I was taking a break from working on the computer this morning, idly scanning the bookcase, and my eyes happened to fall on the title "Jack Smith's L.A." by Jack Smith. Being reminded of the fact that I own this book brought a smile to my face. I don't remember where I found this treasure, probably Recycle Bookstore in San Jose, but the pencilled price on the inside says it was a steal at $4.63. The quick way to describe it would be as a collection of essays, on various aspects of Los Angeles, written during the seventies by Jack Smith. I'll have to add a little context to explain why it is so much more than that, for me at least.
From about the age of ten, until I left LA for undergrad at the age of eighteen, Jack Smith's column in the Times was the only part of the paper that I read on a regular basis. He was an extremely talented communicator and two things always came through in his work: his love of Los Angeles and his ability to write about the city as if it were a small town. His columns often felt like a conversation with a neighbor you happened to bump into. I particularly like this descriptive blurb, taken from the back cover of the book:
Jack Smith writes like your father would write if he could, like your brother would write if he could, like your neighbor would write if he could. He is wise, he is witty, he is heartwarming. We need him, because he is us.Of course, the fact that we really were neighbors (in Los Angeles terms at least) might've had something to do with the attraction. He lived in Mount Washington - part of a collection of hills rather than an actual mountain - and we lived on the other side of those hills in Glassell Park. Every so often he would write a column detailing some aspect of life in Northeast LA and those were extra special. Skimming through the book I came across one of my favorite examples of that type of column:- Ray Bradbury
[Apparently, Ray thought that mothers and sisters already wrote well enough, so mentioning them would be unneccessary.]
County Landfill No. 4I have my own fond memories of the Scholl Canyon dump and reading these paragraphs brought them rushing back. When we had our almost-fire a large number of possessions suffered irrepairable smoke damage and we ended up taking many of them to the dump. There was something so utterly cool about disposing of our garbage right next to the dumptrucks while the huge earthmovers worked in the distance. Kind of like getting a peek into the locker room at a professional sporting event or being invited into the swanky dining room at the uptown country club. I'm sure there was no romanticism involved for those who did this on a regular basis but for me it was the chance to see into another world - a world with huge powerful monstrous machines - and not just as an observer but as a participant. I really loved those excursions.
Spring must have come late to County Landfill No. 4, also known as the Scholl Canyon dump. The road to the dump rises through the hills above Eagle Rock, and I found the wildflowers, weeds and bushes in full bloom when I drove up with a load of trash.
It was early Monday morning, the dump being closed on Sunday. I had started cleaning out the garage over the weekend, and this was my first load of nonbiodegradable debris. I was cleaning out the garage for the last time, I had promised myself, and was determined that this time everything must go, including the sentiment that had caused us to accumulate so much junk in the first place.
The road trembled under the huge rubbish trucks grinding their way up to the landfill site and back. It was a mile or two from North Figueroa Street to the summit, where the weigh-in station stands beside a small green oasis. I pulled up behind an enormous white truck and another one pulled up behind me. It was a thrill, driving my little green minitruck up there with the big boys.
...
The dump figured in my childhood in another way - the older section had been turned into baseball fields and this was where our little league played. It wasn't off the same road, instead of entering from Eagle Rock you had to go into Glendale and all the way up Glenoaks canyon, almost as if they were trying to disassociate the park with the dump. By no stretch of the imagination was it a state-of-the-art facility and the outfield, where I roamed my last year of little league, was especially bumpy. But it was much better than the place where we played our away games - the one with the cement home plate and the rock garden in left.
There was an additional section, slightly up the hill from the baseball fields, that had a golf course and tennis complex. Unfortunately, this part was often closed to the public. Apparently there was still a lot of volatile decomposition going on and the presence of flammable gases rendered the area unsafe. Even on the best of days there was a hint of methane pervading the area. Many people, however, interpreted the road closure as optional and you would see them walking in the closed off areas. It didn't help that the route to a favorite Rose Bowl overlook led past the shuttered complex. Our family walked that trail many times, and to this day I do not understand why a person would pay to watch the Fourth of July fireworks show when they could hike for half an hour and watch it for free.
This has turned into even more of a ramble than usual, but it's a perfect example of why I love Jack Smith. His best columns spark mental digressions as I bounce from memory to memory and, at the end, I'm left with a warm fuzzy feeling. I read his work and am reminded of something I hadn't thought about in twenty years. He truly was a gifted chronicler and the city of Los Angeles lost a great spokesman when he died.
So here's a toast to Jack Smith and County Landfill No. 4. One is no longer with us and the other will always be there.
