“Sol, you finally drove the family over here. Che ragazze belle, Sol!” He went over to each of the girls, hugged them and showed them to another site on the property.
“This strong boy is your nephew, Albert. Ben venuto, figlio!”
Simon Rodia had met Sol when he ventured to the River Mother’s home, wanting to explore the site. The day Rodia found her dwelling, the River Mother and Sol were struggling to place seven chairs and two dining tables high above the living room section of the house. The River Mother tossed up the last of the chairs to her son, Sol, who grabbed the chair and made his way, carefully selecting where to place his foot to ascend the sturdy curving wall made of thousands of objects they had rescued from the river. She climbed down from a ledge she had constructed, from table tops and iron bed frames, where she could rest new river gifts before situating them in their place in the construction. The River Mother immediately took to Simon Rodia and offered him tea and cookies. For about an hour they commented on the river and the house. She spoke in Spanish, and he engaged in Italian and in English. Somehow they communicated, often laughing. Finally, Sol came down from the wall of the entanglements to meet the visitor. Sol offered his hand; Rodia took it and embraced and kissed Sol on each cheek.
“Mile grazie,” Rodia responded to the warm hospitality offered to him by the River Mother and Sol. A genuine acceptance was exchanged between the three, and from that day on Simon Rodia, the River Mother and Sol enjoyed a long-lasting friendship that would bring Rodia back to the River Mother’s house to see her and Sol and also to study the incongruent architecture she employed.
Rodia, who had built the two towers, was born in 1879 in the Campagna region of Southern Italy. Rodia’s family farmed a small parcel of land that required Simon and his sister to work long hours. Simon probably did not receive any schooling and probably could not read. It is unclear why at around the age of fourteen he came to America. From Campagna he had walked and rode on public carts to Naples, where he joined a group of twelve children escorted by Benedictine nuns destined for New York. While in Naples he often snuck away from the Benedictine eye to explore the great historical layers of the city: on the surface lay a modern city, and underground the Roman and Greek cities. Young Rodia was astonished at the magnificent buildings, plazas, gardens, palaces and churches in Naples. He marveled at the towering obelisks built throughout Naples. They became his points of reference and remained in his mind as both monuments and landmarks of the wondrous city. The twelve children steamed away from the port of Naples on a freighter overloaded with barrels of wine, olive oil and tons of pasta. The ship traveled to Palermo, Cagliari, Sardinia and Valencia, then to Málaga and Cádiz. In the month the ship took to arrive at Cádiz, Rodia made friends with the eleven children he traveled with. The Benedictine sisters evaluated the children’s reading, writing and mathematics skills and provided daily instruction in these areas. For Simon this was his first and only schooling. In Cádiz, half of the children stayed. Simon and five companions with two nuns sailed on a Portuguese freighter to the Canary Islands and then to New York.
Simon Rodia was processed through the Ellis Island Immigration Center relatively fast and then was taken by the two nuns to a Catholic church in Little Italy, where he was taken in by two parishioners from Vietri, Italy. Vietri, a small town neighboring Salerno on the Amalfi Coast, was famous for its pottery. The people who took Simon in were ceramicists. They owned and operated a small ceramics shop where they produced and sold ceramic bowls, dishes, cups and pitchers. Simon worked as an apprentice in the family’s business for two years; then he decided to go west. He worked his way to the coal fields of Pennsylvania, where he labored for five years. The work was hard, but worse was the constant cough he developed from the fine coal dust, the cold and dampness from the pits and mines. Although at times he worked in constant darkness from morning until night, he always had his thoughts on the setting sun. Like the obelisks in Naples, the setting sun was a constant image that pursued him while awake and asleep. One afternoon after getting his pay, he went to his room in the bachelors’ quarters, packed a small duffel bag and followed the sun to the West Coast. The year was 1900, the dawn of a new century, when Rodia arrived in San Francisco, where love caught him, and a year later he was married. He remained in San Francisco with his wife, had two boys and worked in what seemed to be never-ending construction. Everywhere he looked there was a house, a building, a bridge, streets, parks being constructed. He saved his money and sent funds to his sister and her husband. The couple eventually came to Southern California.
