Looking back to the devastating Northridge Earthquake – Remarks from Neighbors at Sparr Heights in Glendale

Twenty years ago on January 17 at 4:31in the morning, Los Angeles was jolted awake by the devastating Northridge Earthquake. The motion was felt as far as Las Vegas, Nevada, about two hundred miles away.  Our home in Glendale which was about 16 miles away from the epicenter, didn't get any damage, because it was sitting on a granite bedrock, however the motion was too strong. 

We thought the best thing was to go out and sit in the car. So my husband, our kids, (19-15-9) went outside and sat in the car.  I'm not sure if we had cell phones at that time but I remember that we put calls to our parents who lived in Glendale. Maybe we called them from home.  I asked my kids and they didn't remember much.  One thing that I remember it well, it was the aftershocks.  Within the next few weeks there were many aftershocks and we had become experts in telling each after shock how strong was in Richter Scale.

A week later on January 23rd, we had a wedding reception at Knollwood Country Club – just a few miles away from the epicenter.  The wedding resumed, but I remember that we had to take surface streets, because the freeways were damaged. It was like going to a sightseeing. On the way we were taking pictures of buildings that had collapsed.  At the wedding there were numerous aftershocks and the huge chandelier was shaking on an on. 

The earthquake caused property damage estimated about $20 billion, making it one of the costliest natural disasters in U.S. history. 

Hear what neighbors at Sparr Heights (Glendale) remember:

Tarik Trad

9:40am Jan 17

It's January 17, 2014. at 4:31 a.m. 20 years ago today, the earth shook in Northridge. A few months prior, I had a conversation with a neighbor near Montrose (with a similarly-built house from the 1920s) about bolting our homes to the foundation. For $3,000, I decided it was too expensive. My neighbor decided to "earthquake-proof" his home, only to find the quake - centered some 15 miles away - had torn his home practically in half. Our home, with the exception of some minor cosmetic cracks, did not suffer any structural damage. Thank God!

My LATimes office in Chatsworth was practically flattened, with big, heavy computer monitors and printers tossed across the room like they were pillows.

Anne

I was 2 months pregnant with my first child and my husband was halfway around the world at a conference in New Zealand. We had moved to Sparr Heights only the year before. I remember the noise woke me up first, but then the bed started to shake and I held on for dear life thinking it would never stop. I finally (probably only 15 seconds later) got to the inside hallway and sat there shivering listening to my emergency radio. I couldn't reach my husband for over 12 hours and of course he was freaking out because all of the pictures on the news were showing the collapsed freeways and buildings and fires. At the time, I worked at a company in Sherman Oaks that had no structural damage but was a complete mess inside--computers, books and papers everywhere. It took a long time to clean up and even longer for everyone's nerves to settle. One guy I knew lived in the apartment building in Northridge that collapsed and killed several people but he managed to make it out ok. He was traumatized for a long time after, but never moved out of the area like many others did. I will never forget how weird it was to venture out to work a few days afterwards and see firsthand just how much damage had been done, especially since the only thing that happened at my house was that a couple of things fell off the shelves and broke.

Vanessa  12:25pm Jan 17 I was living in NY and so worried for my family. Mother in Downey fine, no damage but my sister in Simi had her house move 2 inches to the North. Luckily, they had purchased an earthquake policy one month prior and had her windows, chimney and carpet etc, replaced. She was lucky. So many were not.

Katie  12:06pm Jan 1 This is what I posted: Twenty years ago today, I woke up to the sound of what seemed to be a freight train hitting our newlywed bungalow in Pasadena - my first earthquake! My husband dragged me to a doorway and we stood there for what seemed like 10 minutes while our whole house shook and glass broke all around us. I was so scared that I could hardly stand up and cried so hard that my tears seemed to shoot horizontally out of my eyes and hit Jon in the chest. Forgot all about our pug puppy - the one that we seriously planned to "take a bullet for" (!) if he ever got attacked. We found him standing on our bed, even more petrified than we were. He forgot his house training for a week! Luckily, we had little damage. Others weren't so lucky. I'll never forget the poor young mother in the news who was so terrified that something had happened to her new baby (who was fine), that she dropped dead of a heart attack :-(. I still think about her.

Leslie  12:01pm Jan 17 Our new black lab spent her 1st night with us the night of the EQ. She ended up going between the bed and nightstand in fear. I grabbed the kids and all of us plus our elderly neighbor spent the rest of the night in the hallway.

