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Lemon Grove – writing contest winner
Trenchant memories from the Monterey Heights area
Most of the people in the area keep up their homes.
I had become accustomed to it. Now I look back to 17 years ago when we first moved in. I see changes, many upsetting. We were raising two foster sons then and wanted a house for them. This section was then called Halecrest Heights. The houses were unfinished. The road was a quagmire of piled dirt. Neighbors did not know one another. The name of our street was Watwood (adjacent to Canton Drive, and near the Monterey Heights area of Lemon Grove, south of the town itself. We were told it was the name of a man. If he ever had half the trouble with it that we have had telling it to people I don’t think he would have inflicted it on a street.
There wasn’t even minimum planting when we moved in, just before Thanksgiving. The backyard slanted toward the house and it poured — yes, the yard itself literally poured into our gold-carpeted livingroom when the heavy rain softened the stone-hard dirt into mud. Two boys, a dog and two cats didn’t help matters much.
We hung sheets at the windows until the drapes arrived. One by one we met nearby neighbors. Slowly yards were planted with trees and shrubs, the road was paved. The school was a few blocks away. Time flew.
After three years, some of the neighbors we used to play cards with, or visit with, moved away. Some houses changed owners more than once. When the boys left, the let-down was terrific.
By then my eyes had failed and I had to stop driving and take the bus. At that time it left from the corner of our street.
Then came a shocking discovery that some of the many robberies hitting our neighborhood were being done by youngsters we had had in to help us in house or yard. We were hit three times and installed special lights, identification marks, locks, etc. Windows and doors that had been left unlocked or even open to enjoy the life and view outside were closed. No one wanted to walk out at night — even accompanied.
By now there was only one family left for friends, but we didn’t want to leave, as all the plants, trees, etc. were raised by us, tended and cared for like children to achieve their present beauty. We had good fenced yards for our animals.
The next blow came when the SD Transit took off the bus for those of us who lived in the middle section of Lemon Grove. By that time I had bad foot trouble. The bus company and I have had about a three-year correspondence — many things involved — suggestions — praise — complaints — and always trying to get one of the buses that skirt Lemon Grove to come down the middle. I have had to give up afternoon classes in San Diego so as not to get home too late. Even so, it takes three buses, two hours and a daily mile walk along a mostly unpaved road; the sun, like a baleful eye, making stumbling a common occurrence. There are a few sidewalks here and there, but in poor condition. When I walk up and down those hills in the rain with an umbrella and the usual things bus riders have to carry, cars pass, soaking me. I don't expect people to stop and offer me a ride, but it doesn’t help the ego to have cars pass you as if you weren’t even there. There are two culverts which cars hit — some with great glee— and the water spouts up like a cascade. During our first very heavy rain a car-load of adolescents passed me, soaking me, then one of them shouted out, “That’ll teach you to walk in the road!” There wasn’t any place else to walk.
I have been a teacher and always loved children of all ages. They were a constant delight to be with and listen to. I keep wondering what has happened to all those enjoyable youngsters?
Riding buses has given me happiness in good friends. Several have lasted through years. One Japanese woman rode the bus with her little girl and she would walk with me part way, as she lives on Canton. Since I had been in Japan for three years, it was interesting to try a little Japanese on her and to hear her talk. She was the typical polite, sweet, lovely Japanese that I met so many of at one time. Her little girl was very American, but young as she was she could carry on an intelligent conversation. We have many cultures and religions in our area now. More and more are coming in. Most of the families now have small children. Most of the mothers work. None rides buses.
Monterey Heights School has been made a community school and has many interests for people wanting and able to afford them. Because most of them are at night, I do not attend any.
Most of the people in the area keep up their homes and so this is a family oriented, neat-appearing area. Children play ball in the streets. They also pick the berries from the eugenia hedges to eat. Sometimes they even climb into the hedges to pick the berries.
We have strange birds which sing beautifully all night. We had a truly operatic songster who scaled unbelievable heights in our big yard wide tree, until the tree became top heavy and fell down. It was like losing a child to have that tree cut down to the bare trunk. It had given us so much shade and privacy; now we had to buy special screens to give us some privacy and shade. It was heartening to see new branches and leaves starting last week.
We are about a mile from the town itself. From time to time there have been stores down the hill and across the tracks, but they are gone.
It is thrilling at Christmas time to look out from our high backyard and see the silent lights twinkling all around, or during a brilliant day to see the sun sparkling on the bay, or even to watch the cars going endlessly up and down the main streets below. Even the infrequent train with its doleful, nostalgic whistle, adds.
Having built up our home, and holding many memories, the good outdoing the bad, even though it is lonesome, I don't want to leave it. One thing in particular always holds me spellbound. For a while I was blind. When three operations restored sight in one eye, I sat immobile for hours looking out over the hills, seeing all the things I had not before. And even now, my patio door frames the western sky, ever changing, like a gigantic picture of which you never tire. Watching it, all cares, hurts, and upsets leave, and the quiet and peace being watched steals deep inside, and I love my neighborhood.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Lemon Grove – writing contest winner
Trenchant memories from the Monterey Heights area
Lemon Grove – writing contest winner
Trenchant memories from the Monterey Heights area
Most of the people in the area keep up their homes.