His journey from Italy, across seas and oceans, and cities and countries, and the architectural monuments he viewed, stirred in him a desire to build something of his own. “Make something big,” he would always say. He wanted to make something that would record his presence in this world, leave his signature on earth, a construction that reflected his simple origins, his fantastic voyage through life, his labor with his hands and his imagination. He wanted to form his creation with discarded objects and broken pieces that seemingly had no value. Perhaps deep in his heart, Simon Rodia considered himself a person thrown away, discarded, forgotten, even though he had a wife, sons, a sister and people who acknowledged him with respect and care. He felt alone. Simon collected broken pieces of colored glass, tile and steel cable. He sought salvage, torn bags of cement and wooden planks from construction sites. With this colorful material he began to build swirling towers up toward the sky, perhaps desiring to connect to another world somewhere.
Albert considered Simon an artist, an architect, an engineer, a genius. Albert just knew he was. Simon had no architectural plan on paper. He did intuitive construction. His neighbors here in Los Angeles—where he bought an odd triangular-shaped lot in 1921—liked the small, delicate man who some greeted with good morning in Italian, others in Spanish, some in German or French. Simon learned a little Chinese and Japanese. He shared a garden with several African-American families who, in turn, taught him Southern cooking. Simon enjoyed their company, their food and their families. The intricacy and the diverse colors in the structures he built mirrored his relationship with his neighbors, who, like him, came from a distant place in the world. He assembled a map of Watts, of Los Angeles, of the country, of the world as he experienced each throughout his life and beyond time. He entitled his masterpiece in Spanish, “Nuestro Pueblo,” our community.
Neighbors often walked by to say hello and to see how far the little Italian guy had advanced on his towers. Neighbors arrived with bottles of wine and glasses for Rodia, and soon after brought hot food. In Los Angeles he lived by himself. He seldom spoke about his family. He said very little about anything. He would rather work than talk. There were moments, when friends like Sol visited, that Rodia opened up and revealed his past history. He became very close to the Mexican families who lived next to him and who praised his work and encouraged him to keep building his dream, because they saw him as a man driven to create, because it came from somewhere deep inside him.
IT SEEMED THAT at times the Santa Ana winds came only to wipe pure the face of the sky and reveal magnificent views of the city of the future: Los Angeles as seen from the highest points of Boyle Heights, not far from the Sun Construction Yard. Albert and Louise, in a company truck, had parked in an empty lot facing west. They could see as far away as Santa Monica.
“That’s the ocean, Louise!”
“It can’t be. The beach is too far.”
“It’s far, but you can see it from here. And look at our bridge, it’s beautiful,” Albert said, pointing to the First Street bridge. “It’s almost finished.”
Louise turned an admiring look at the structure.
“I bet the views from the bridge tower are prettier than from here,” Albert said as he ignited the engine and pressed the gas pedal to drive over to the foot of the bridge platform.
Situated in the middle of the river, there was very little water running around the platform—or tower, as mos
t people called it. In the middle of the imposing platform the bridge finally joined and connected the west and east sides of Los Angeles. On this Sunday afternoon two watchmen patrolled the construction site. They both recognized Albert, but they didn’t know or care who accompanied him. As Albert climbed, following Louise up to the top of the tower, one of the watchmen drove by slowly and told him to be careful: “¡Ten cuidado, muchacho!”
Louise stopped ascending the ladder and looked out beyond the river’s edge. Water flowed on the west side through a control canal. She stared down at Albert and climbed further up until she and Albert reached a seven-foot ledge, where they waited for a strong gust of wind to pass by. They kissed and stood there holding each other before ascending to a higher ledge, about fifty feet above the river’s shallow water. Holding on to each other they could easily stay safe. Maybe someday they would walk to the source of the river, to its origin, to its birth. How wonderful to see its birth.