Geoff  2:30pm Jan 17 I was living on the 19th floor of a building downtown with floor to ceiling windows. The building swayed several feet to each side. We crouched on the floor and tried to hold on. We could see transformers exploding from our view over the city. From the noise and the swaying of the building we were sure it was going to collapse. Then ... it stopped. We lost almost everything we had, but we were unhurt Tom B I was working in a "business complex" on the Northridge / Chatsworth border, living in Van Nuys just east of the 405, while my mom was here in Sparr Heights. There wasn't much damage on the home front - a lot of clutter (more than usual) at my place, same thing at my mom's house, plus a few new cracks in the walls and driveway, and the glass cover on the overhead light fixture in "my" old bedroom fell to the floor and shattered. I just stayed in bed until the shaking stopped, and like most folks, I suppose, I was naturally a little jittery for a while afterwards, but I also "survived" the '71 quake here, and was a lot more freaked out after that one. The work situation was obviously much different and much more severe. The building I worked in (on the second floor) was built around a center atrium, into which all of the surrounding walls collapsed. Because I worked in a department "non-essential to daily operations," I and most of my co-workers got a four-week paid vacation while the engineers did their thing (building surveys, shoring up the walls, etc.). By contrast, I seem to recall that we only got about a week off from Rosemont JHS after the Sylmar quake. I had worked late the previous Friday due to the holiday weekend and accidentally left my wallet in my desk drawer (locked fortunately), so I drove *very* carefully (the few times I did so) during my hiatus. I had no ID and no ATM card, so getting some cash was also a fun "adventure" (for which I will spare everyone the gory details). They finally called us all back in to help with the clean-up, which included retrieving all of our personal and work belongings from our barely habitable cubicles. Based on the initial photographs they took in the days immediately following the quake, some of the buildings looked a bit like London after the blitz. Many of them had interior offices built with old style ten-foot modular walls, and those basically fell like dominoes; combine that with caved in ceilings and broken windows, and there was debris everywhere. It took days to salvage or trash everything in the worst hit buildings, and then THREE years to finish the necessary retrofitting, repairs, and reconfiguration (during which time we all worked first on tables in multiple "bullpens," then in temporary cubicles, and had to "migrate" between buildings and floors a half dozen times before returning to "permanent" quarters). Not to mention the damage to the freeways and nearby mall, which also seemed to take forever to repair and added another layer of headaches to "daily work life." All of that was/is trivial, of course, compared to the unthinkably tragic loss of life and property suffered by so many people in the San Fernando Valley. In particular, I'll never forget the images and stories of the devastation at "Northridge Meadows." I've always kept those real victims in mind to blunt any tendencies toward unwelcome "woe is me" moments. Mark  9:57pm Jan 17 I was living in Valencia at the time. I just remember feeling like a giant had picked up my condo and was shaking it! The noise was unbelievable! When the shaking stopped and I got out of bed - the floor was piled with everything from my bedroom. Fortunately, I was unhurt, Made it outside and spent the next several hours waiting out aftershocks. The carports were bent sideways. At daylight went back inside and everything was thrown all over the place. Could not reach my family to tell I was ok. It took a few years before the jitters went away. Cecy  9:55pm Jan 17 I was living in L.A. when I felt the earthquake. I jumped over my husband, who was sleeping closer to the bedroom door than I was, before he even new there was an earthquake. We stood under the door threshold until it stopped. He usually gets up around 5 am to go to work so he got up and went to work early. I was left at home scared. I didn't have to be at work until 8 am. So when he left I went two blocks down to my parents house to make sure they were ok and to be with others in case of another after shock. As I was getting ready to leave I was listening to the news on the radio. As I listened the announcer on the radio started saying he was feeling a strong after shock. Which I was not. A few seconds later I felt the after shock he was talking about. I thought the few second warning that the earth quake was coming was a worse feeling than just being surprised. After visiting with my parents I went to work. No one was there except for a few people. I eventually found out my boss had called our homes to tell us not to come to work. I unfortunately had left before I got the call. I left work soon after. That was the worst earthquake I have ever felt before. Not looking forward to the next big one. Diane  9:13pm Jan 17 I was living in Palmdale at that time, having been a valley girl prior to that, and we felt it pretty darn good out there. With my family still in the valley, I never felt so isolated than I did during the first few hours after the quake, unable to reach anyone to see if they were okay. 6 months later we bought a house for SO cheap in Northridge!! LOL no damage at all, it was only a few blocks from the major damage and CSUN. We got a great deal, and I was so happy to be living so close to my family again. I've lived here in Sparr since 2001 in the house my Dad grew up in, and have never been happier!

