Yesterday, in Manhattan Beach, the low pressure storm that had blown in a few days earlier lingered. Evident in the sky were dark clouds. Visible in the ocean were enormous waves. The sand was wet and filled with debris, for the high tides had come ashore the night before, and soaked everything along the beach.
It was New Year’s Eve, the last day of 2023, a year of personal growth in a world that seemed to be going backward intellectually, morally and ethically. All I could to steady myself was to tune out much of the noise, especially online, and for the first time in decades I didn’t watch the news, and I limited how many opinions I read.
I try and do my best and hope for a positive outcome.
There were many dramatic scenes from the “record breaking” winter storm which slammed into Southern California over the weekend: downed trees, car crashes, torrential rains, rapid water speeding down concrete channels, trees bent over in the winds, dark clouds and intermittent sunshine.
The Southern California mountains were like Switzerland before global warming, buried in many feet of snow.
Our well-fed people went up there in monster trucks and three-ton SUVs; McDonalds, sodas and donuts on laps; to enjoy the novelty. They wore their best black sweatshirts and black elastic pants to frolic in the white stuff.
An old man driving down slippery Kester Avenue near Vanowen had to avoid an enormous tree that fell down, so he accelerated, instead, into the same apartment building where the tree toppled down. He caused major damage but escaped with minor injuries. The unfortunate apartments and its residents had to evacuate but many stayed put. Once again bad driving caused misery for innocents.
A news helicopter was kind enough to rotate around the accident early the next morning around 6am, gently waking up thousands as it chopped, chopped, chopped overhead, broadcasting yet another bad accident to a sleep deprived audience which can never get enough.
Sunday morning, 6:45am.
The power had officially turned off last Friday, February 24, 2023 at about 8pm. Then it turned on, then it went off, and then it went back on. Our internet went out, as we were marooned halfway through “You”, episode 6, season 1, a horrible, odious, superficial show on Netflix full of self-absorbed young Manhattan people which we cannot stop watching.
Though our power is now on, it is weak, and all the normal things that we rely on, lights, oven, furnace, fans, are at 50% or are not working at all. There has been no heat in the house so we used an electric space heater, but that portable device, like a 58-year-old erotic dancer, emits a pathetic and hobbled hotness.
Yet there is nothing so tragic in our current calamity to compare to people living in war zones, under occupation, under dictatorship or without rule of law. That helps to put our LA inconveniences into perspective: the heartbreak of a cancelled yoga session, a microwaved cup of coffee that takes 5 minutes to heat up, a child without Disney Plus.
And yesterday on Sunday, the sun came out brilliantly, and the San Fernando Valley was surrounded by snowy mountains glistening against blue skies and white fluffy clouds.
To see the winter mountains in their glory we drove to a picturesque scenic outlook, in Sun Valley, along Branford Street where Chico’s Auto Dismantler, West Coast Audi VW Dismantler, Express Metals Recycling, Hooper’s Rear End, Javi’s Auto Repair, Sheldon Auto Parts, Jak Tire Recycling, and Honda Foreign Auto Parts border the Hansen Dam Recreational Area.
Beyond the steel gates and the steel junkyards, beyond the homeless tents and the wrecked cars, beyond the speeding vehicles dodging a potholed road, we saw the glorious San Gabriel range covered in snow, pure white snow, a gift from nature to the inhabitants of California, a reminder that no matter how hard we try and destroy this land, there is still one force stronger than us.
The ladle shaped storm that began to pound the Southland on Friday, February 17, 2017 arrived like a landing jet over the Pacific. It circled, counter-clockwise, landing onto Los Angeles, dropping horizontal blasts of wind, and pounding sheets of rain. It blew down trees, power lines, cable and telephone wires, flooded roads and carried away cars. And drowned our sinned and parched city in a cascade of baptizing waters.
A few died in strange and tragic ways. A man on Sepulveda was electrocuted fatally after strong gusts brought down a tree that hit an electrified power line. Another man was drowned in a raging creek at Thousand Oaks.
What minor choices of life, where to walk, what path to take, might bring us to death?
In Studio City, at Woodbridge St at Laurel Canyon, an aged sewer burst under water pressure and pulled out the soil underneath the road. A 30-foot wide, 20-foot deep hole emerged, sucking two drivers and their two vehicles into a subterranean river. People in those cars were rescued. Thankfully, nobody died or were seriously injured.
Here in Van Nuys, on Hamlin Street, late yesterday afternoon, the departing storm closed its one-woman show, packed its bags, and headed east.
Solar klieg lights were aimed on the darkened sky as its magnificent performer paraded off stage, led by a chorus line of tall, skinny palm trees, lined up to bid good-bye to the wind and the fury, the destruction and the drama.
It was a thrilling show, taking our eyes off the irrationality in Washington, and bringing us back to the true leader of the planet, one who never relinquishes power, but whose atmospheric whims are capricious, indifferent, and violent, but somehow understandable and predictable.
It was a perfect day to stay in, a rainy Sunday, windy and wet.
Chicken Cacciatore with mashed potatoes would come later in the day, but sometime in the middle of the afternoon, I went outside, between the rains, and walked around the neighborhood.
Gutterless Columbus streamed slow, dark rivers, past neglected houses and errant yards.
On Haynes, an impromptu lake formed at the end of the street, temporarily transforming a ranch house into a lakeside cabin.
Blown down palm fronds littered Hamlin Street. And up in the sky a patch of blue, like the eye of God, looked down on Earth.
Here in Van Nuys 
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