Louise started to ascend the steel-rail ladder built into the concrete wall. They had to climb about thirty feet higher to a service area that had another steel ladder that led to the first flat surface, the bed on which the bridge would be connected. Once there, unencumbered views awaited them. As Louise took the first step upward her heart rate rose. Her foot slipped.
“Don’t look down. Climb, we’re almost there!”
As they approached the square opening to the top, the wall curved and merged with the thick platform table above them. Louise grabbed a steel bar and pulled herself inside the ten-foot-long square opening to what seemed the top of the world. Albert watched her quickly disappear, swallowed up by the clear blue sky above. He scurried up to catch her. With his head just above the opening to the surface, Albert looked about, but he could not see Louise. For seconds he froze.
“Were you scared? Silly! I’m right behind you.”
Louise spun round and round, her hair floating in the wind. Albert went to her and, with an embrace, held her still and kissed her. They kissed again. Still in Albert’s arms, Louise turned her body to face west to scan the horizon beyond the rising City of Angels. From where they stood the view extended out to the ocean and to the Santa Monica mountains, to San Pedro’s developing ports and harbor, south to the Montebello Hills, east to the San Bernardino Mountains and down to the beautiful river struggling to shrug off the concrete slabs that attempted to control its edges, its natural flow and currents, trying to hold it back from its natural meandering to the ocean. In the river’s natural path a few debris basins, short flood-control channels and small dams had been constructed to divert its water away from the city.
Albert and Louise took in the view, breathed each other in deeply and exhaled. They did not quite understand what was happening to them. Their hands rushed to help each other remove the clothes that bound their bodies. A hand released Louise’s garments. Albert stepped away from his clothes. The sweet wind whirled around them. There was no return, nothing to stop them now. They kissed, and slowly their lips and tongues roamed the nature of one another’s smooth skin. Louise felt no longer afraid of what she did for her astonished Albert, who opened his mouth wide, wanting to swallow all of her. Alone, above all living beings, they celebrated, now coupled in each other.
“Let this be forever, Albert,” Louise whispered.
Their minds and muscles moved systematically, strong intensity growing inside them. Louise raised her hips a little higher, meeting his. Their love at first had been for them, but now their shared love and that madding sensation made them both look down between their bodies to where they were joined, working, pushing to pass through one another’s body. Albert arched his back, lying on the smooth cement; Louise squatted, taking him inside her. She smiled and kissed the thin skin of his eyelids; her mouth joined his. Time had ceased—only they existed for each other. As he coaxed her onto her knees and gently pushed her head forward, Louise turned to see Albert pushing into her. She resisted his strong steady body, she tightened around him, holding him within her, letting go and again desperately timing the moment to squeeze around him, until suddenly his breathing became her name. He repeated her name over and over as she shook her hair.
“I’m here, Albert. I’m here!”
A warmth came in and upon her, a slight surprise and a grin formed on her lips as she saw Albert’s hands reach forward, his body tenderly collapsing, rolling to her side. They held on to each other, reached for their clothes, covering themselves as best they could. Albert and Louise slept on a modern concrete porciúncula over the Los Angeles River: an islet, a small piece of land, a porciúncula—the original name given to the river by the Franciscan friars in honor of the tiny church where the order had originated in Italy.
After a while, Louise suddenly raised her head. “What if I get pregnant?” she whispered into Albert’s ear.
With his eyes closed, Albert smiled and fell into a peaceful slumber.
AFTER THE END of World War I, the United States went into a spiritual rebirth, experienced the euphoria of a growing economy, of a booming industry and of highly productive construction companies building thousands of homes for hard-working Angelinos. With so much business activity, people felt secure in their jobs, in their homes and neighborhoods. Peace and prosperity, driven by advanced new technologies such as telephone and radio communications, connected the city to the county to the state to the country to the world. The automobile allowed the working man to travel long distances. The car was a traveling machine and, in a pinch, could be used as a home. All was not work in the post-war country, as leisure time increased and the film, radio and recording industries entertained the residents of growing cities like Los Angeles.