Pope Francis and all things amuzing - When was the last time you saw a Pope in a clown nose?

The following post is by my friend Ron Vazzano.  I hope it will put a big smile on your face.

Pope to Pop More Surprises in 2014?

In the nine months he has been in office, it seems Pope Francis pops one surprise after another on an almost weekly basis. Be it a startling quote, an act of ya-gotta-be-kidding-me humility, or some off-beat everyman disclosure (“I was once a bouncer”), he has captured the imagination of a large cross section of humanity.

I mean, a pope in a clown nose?

In designating him as their Person of the Year for 2013, Time magazine had this to say:

"… he has placed himself at the very center of the central conversations of our time, about wealth and poverty, fairness and justice, transparency, modernity, globalization, the role of women, the nature of marriage, the temptations of power. When he kisses the face of a disfigured man or washes the feet of a Muslim woman, the image resonates far beyond the boundaries of the Catholic Church."

And that’s just on Monday.

And then shortly after, Advocate, the oldest gay rights magazine in America, also honored him as their person of the year. In so doing, they hailed as a landmark, his famous response to a reporter who had asked about gay people in the church: "If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?"

One can’t help but wonder in all of this, what surprises and revelations might be forthcoming in 2014, regarding this popular pontiff. These are but a smattering of headlines that are not difficult to imagine in the coming year.wh

Pope Francis: “I once got a ‘D’ on my Latin Final”

A Vatican source who asked to remain anonymous, revealed that the Pope was a also terrible speller.

Pope Francis Lives in a Studio Apartment with His Dog “Assisi”

Sources confirmed that he walks to work every day, after first walking his dog, a mutt he rescued from a pound in his first week as Pope.

Pope Francis was Born in Kenya

Pope: “Mary Magdalene was an Apostle”

When asked by someone in the press corps on a flight coming back from the desert in which he had spent 40 days and 40 nights, if he was saying therefore that there were really 13 apostles (and a woman at that) and not 12 as in the scriptures, he responded: “13, 12, 11, whatever…it’s just a number.”

Pope was Fired from Bouncer Job

It was revealed today in the Italian press, that Pope Francis was fired from his job as a bouncer for always turning the other cheek and never checking ID’s at the door.

Pope in line at Motor Vehicles

Not using his status to avoid a four hour wait, Pope Francis stood in line to renew his license at a nearby Motor Vehicles in Rome today. (He drives an ‘84 Renault in lieu of the Vatican provided chauffeured car). It gave him the opportunity to “demonstrate patience, rather than merely to preach it,”he said, as he consoled some who had stopped by in tears, after having failed their written test.

Pope Francis Was Once Jewish

New Dress Code for the Swiss Guard

The Pope announced today that the Vatican will institute a casual Friday dress code for the Swiss Guard beginning this Spring.

“It’s Gay Divorce I’m Really Concerned About,” says Pope Francis

Pope Surprises Many on Scriptural Interpretations

As for the eating of the apple in the Garden of Eden, he responded: “I might have done the same. Who’s to say? I love apples.”

Pope Owns a Cell Phone

But in keeping with his austerity, it is a rotary. And he has not downloaded any applications. The U.S. Government has confirmed this.

Pope’s Denunciation of Capitalism Caused the DOW to Drop on Friday

Cardinal Dolan in a recent homily at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and in follow ups on Meet the Press, the Today Show, Good Morning America, Charlie Rose, CNN, CNBC, Fox News and the Tonight Show, assured all that the pope was speaking metaphorically.

Pope Once Gave Meat to a Hungry Man on a Friday

When asked whether or not the man was Catholic, “Don’t ask don’t tell,” he explained to the press.

Pope Meets with Lady Gaga

They shared a bit of humor about the number of syllables in their respective real names: Jorge Mario Bergoglio and Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. Ted Cruz is outraged.

Pope: “I am Not Worthy of My Name Being Capitalized”

In still one more sign of great humility, the pope issued a statement in which he asked that his name no longer be capitalized, nor should a formal Roman number follow it. He asked that it now appear in print as francis ¹.a

Memories of Past Christmases in Iran

On a misty December day in Glendale this year, I was jolted back in time 50 years to my childhood Christmases in Tehran. The experience was evoked upon the sight of the beautiful holiday décor arranged by Glendale School Board member Mary Boger in their living room. Mrs. Boger's home was one of the four enchanting homes chosen by Herbert Hoover High School for the Tour of Homes, a holiday fundraising tradition now in its 56th year.

