I wore a beard back then and drove a Dodge Dart that teetered on the brink of death. Despite the suit and my fresh haircut, I figured I had to look like Radical Danger to them. But they accepted me warmly, listened intensely to my after-lunch talk, never removed their eyes from my slide show- sick kids, IV poles, surgical theaters. The one we staffers, during the blackest of moments, called the Tearjerker Matinee.
When it was over, they were all wet-eyed. More certain than ever that they wanted to help.
I decided the best way to make use of their talents would be to have them serve as guides for newly diagnosed families. Psychosocial docents whose goal was to cut through the procedural red tape that hospitals produce even faster than debt. Weekly two-hour shifts in tailored uniforms that they designed themselves, smiles and greetings and guided tours of the misery. Working within the system to blunt some of its indignities, but no swan dives into the deep waters of trauma and tragedy, and no blood and guts. The chief of staff thought it was a great idea.
So did the girls. I set up a training program. Lectures, reading lists, tours of the hospital, debriefings, discussion groups, role-playing.
They were first-rate students, took detailed notes, made intelligent comments. Half-jokingly asked if I planned on testing them.
After three weeks they graduated. The chief of staff presented them with diplomas bound in pink ribbon. A week before the docent rotation was scheduled to begin, I received a handwritten note on ice-colored stationery.
LAS LABRADORAS
BUNGALOW B, THE CATHCART
PASADENA, CALIFORNIA 91125
Dear Doctor Delaware,
On behalf of my Sisters and myself, I wish to thank you for the consideration you’ve shown us during these past few weeks. We girls all agree that we learned a tremendous amount and greatly profited from the experience.
We regret, however, that we will not be able to participate in the “Welcome Mat” program, as it presents some strategic problems for some of our members. We hope this hasn’t caused you any undue inconvenience and have tendered a donation to the Western Pediatric Hospital Christmas Fund in lieu of our participation.
Best wishes for a wonderful year and our sincere appreciation for the terrific work you do.
Faithfully yours,
Nancy Brown
President, Las Labradoras
I found Ms. Brown’s home number in my Rolodex, dialed it the next day, at eight in the morning.
“Oh, hi,” she said. “How are you?”
“Hanging in, Nancy. I just got your letter.”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. I know how terrible this looks, but we just can’t.”
“You mentioned strategic problems. Anything I can help with?”
“No, I’m sorry, but- It’s nothing related to your program, Dr. Delaware. Just your… setting.”
“My setting?”
“The hospital’s. The environment. L.A., Hollywood. Most of us were amazed at how far down it’s slid. Some of the girls think it’s just too far to travel.”
“Too far or too dangerous?”
“Too far and too dangerous. Lots of the husbands are against us coming down there, too.”
“We really haven’t had any problems, Nancy. You’d be here during the daylight hours, using the VIP parking lot.”
Silence.
I said, “Patients come and go every day with no problem.”
“Well… you know how it is.”
“Guess so,” I said. “Okay. Be well.”
“I’m sure it sounds silly to you, Dr. Delaware. And to be honest, I think it’s an overreaction- I tried to tell them that. But our charter says we either participate as a group or not at all. We took a vote, Dr. Delaware, and this is the way it turned out. I do apologize if we’ve caused you problems. And we do hope the hospital accepts our gift in the spirit in which it was offered.”
“No doubt the hospital does.”
“Goodbye, Dr. Delaware. Have a nice day.”
Notes on good paper, monetary buy-offs, phone brush-offs. Must be the San Labrador style.
I thought about it all the way to the end of the freeway, onto Arroyo Seco, then east on California Boulevard, past Cal Tech. A quick series of loops through quiet suburban streets, then Cathcart Boulevard appeared and I resumed the eastward trek, into the wilds of San Labrador.
The Farmer Saint.
A canonization that had eluded the Vatican.
The very origins of the place were grounded in a buy-off.
Once the private domain of H. Farmer Cathcart, heir to an East Coast railroad dynasty, San Labrador looked like old money but had been chartered as a city for only fifty years.
Cathcart came to Southern California at the turn of the century in order to scope out commercial possibilities for the family. He liked what he saw, began buying up downtown rail lines and hotels, orange groves, bean farms, and ranch land on the eastern borders of Los Angeles, assembling a four-square-mile fiefdom in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. After building the requisite mansion, he surrounded it with world-class gardens and named the estate San Labrador- a bit of self-aggrandizement that made Episcopal tongues wag.
Then, midway through the Great Depression, he discovered his funds weren’t infinite. Holding on to half a square mile, he subdivided the rest. Parceling the gardens out to other rich men- tycoons of grand but lesser stature who could afford to maintain two- to seven-acre properties. Attaching restrictive covenants to all deed transfers, which ensured his living out the rest of his life in sweet harmony with nature and the finest aspects of Western civilization.
The rest of his life didn’t amount to much- he died in 1937 of influenza, leaving a will bequeathing his estate to the city of San Labrador, should such a city exist within two years. The tycoon tenants acted quickly, setting up a charter and pushing it through the L.A. County Board of Supervisors. Cathcart’s mansion and grounds became a county-owned but privately funded museum-cum-botanical gardens that nobody visited- before the freeways.
During the postwar years the land was subdivided further: half-acre lots for the burgeoning professional class. But the covenants remained in place: no “coloreds,” no Orientals, no Jews, no Mexicans. No multiple dwellings. No alcohol served in public places. No nightclubs or theaters or places of “base entertainment.” Commercial establishments limited to an eight-block segment of Cathcart Boulevard, no commercial structure to exceed two stories, architectural style to be in the Spanish Revival mode, with plans approved by the city council.
State and federal law eventually nullified the racial restrictions, but there were ways to get around that, and San Labrador remained lily-white. The rest of the covenants withstood tests of time and litigation. Perhaps that was due to sound legal basis. Or maybe the fact that lots of judges and at least two district attorneys resided in San Labrador had something to do with it.
Whatever the reason, the district’s immunity to change remained strong. As I cruised down Cathcart, nothing seemed different from the last time I’d been there. How long ago had that been? Three years. A Turner exhibition at the museum, a stroll through the library and grounds. With Robin…
Traffic was sparse but slow-moving. The boulevard was split by a wide greenbelt median. The same mix of shops ran along the south side, ensconced in jewel-box Spanish Revival buildings and dwarfed by the rust-tinged Chinese pistachios H. Farmer Cathcart had planted long ago. Doctors, dentists… lots of orthodontists. Clothiers for both sexes offering styles that made Brooks Brothers seem New Wave. A profusion of dry cleaners, florists, interior decorators, banks, and brokerage houses. Three stationers in two blocks- suddenly that made sense. Plenty of Esq.’s and Ltd.’s and faux-Victorian nomenclature on the signs. Nowhere to eat or drink or stretch. Frequent signs directing the meandering tourist to the museum.