This economic boom was measured by the stock market. Immediately after the war, stocks began to climb slowly, and as more people expressed confidence in the economy, they climbed to record levels. By the middle of the Roaring Twenties—baptized as such by stock investors—the Dow Jones Industrial Average had soared to all-time highs. Investors bought stocks based on the economists’ and bankers’ claims that to purchase stocks was to invest in the growing strength of the United States of America. Buying stocks was pitched as a safe investment because the experts saw no end to the surging American economy. People had developed so much confidence that they started to buy stocks on margin: borrowing money on the stocks they owned to buy more stocks. If the stock they purchased dropped in value, the margin investor could lose the original investment plus owe money to the brokerage company. To buy on margin, to speculate on stock prices rising or falling, was risky business, but this losing scenario was far from the minds of portfolio managers, let alone stockholders, who saw that buying on margin enabled new or growing companies to get funding and made portfolios double, triple or go even higher in a matter of months!
As the word spread that in the stock market even the common laborer could make a bundle, market trading became epidemic. Americans could not get to the stockbroker fast enough to make that sure killing. Since the money earned was not enough, without hesitation they withdrew their savings, mortgaged their homes and borrowed to invest in the guaranteed profit from stocks and other financial instruments recommended by brokers and bankers. Some stock market investors did not know in exactly what they were investing their money. Ignorant about the workings of stocks and the market, they simply relied on the experts who conveyed the frenzy and greed that was overtaking the finance culture. People had faith in the United States and believed that their country’s stocks would always go up. Nobody warned them of economic downturns or stock market crashes. The Roaring Twenties would last forever was what they understood from the financial wizards who reassured investors that their money was safe and that the economic boom had no end in sight. A few, a very few claimed to see signs on the horizon of a fast-coming economic apocalypse. Americans kept putting their money into big, renowned corporations: Ford, RCA, Heather Pharmaceuticals, US Steel, General Petroleum and others.
One of the most aggressive p
romoters of and investors in the stock market was Philip Keller. He listened to his friends in the Southern California Aryan Club who, for the most part, were themselves major stockholders in large companies. These men were bullish on the market and had invested hundreds of thousands, even millions of their personal wealth. The majority of the members believed that with their wealth they could control the growth, social order and racial development of Los Angeles. They often liquidated a portion of the many properties they owned in the city and converted the funds into fast-rising stocks, and they were successful with their trades, most of the time. The club members were riding high on multimillion-dollar portfolios that kept growing. Often the members brought news of parts of their portfolios or individual stock records to share with their colleagues in the club. They offered each other tips on hot stocks and companies that were on the verge of moving up in value, of breaking out and at least doubling in price. On any given day they held millions in stock, accumulated by using margin accounts, sworn to as secure investments by their personal stock analysts in Los Angeles and in New York. Philip Keller always listened. He was like a child, seen but not heard. He was silent because he really did not know much about the stock market and how to invest in it, and he was eager to hear which stocks his Aryan Club friends were investing in. After these meetings, Philip Keller went to Ernest’s home, excited to share the hot tip with his nephew, who cautioned him to be careful.
Yet Philip insisted, “I know that most of the club is buying this stock tomorrow. You know that my friends do not invest where there is a chance of loss.”
By 1928, Philip Keller, refusing to listen to Ernest’s warnings, had invested roughly eighty-five percent of his personal wealth in stocks. Separate from his money and investments, he still had twenty-five percent interest in the Keller Construction Company, after having given Ernest, Allison and their children controlling interest in the company, which had merged with the former Keller Lumber. Under Ernest’s management the company had prospered and was worth millions in equipment, inventory, contracts and capital. Ernest had not only developed the company into a large lumber distributor but had also created a construction component considered a major player in the Los Angeles building industry. For some time, Ernest had administered the business independently of his uncle and had been planning to buy his uncle’s shares. The more Ernest learned about Uncle Philip’s beliefs and private life, the less he trusted him. Nonetheless, Ernest never lost respect for his uncle, nor would he ever deny him access to his house and family. Allison became less patient with Philip, an unhappy bigot too wealthy for his own good.
River of Angels Page 19
