Stories From Westlake Village

From the bus stop at the top of the hill where Westwood Avenue and Hillside Street intersect, you can see most of our town. A commanding view, it's one that Napoleon might well have selected to watch his troops retreat from Russia. A few benches have been set in the concrete sidewalk for the benefit of people waiting for buses. Old folks sit there in the summer and compare their aches and pains, talk about the bygone days, and how much better yesterday used to be than today.

Their areas of agreement are few, but all of them agree that Westlake Village is not the town it once was. It would be strange if it were, for it has passed from wilderness through countryside to suburb and political gerrymandering. We come up here for the view and the pleasure of our own company. Our presence denies the paying customers a seat, but that's the way it goes.

There are some Westlake Villagers who believe they are surrounded by a range of low hills. It lulls them into a false sense of security, as though by some Divine intervention we have been chosen to be protected. The bitter truth is that the entire village is below the level of the surrounding countryside, as though something vital had been pulled out from under it. If such is the case, it proves the uncertain future of life here in Westlake Village, for should our Maker choose to pull the rug out from under us again, we might well disappear entirely.

Enough of these dark thoughts. We occupy these benches today in the expectation of the Memorial Day parade. The crowd has begun to gather in the warm spring sunshine, wives with wicker strollers in which they proudly push their cranky children. Japanese-made American flags are everywhere. Husbands, camcorders at the ready, are prepared to photograph their Little League sons and pompom daughters when the parade passes by. The portly American Legionnaires in steel bifocals are nattily attired in their double-knit American Legion Blues. They do not look the way veterans of tragic wars should look; instead, they resemble the toy army in Victor Herbert's "March of the Wooden Soldiers."

"Hey, buddy, what outfit wuz you in . . . I wuz in the 54th. We come over on the third day. Joined up widda 27th and spent the second night in Le Havre." The alumni of battle haven't forgotten a moment of their greatest adventure. Their wife's birthday . . . yes, but never the brotherhood of war.

Old Dick, Seymour, and I get there early, and we have a bench to ourselves. Tony, however, has walked down with Rita and has to stand at the curb. He is miserable, not one for parades -- fireworks, maybe -- but not parades. He looks at us, then looks at Rita and turns to look at us again and shakes his head in resignation.

"I walked past the firehouse," Dick remarks, "they were polishing up the new ambulance . . . I guess we'll get a chance to see it today."

We shift over a bit to make room for Tony; his legs have been bothering him all week. The parade down the hill hasn't started yet and, as he sits with us, Rita glares at him . . . it is a laser-like stare that chills the four of us to the bone.

"It starts later every year," he sighed. "I would'na come 'cept for the dedication."

Yes, the dedication! Railroad Avenue forks out into a "Y" as it deadends at Westwood Avenue, and in the trough of the "Y," we have created our new "Pocket Park." This little triangular patch of dirt, barely wide enough for a squirrel to sit on at one end, expands to sixty feet as it gently swoops into Westwood Avenue. For years teenagers threw their empty beer bottles, MacDonald's bags, and condoms into it as they drove by on Saturday nights. It will now house a cannon and three bronze tablets in memory of those Westlake Villagers who have given the last full measure of devotion for their town and country.

I checked it out a week ago and strange as it seems, Korea took most of us. Then Vietnam, and last of all World War II. You see there was no Westlake Village until after World War II, so the brave souls enshrined there were the old ones. We used to call the "Toad Hollowers" the "Old Ones." They were the families who lived here before we war veterans came with our families and took over the place. Before that, there was nothing. It was a town satisfied to grow potatoes and wave goodbye to Lindbergh when he took off and flew to France, when this little dent in the ground was home to wild turkeys and pheasants.

I try as best I can to convey these nebulous thoughts to Tony, "Old" Dick, and Seymour. "Y'see what time can do," I ramble on, "These kids lined up here for the parade . . . they'll look at the bronze tablets and wonder what the hell this town was doing during World War II."

"Old" Dick said, "I don't see what'cha driving at."

Tony considered it from his point of view. "It might not be such a bad deal . . . if my name was on one . . . " his voice trailed off as he looked at Rita. She was waving her Japanese-American flag as the Domino Pizza-sponsored Little League baseball team straggled by.

Seymour, philosophical to the core, recounted the time he and Jessica went back to Lodz. "It was to see the names of my grandparents on the wall . . . Lodz was their home. I was born there. Poverty drove my mother and father from Lodz to America. If they had stayed, their names and mine, too, would be on that wall."

The fire department vehicles were inching by, farting diesel fumes and burping exhausts. The four of us decided to abandon our comfortable bench and head down the hill to the new park for the dedication. After a prayer or two from Father Stanley and Rabbi Nachtigal, our Town Supervisor was scheduled to deliver his annual Memorial Day homily . . . his first from the pie-shaped park on Westwood Avenue. The smiling Sal Marcharoni has been our part-time supervisor since the job was made available. He is also a lawyer, a commercial insurance broker, and, most of all, a consummate windbag. His smile is unalterable, like that of a bird. He smiles in church. He smiles at funerals . . . it is a smile frozen in rictus, and it will not be wiped off until he stands at Heaven's Gate.

Black and purple bunting has been draped over the three tablets. Just after Taps is played by Chris Sheldon on his battered bugle, the bunting will be released, and the newly-carved names of those who died long ago will sparkle in the warm spring sun. Accompanied by the tolling of a bell, Supervisor Marcharoni will mispronounce their names one by one with a firmly fixed smile, and a squad of six riflemen will fire three Springfield volleys into the air. Pigeons will fly up in indignation, children will cry, and those who wish to will stay to hear what the Supervisor has to say.

"Are you staying?" Seymour asks me.

"I don't know, how about you, . . . Tony?"

"I gotta stay, Rita'll kill me."

"Gotta get home," "Old" Dick says, "my son's comin' up from Jersey."

It's just the names, isn't it? Only the names. God knows where the men might be. If they were here I would stay, but they are under small white crosses in France, gathering dust along the banks of the Mekong and the Yalu, and some lay unseen in the fathomless sea. I think our fire engines and the Cheshire grin of Supervisor Marcharoni, well meaning as they may be, are not fitting tributes for young men who must spend eternity in alien ground.

"Tell you what," I say, "I have to get home, too. I've got a load of wash to do. But why don'tcha drop by this afternoon around four -- I'll fire up the barbecue. Hamburgers are on me." I look at Seymour slyly. "They're steak burgers actually, Seymour. Somebody bring a salad."

"O.K. if I bring Rita?" Tony asks timidly.

"What the hell," I smile, "If she can stand us, we can stand her."