I caught my breath when I entered their living room and saw not one, but three Christmas trees. They were all decorated in white twinkling lights and icicles. Patches of fluffy and sparkling snow made from cotton roll gave the look of a very old fashioned Christmas décor. I wished my mom was with me.

My mom - the Martha Stewart of 1960s, Iran - was meticulous in every aspect of home making. And during the Christmas season, she put extensive effort into creating exceptional décors and a beautiful tree for our celebrations.

First, there was the buying of the tree. The Russian embassy was in walking distance from where we lived, and along the sides of its walls, Christmas trees were sold. Buying the Christmas tree was a family affair. We all went along – Mom, Dad and us three kids, but Mom had the last word.  She scrupulously chose the largest tree with the most perfect and symmetrical shape. We all brought the tree back home. The installing of the tree was a big hassle, because we didn't have all the tools and facilities available today.  Sometimes we used a sheet metal bucket filled with dirt to hold the tree.  

Then came the painstaking decoration. Aluminum icicles were at the height of fashion and she hung them all over the tree, making sure every strand dangled perfectly straight from branches. As a special helper, I would place the lights evenly around the tree, squinting from afar until perfection was achieved. I was so proud to have the most beautifully decorated Christmas tree of all the families we knew.

My father’s side of the family belonged to the Evangelical Church, which was founded in the mid 1800s by American missionaries. The church was situated in the old part of Tehran on Ghavam-Saltaneh Street. Its sprawling grounds included two schools and living quarters for missionaries. At this church, my father’s side of the family celebrated Christmas on December 25. My mother’s side belonged to the Armenian Apostolic Church and they observed Christmas on January 6, as most Armenians do.

The Evangelical church to which my father belonged had a youth program. Mother was not keen about us participating in the program, because it was not conducted in Armenian, and our peers and instructors were proselytized Muslims. However, I loved the activities and have many fond memories of that church.

At the youth program, we learned Christmas carols in English and sometimes translated into Farsi. Leading up to Christmas, the elders of the church drove us around in crammed cars to visit different Christian homes so we could sing the songs we had learned. Today, hearing Christmas carols takes my mind back to that youth program. Without question, singing carols is a memory that I will always cherish. I’m glad that I insisted my mom to allow me to participate.

In Tehran, Christmas was not a big celebration, but New Year’s Eve was the excuse for major festivities. All the hoopla, the gift giving, the decorations, the “Holiday Tree” were for celebrating the New Year, not Christmas. Santa came on New Year’s Eve and we opened our gifts on New Year’s Day.

I sometimes think that it would have been so much better, if, here in the “West,” Santa would come for the New Year instead of Christmas. Then all children from every religion could enjoy the charm of Santa Claus. In reality, what does Santa have to do with the birth of Jesus?

Back to my memories of Armenian Christmas in Tehran: On January 5, we had our Christmas dinner around the table at my maternal grandmother’s home. The traditional food included smoked fish, pilaf and koukou. We had the same menu for Easter. I’m not sure how the dish became the traditional menu for Iranian-Armenians. I think the koukou (a cake of greens & eggs) and the pilaf were adopted from Persian cuisine, while fish is a staple from the Armenian tradition.

Red wine was always present on the table, and the “holy cracker” was brought from church and was cracked and served in the wine. The tradition also included burning incense (Frankincense), and I've always loved that aroma.

Another custom I remember, now phased out, was visitations. After Christmas and Easter for almost two weeks priests and deacons would visit parishioners' homes and bless them.

Christmas and Easter dinners have an important role in our culture, and we were reminded of this regularly in Tehran. During dinner, our elders told us stories about how they celebrated the holy days in years past. My mom always told us that her father insisted that for Christmas the dinner could be served after the sun set, but Easter dinner had to be served while the sun was still up.

My grandfather was a village boy, his family moved to Tabriz when he was young. So my mother's memory of her own father's family practices reveal to me that Armenians living in villages in Iran also kept the tradition of having Christmas and Easter dinner.

The best part of Christmas was when we had the home ready for visitors on January 6. It was a tradition that the women stayed home while the men went from home to home to visit and celebrate the advent of Christmas and the New Year.

Our relatives and friends came for a short visit just to keep the tradition and to say Merry Christmas. They had to visit about 20 homes or more within a few hours. Usually they took taxi. We served them a shot of brandy and a chocolate and then off they went to the next home. Sometimes they brought their kids with them. That’s how we stayed in touch with distant relatives. Not every home had telephone.