I had become accustomed to it. Now I look back to 17 years ago when we first moved in. I see changes, many upsetting. We were raising two foster sons then and wanted a house for them. This section was then called Halecrest Heights. The houses were unfinished. The road was a quagmire of piled dirt. Neighbors did not know one another. The name of our street was Watwood (adjacent to Canton Drive, and near the Monterey Heights area of Lemon Grove, south of the town itself. We were told it was the name of a man. If he ever had half the trouble with it that we have had telling it to people I don’t think he would have inflicted it on a street.
There wasn’t even minimum planting when we moved in, just before Thanksgiving. The backyard slanted toward the house and it poured — yes, the yard itself literally poured into our gold-carpeted livingroom when the heavy rain softened the stone-hard dirt into mud. Two boys, a dog and two cats didn’t help matters much.
We hung sheets at the windows until the drapes arrived. One by one we met nearby neighbors. Slowly yards were planted with trees and shrubs, the road was paved. The school was a few blocks away. Time flew.
After three years, some of the neighbors we used to play cards with, or visit with, moved away. Some houses changed owners more than once. When the boys left, the let-down was terrific.
By then my eyes had failed and I had to stop driving and take the bus. At that time it left from the corner of our street.
Then came a shocking discovery that some of the many robberies hitting our neighborhood were being done by youngsters we had had in to help us in house or yard. We were hit three times and installed special lights, identification marks, locks, etc. Windows and doors that had been left unlocked or even open to enjoy the life and view outside were closed. No one wanted to walk out at night — even accompanied.
By now there was only one family left for friends, but we didn’t want to leave, as all the plants, trees, etc. were raised by us, tended and cared for like children to achieve their present beauty. We had good fenced yards for our animals.
The next blow came when the SD Transit took off the bus for those of us who lived in the middle section of Lemon Grove. By that time I had bad foot trouble. The bus company and I have had about a three-year correspondence — many things involved — suggestions — praise — complaints — and always trying to get one of the buses that skirt Lemon Grove to come down the middle. I have had to give up afternoon classes in San Diego so as not to get home too late. Even so, it takes three buses, two hours and a daily mile walk along a mostly unpaved road; the sun, like a baleful eye, making stumbling a common occurrence. There are a few sidewalks here and there, but in poor condition. When I walk up and down those hills in the rain with an umbrella and the usual things bus riders have to carry, cars pass, soaking me. I don't expect people to stop and offer me a ride, but it doesn’t help the ego to have cars pass you as if you weren’t even there. There are two culverts which cars hit — some with great glee— and the water spouts up like a cascade. During our first very heavy rain a car-load of adolescents passed me, soaking me, then one of them shouted out, “That’ll teach you to walk in the road!” There wasn’t any place else to walk.
I have been a teacher and always loved children of all ages. They were a constant delight to be with and listen to. I keep wondering what has happened to all those enjoyable youngsters?
Riding buses has given me happiness in good friends. Several have lasted through years. One Japanese woman rode the bus with her little girl and she would walk with me part way, as she lives on Canton. Since I had been in Japan for three years, it was interesting to try a little Japanese on her and to hear her talk. She was the typical polite, sweet, lovely Japanese that I met so many of at one time. Her little girl was very American, but young as she was she could carry on an intelligent conversation. We have many cultures and religions in our area now. More and more are coming in. Most of the families now have small children. Most of the mothers work. None rides buses.
Monterey Heights School has been made a community school and has many interests for people wanting and able to afford them. Because most of them are at night, I do not attend any.
Most of the people in the area keep up their homes and so this is a family oriented, neat-appearing area. Children play ball in the streets. They also pick the berries from the eugenia hedges to eat. Sometimes they even climb into the hedges to pick the berries.
We have strange birds which sing beautifully all night. We had a truly operatic songster who scaled unbelievable heights in our big yard wide tree, until the tree became top heavy and fell down. It was like losing a child to have that tree cut down to the bare trunk. It had given us so much shade and privacy; now we had to buy special screens to give us some privacy and shade. It was heartening to see new branches and leaves starting last week.
We are about a mile from the town itself. From time to time there have been stores down the hill and across the tracks, but they are gone.
It is thrilling at Christmas time to look out from our high backyard and see the silent lights twinkling all around, or during a brilliant day to see the sun sparkling on the bay, or even to watch the cars going endlessly up and down the main streets below. Even the infrequent train with its doleful, nostalgic whistle, adds.
Having built up our home, and holding many memories, the good outdoing the bad, even though it is lonesome, I don't want to leave it. One thing in particular always holds me spellbound. For a while I was blind. When three operations restored sight in one eye, I sat immobile for hours looking out over the hills, seeing all the things I had not before. And even now, my patio door frames the western sky, ever changing, like a gigantic picture of which you never tire. Watching it, all cares, hurts, and upsets leave, and the quiet and peace being watched steals deep inside, and I love my neighborhood.
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