The Old Get Old, & They Go On Longer

And longer & ...

When my family moved to the San Fernando Valley from the East Coast, in 1965, my mother told the realtor she wanted an older home. The oldest they could find was a 1950s ranch-style house in Studio City.

There you have it. Also, the agony of white flight:

By 1976, when I was eight years old, my parents realized it was cheaper to buy a house in a better school district than to keep sending three kids to private school. Beverly Hills had good public schools and Spanish-style homes from the ’20s. They settled on a Spanish-style house at 438 S. Rodeo Drive, south of Olympic Boulevard, and, not long after buying it, took us to see it. It didn’t look 1920s. There were white shag carpets, sliding glass doors, and heavy gold paint everywhere. And no pool! What were they thinking?

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Today, I live in East Hollywood, and, as much as I loved growing up in Beverly Hills, I can’t imagine ever living there again. The Westside feels different to me now. There’s more traffic, more attitude. Besides, I’m nostalgic by nature, and no one wants to be with the woman who says, “Oh, that’s where Camp Beverly Hills used to be.”

East Hollywood covers a lot of territory. Some of the flatter parts could pass for gritty.

Hope she doesn't really live in Los Feliz, or the hills of East Ho.