My dad was a translator and worked with many Jewish and Muslim merchants. On January 6th, all his clients came to visit us. The house had such a festive spirit. We were dressed in our best clothes, the house decorated “to the T” and the food was overflowing. Dad’s clients brought us nice expensive gifts: huge vases, bowls, platters and trays of sterling silver or hand-painted miniatures in rich marquetry (khatam-kari) frames. We kids received gold coins. Usually Dad was not at home because according to the tradition he had to visit other relatives, but Mom received the visitors graciously.

A few years ago when Mom was still alive, I had the opportunity to walk to her home for our “Jour-orhnek” dinner – Blessed-water – that’s what we call the Armenian Christmas. To get to her home, I had to cross small residential streets in Glendale, where most homes are occupied with Armenians.

While walking, I looked through the windows and saw some dinner tables ready inside homes. The mood was so festive. I noticed people arriving by car or on foot, with their hands full. They carried gifts or dishes of food that they had prepared. I could even smell incense burning while passing by some homes.

Needless to say, the women were coiffed beautifully and the men were in their best suits. I was overjoyed to see how in these foreign shores, “Odar aperoom,” we Armenians are thriving and the traditions are alive and well.

As I sit here reflecting about past Christmases, I realize that although I no longer fuss about decorating my house and to have the largest and the most beautiful tree, I admire people who do that. I feel blessed that I can pass my stories to our next generation and I hope they will continue to tell the stories and practice the customs we have brought with us from old countries.

I’d like to quote the prolific novelist Isabel Allende who says, “I need to tell a story. It’s an obsession. Each story is a seed inside of me that starts to grow and grow, and I have to deal with it sooner or later.”  This is true with me.  

Divorced At Christmas... Whose Year Is It, Anyway?

Vicki Abelson is a cool person.  I know her from a writers group that she has created.  Here is a piece she has submitted to Huffington Post. The piece is about celebrating Christmas as a Jew. I love her style – snarky and witty.

Vicki Abelson

Creator and host of 'Vicki Abelson's Women Who Write'

As an almost-divorced (don't get me started) Jewess with shared custody, the yearly Christian celebration is giving me a taste for the hunger games. Please, just kill me now.

I know it's not my holiday, but Christmas belongs to everyone... except my Uncle Si.

As a kid, I was all about my heritage. When asked by a Macy's Santa what I wanted for Christmas, I snarkily... although it wasn't called that then... replied, "Nothing. I'm a Chanukah girl." I was five. And stoopid. Sure the eight nights of candles had each brought a gift --but really? What could possibly be wrong with a few extra presents from a jolly old fat man?

By the time I was nine that shit stopped anyway when my parents took the divorce highway to holiday hell. My mother did her best, but after a couple of nights, it was a chocolate coin or two. I began to covet the ever-growing number of wrapped packages under my best friend, Roseanne's, family tree. And they were Jewish!

When I left New York for college in the desert town of Tucson (where a girl in my humanities class, upon hearing of my ethnicity, asked to feel my scalp -- looking for... horns. I swear!) I took to celebrating with the goyim. Then I married one. Where was the guilt? Where was my shame? I left it with my youth somewhere in Nebraska.

There are many Jews to whom Christmas is a day to catch a double feature and eat Asian -- that's way more evolved than what we actually say. For me, an overcompensating underachiever, it became my mission to be the best non-Christian Christmas celebrator around. I bought presents for just about everyone I knew... played songs of the season for weeks... decorated, cooked, baked and entertained other Christmas-loving-Jews and non-Jews, alike. I hid the activity from my Hebrew-teacher-father, holding my breath more than once when an unremembered photo crossed his path.

Husband number two (don't judge me, it's not the Christian thing to do -- especially now) was Jewish. I somehow managed to coerce him into joining me as a semi-secret Santa lover. Each year our home became Christmas central for our friends, and even our Jewish mothers.

Once we had kids, it felt morally irresponsible to have a tree and demand that our son take Bar Mitzvah lessons. Even though I was a "cultural" rather than a religious Jew, the rite of passage to manhood was a must for the son of this Hebrew teacher's daughter. So, I hid the ornaments, lights and tinsel, but continued to cook jumbo shrimp, sauce with sausage, and bake Christmas cookies for our holiday feast. I used blue and white sprinkles at least, damn it!

In more recent years, new traditions were added. On the first night of Christmas it was staunchly agreed... that we'd watch Elf and Love Actually. (I hope you sang that line. If you add a touch of seasonal good cheer, it almost works. Humor me.)

