Gorgonio Pass, we made our way 2 hours (109 miles) west to Los Angeles.  By the time we got as far as Yucaipa, I remembered what it’s like in the city of the angels this time of year as a thick cloud cover, known as the marine layer, descended upon us and turned everything cold and misty and grey.  Angelenos have a name for this seasonal weather phenomenon; they call it June Gloom, preceded by her springtime friend, May Grey.

Pulling into Glendale around noon, our first stop was Acapulco restaurant on Pacific Avenue at the corner of Burchett Street.  It was my mom and dad’s favorite restaurant.  It bills itself as a Mexican restaurant, but that’s a bit like calling The Olive Garden an Italian restaurant.  We were joined at Acapulco by my boyhood friend Mike, his wife Amiee, my niece Sophia, and my sister Patricia.  And as we enjoyed our lunch together, the marine layer burned off outside and we exited the restaurant to cerulean blue skies and sunshine.  A perfect LA day.

Then it was on to the highlight of the trip for me:  one last visit to the house in Glendale where I grew up.    With my parents gone, the concept of “home” has changed.  Until their passing, no matter where I was or what I was doing, home was where they were – Glendale; now, Glendale and LA are a place to visit, filled with memories, and Palm Springs is home.

We loaded up in Mike’s car and did a driving tour of the city.  The first stop was this lonely stretch of road behind Glendale founder Leslie Brand’s mansion, Miradero.  It was here in August of 1974 that I was sitting on the grass eating a sandwich with my friend Tory at that first curve in the road when an out-of-control blue, 1964 Chevy Nova, jumped the curb and rolled over us.  Tory’s 8 years of life ended there.  May he rest in peace.  And may his memory be a blessing.

Then it was up the winding roads of Hillcrest Canyon in the Verdugo Mountains that form Glendale’s dramatic backdrop, past the leftover foundations of long-gone houses and houses built into and on the steep sides of the hills.  How many times in the dead of night had friends and I ridden bikes up the unlit canyon, daring each other to run up and ring the doorbell of one of those houses which usually only had a single light on and was clearly occupied by a witch waiting to capture us as ingredients for the boiling cauldron of soup she had been preparing?  And now here we were taking a leisurely afternoon drive through the canyon in Mike’s Volvo!

There were a few more stops on our magical mystery tour of this LA suburb, like Nibley park where I used to play on the swings and the slides as a child, and Louise Gardens, the apartment building where mom and dad and I lived for the first two years of my life (Patty didn’t come along until six years later).

Until this trip, I always thought I chose a door, opened it, and walked into my life.  But yesterday I was overcome with the realization that if Bob and Mary Wilkinson hadn’t chosen the door marked “adopt a child” these memories would not be mine to recall. My hallway of doors was what was behind their door.

It was Patty’s idea.  I stayed in the car because there is no way to get my wheelchair up the gently sloping hill at Forest Lawn where our parents are buried.  And, between you and me, the wheelchair thing was an excuse because I was too emotional. We laid flowers on their final resting place on a hill overlooking Glendale. Their memory is my greatest blessing.