Then we split up. Mother's Day, Father's Day and birthdays were no-brainers, though a bit painful and awkward. We agreed to alternate the rest. Fourth of July -- whoever didn't have the kids spent the day with friends. The Jewish holidays and Thanksgiving have been a bit trickier. We did a couple of years all together. That proved increasingly difficult. And this year's double whammy Thanksgivukkah -- are you kidding me, or what?

I haven't hosted Christmas in a while. As a result, the holiday has lost much of its sparkle. I feel less like a non-Christian celebrator and more like that little girl spectator of other people's holiday.

And whose year is this, anyways?

We decided to split the pain... I mean holiday, in two. I get the kids on Christmas Eve. It'll be a touch of the old -- Love Actually -- and the new -- chili and latkes.

On Christmas Day, I'm gonna heed Uncle Si -- go to the movies and eat Chinese with the rest of the Jews.

It could work.

Now what the f**k do we do about New Years?

Haunted by ghost of Christmases past – A long-ago death still haunts a family's Christmas

Sandy Banks is a columnist at LA Times.  I've been reading her columns for a long time.  She writes about her life, about her challenges of being a single mother.  She also tells us about the social realities.  Here is her latest column reflecting on Past Christmases.

The children aren't little anymore; they're 28, 24 and 23. But I still know where my daughters will be on Christmas Eve — snuggled under a blanket with me, while I read "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," the classic story of Santa's visit.

I don't know when quaint becomes eccentric, but that's how we've spent every Christmas Eve for as long as they can remember.

Christmas rituals in our household are more than mere tradition. They're a link to the family we used to be; a connection to a father who died one week before Christmas 20 years ago, when his children barely knew him.

• Sandy Banks
• 
• We go together to pick our Christmas tree and get the best we can afford, because their dad hated the scraggly rejects his father used to bring home. We still eat every Christmas at Benihana, because it was easier and more fun than dinner at home when the children were small.We didn't realize then that his death would leave us stranded in time, clinging survival-style to rituals we'd shared when he was alive.

But they're women now, with obligations to others and busy lives of their own. I couldn't escape that fact this year, as I spent the run-up to the holiday baking cookies in a quiet kitchen and stringing lights alone.

Maybe it's time to let them move on, to let these rituals go.

I considered that thought for only as long as it took me to find our familiar Christmas Eve book in the bottom of a dusty box crammed with holiday decorations.

I felt a rush when I opened the book with its smudged and fading pop-ups. It takes me back to when we were whole, and I'd read the poem to little girls whose dad was on the roof jingling bells, trying to make them believe that Santa was coming.

Rituals can be both comfort and crutch, in ever-shifting proportions. Ours link us to an image of family that we didn't want to release. But they've also stranded us in the past, tethered beyond reason to the way things used to be.

Most people feel sentimental at this time of year. But how do you untangle desperate longing from ordinary pine-scented nostalgia?

My middle daughter recently shared with me a 20-year-old memory of the night her father died, when she was about to turn 5. "I understood when you told us daddy died," she said. "But I didn't know that meant that he would always be dead."

None of us, I realize now, understood what his death meant then. We couldn't comprehend that every milestone and celebration from that night forward would be shadowed by his absence.

I understand now that death's reach is long and hard and strong. When you lose a loved one near a holiday, the annual onslaught of painful memories competes with the season's joy.

I learned rituals can turn into ordeals that just make everything harder.

There were years we didn't buy our tree until Christmas Eve because college, jobs and holiday outings kept us from getting together. And times when the pressure to get everything right turned grown women into squabbling toddlers.

This year, I decreed we'd buy our tree at Thanksgiving, when all my girls were home. They argued over what tree to get, then cried because the one I picked wasn't quite perfect.

It's kind of hard to get in the holiday spirit when your 28-year-old can't look at the Christmas tree without weeping because a dad she holds in her heart might not think it's good enough.

Remembering JFK – After 50 years, the Mystery is not solved – The World saw JFK as a hero standing for the ideals of freedom

On Friday Nov 22, I followed most TV channels and watched many documentaries for the commemoration of JFK's assassination. It bogles my mind to see that after all these years the shooting of the president is not yet solved. Still they're is an argument, weather the shot came from the front or the back.  Nor they know why Jack Ruby killed Oswald. 


As the nation or maybe the whole world pauses to remember the assassination of President John F. Kennedy 50 years to the day, My mind wanders to Tehran and the moment I heard the news. I was 15. It was Saturday morning and I was on my way to school (Saturday in Iran is a school day)  I remember the exact spot where I met my friend and when she asked me if I have heard the news and I said, "what news?"  And she told me that President Kennedy was killed.

My brother tells me on that Saturday morning when he went to school, he saw the boys were reading newspaper and the title in bold letters (of course in Farsi) said that President Kennedy died.  My husband says on that Saturday morning when he went to school, there was a line written on the black-board which read, "Our master died."

It was a somber day for America however many people around the world shared the sentiments.  The world saw JFK as a hero standing for the ideals of freedom. I think no other president has achieved such a global admiration and left an indelible legacy and all that was achieved only within 1000 days of his presidency.  Here are the words not too often heard from the inaugural address on January 22, 1961.  

“My fellow citizens of the world: Ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.”

The following is a post by Jack Neworth in Santa Monica Daily Press.
He remembers the day JFK took a dip in Santa Monica

As we’ve been inundated for the past weeks, today marks the 50th anniversary of one of the darkest days in America’s history. In some aspects, I don’t think we’ve ever recovered.

On his 1,000th day in office, President John F. Kennedy was brutally assassinated in an open limousine motorcade in Dallas with his wife, Jackie, by his side. Eerily, Nellie Connally, wife of Texas Gov. John Connally, had just commented, “Mr. President, you can’t say Dallas doesn’t love you.”

In these cynical times it may be difficult for today’s youth to imagine, but JFK inspired much of my generation. With all that has been written about the dark side of Camelot, I still admire him. I suppose a boy’s hero stays with him forever.

JFK was handsome, charming and had a great wit. And the First Family was like no other before. Jackie was beautiful and elegant and the Kennedys had two adorable children. You could even say that I ditched school because of JFK. You see, Kennedy held frequent press conferences where he’d display charm and humor. (He was considered the first “TV era” president.) I somehow managed to see most of them, even if it meant cutting classes.

As JFK playfully bantered with the press, I found myself unwittingly imitating his Boston accent. Eventually I could impersonate all three Kennedy brothers. Four decades later, in 2004, Santa Monica City Council candidate Bobby Shriver (JFK’s nephew) left me a voicemail. In returning his call, fortunately I did not to do my Kennedy impression.

As his sister Pat lived in Santa Monica with her husband, actor Peter Lawford, Kennedy often visited here. To see his remarkable charisma go to YouTube and type “President Kennedy takes a swim.” It’s an absolutely riveting one-minute video.

On that Aug. 19, 1962 day, L.A. Times photographer Bill Beebe was covering Kennedy’s visit to Santa Monica. When JFK spontaneously took off his shirt and dove into the water, Beebe, in a suit and tie, followed.

Beebe went into the water to above his knees just to get the photo. And then he almost lost the shots by inadvertently opening the camera while he was still wet. Though the classic image didn’t win a Pulitzer, it did win “Photo of the Year” in many competitions.

As it happens, my late mother met JFK and his brothers at the Democratic Convention in 1960. It was staged in Los Angeles at the Sports Arena and my mother, who was an officer in the California Democratic Council, was in charge of the seating.

At the convention she met just about every important dignitary, including Eleanor Roosevelt, Adlai Stevenson and LBJ. (Just turned 16, I attended and was fairly awestruck.)

After JFK won the nomination there was a party to celebrate at the Lawford’s beachfront house. (Once owned by Louis B. Mayer.) And my mother was among the hundreds who were invited. Such a Kennedy fan, I stayed up late until she got home.

When she arrived home, I eagerly grilled my exhausted mother for details from the party. However briefly, did she get to talk to JFK? Knowing my admiration for him, she reluctantly confessed that JFK had disappeared from the party and the Secret Service, climbing a fence, to rendezvous with — Marilyn Monroe!

Like a poor man’s Biff in “Death of a Salesman,” I was mortified. Actually, I refused to believe it. “Mother, he’s only married to Jackie!” (Who me, naïve?)

Under my breath (and obviously my father wasn’t within earshot) I compared my mother to gossip columnist “Hedda Hopper.” Ouch. Decades later, when JFK’s affair with Monroe was fairly well documented, I apologized, though fortunately my mother hadn’t heard me in the first place.

Fifty years have passed, but the debate still rages about who murdered JFK. At the risk of receiving e-mails labeling me a “conspiracy nut” or a “Commie” (which happens), how, after defecting to the Soviet Union at the height of the Cold War, did Oswald waltz back into the U.S. and not be constantly tailed like he was in Russia?

But the files are sealed until 2025. President Johnson justified it as “sparing the Kennedy family.” But Jackie died nearly 20 years ago. As for “national security,” the Cold War ended in 1991.

The mayor of Dallas has called for cities nationwide to ring church bells at 12:30 p.m. CST to commemorate the moment of JFK’s assassination. A better idea, and perhaps to finally heal from the nightmare of that day, would be to unseal the files. While I can think of lots of bad ones, I can’t think of any good reason for the files to remain sealed. Can you?

Then again, I’m admittedly biased. It might have something to with forever revering one’s boyhood hero. So I’ll close in the spirit of the 1770s Irish folk song, “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye.” John Fitzgerald Kennedy (1917-1963) R.I.P.

To see JFK’s swim go to: www.youtube.com/watch?v=KEHEw-dop00.  Jack can be reached at facebook.com/jackneworth, twitter.com/jackneworth or via e-mail at jnsmdp@aol.com.

- See more at: http://smdp.com/laughing-matters-the-day-jfk-swam-in-our-bay/129623#sthash.LHFU1KXh.dpuf

In Remembrance on the Death of JFK – President Kennedy

President Kennedy was assassinated on Friday November 22 at 12:30 pm – 50 years ago. I was 15.  I heard about the shocking news the following day on Saturday morning.  I was walking to school, when I met my friend and she told me about it – (Saturday in Iran is a school day)  But my friend Ron Vazzano has a more vivid recollection from that day.  Here is his story.

So where were we on that day? Almost three-quarters of us were not yet born. And when you weed out kids who were ten years or younger back then, about one in seven Americans now living, presumably remembers with some degree of vividness, that day and the theater of events that would unfold over that long weekend. We would sit transfixed before our sets—first time ever for “24/7-news” type coverage—for hours on end, culminating in the funeral that Monday. “Regular programming” in a realm of three TV networks, wouldn’t resume until Tuesday.

I was a freshman at Manhattan College (two years behind Rudy Giuliani) when first reports began to spread on campus, that Kennedy and Vice President Johnson had been shot. There were no readily accessible TV’s in the vicinity, and so we relied on an ear here and there, glued to a transistor radio, catching unclear or incorrect messages (Johnson of course was not shot) which were relayed to those of us clustered in the quadrangle as if in a third world village awaiting word. These were what I have just referred to as modern times?

Why was JFK in Dallas anyway? I didn’t know. Nor was I aware back then, of the animosity that had been brewing in Texas over his pending visit. My agenda that Friday included placing bets in the cafeteria at lunch for that weekend’s football games on “the ticket,” a small time bookie sheet distributed by a classmate to a dedicated clientele. And while Kennedy was the cat’s pajamas at this all male Catholic college, I certainly wasn’t following his doings as closely as the point spreads that November. The high drama of his presidency had taken place with the Cuban Missile Crisis in October of the previous year. In comparison, this autumn was benign.

But it was now time to go to the next class. And being the dutiful students we were, we went, though as if sleepwalking through a bad dream. We were still unsure as to whether Kennedy was alive or dead as we entered that room. What happened then, is something I tried to capture in a poem I wrote thirty-five years after the fact. Predominantly in tercets and rhyme, it mimics a classic poetic construct that we had been reading as part of the syllabus for that course.

II. Greek and Latin Lit: 101

Upon entering the room, you simply said
in a manner of fact, “Yes it’s true. He’s dead.”
      And proceeded to go on with that Friday’s class.

That part where Medea serves up the last
of her children chopped up on a plate
      for Jason, his ravishing appetite to sate.

And unsuspectingly he does.
And we knew just how vile a meal that was
      on this day when the classics were undermined

by Dallas: A Tragedy for Modern Time.
Our time. And you took it away;
      the right to succumb to grief kept it at bay.

You venomous, vainglorious man.
You served up Medea at a moment when
      butchered progeny was the last thing we needed.

With a smirk you watched as we sat defeated.
Was some point proved? Did we pass our test?
      I’ve wondered why we stayed bound to our desks.

Too civilized I suppose, to stomp out of the room.
We should have sent you right to your doom;
      trampled underfoot and dragged across campus

as Achilles, passionate warrior that he was,
had done with the carcass of Hector.
      And now each time at that vector,

that November day crossing of another year,
I taste the irony in your name Mr. Lear.
      And can only wish you an afterlife fixed

to a barge floating down the river Styx
winding its way through the sewers of Dallas
      encircling the sins of fraud and malice.

And each time in passing pray you are sprayed
with the brains that flew from that motorcade.
      In response to my whereabouts that day, I tell
      how you taught us, you bastard, the classics so well.

                                                               —Ron Vazzano