A Letter Comes to Life

There was something in the voice on the phone that set me on edge. A sort of deliberate meanness, like a person smiling oddly as he prepares to kick you in the zipper.

“Did you get my letter?” he asked.

I don’t know, I said. What was it about? “About your profound analysis of the Village of Woodbridge, which lies within the boundaries of the City of Irvine.”

Uh oh, I thought. Icy sarcasm. This guy must be boiling. And a slow reader, too. That column ran a month ago.

I received more than one letter about that, I told him. What’s your name?

“I didn’t sign it,” he said.

Oh, yes, I remembered it. I had read it two or three times before throwing it away. It was different from the usual raving anonymous letters you get in news rooms.

It had been typewritten on heavy, expensive paper. The typing was flawless, as if it had been done by a secretary on an office machine.

The vocabulary was just as refined. Carefully chosen words formed precise sentences that composed these thoughts: (1) Criticism like mine--that the strict regulation of life in Woodbridge creates a stunted, boring community--stems only from jealousy. Deep down, I wish I could live there.

(2) I am probably one of the undesirables that Woodbridge regulations successfully keep out of the community. If I don’t already live there, I should move to Santa Ana or Westminster where my kind live.

(3) Through powers God has granted him, he will see to it that I die of cancer within one year.

Now, hearing his voice on the phone, I was caught by surprise. I had never before talked with someone who had written one of those letters. Now I was--and one who said he was arranging that I die a slow and painful death.

I wanted to destroy him with razor-edged wit, but there wasn’t any at hand. Instead, I said: “You didn’t like the column, I guess.”

“No fooling you, is there?” he said.

Now I was angry, but my curiosity was stronger. What made this guy tick?

“Do you really want me to die because I think Irvine is boring?” I asked.

“I just wanted to know if you read the letter, that’s all. I see that you have.”

“No, I really want to know. Do you want me to die because I criticized your hometown?”

“I don’t even live there,” he said.

That one caught me by surprise, and during the pause in the conversation he hung up.

Oh well, it’s nice to know you’re being mentioned in someone’s prayers.

Looking back, I realize I should have saved that letter. I did save some--those from people who seemed to still have both feet in the canoe.

One man, one who actually lives in Irvine, said he could not understand my criticism.

“We in Irvine do want it that way, Steve, or we would not have signed those CC&Rs; (conditions, covenants and restrictions contained in the deed). . . . Thank you for calling our streets sterilized. During the recent real estate slump immaculate Irvine held up much better than untidy Tustin.”

To say that there should be more to a city that property values would be a waste of breath, I suppose.

Another had the courtesy to send me a copy of a letter to the editor.

“If Mr. Emmons desires a neighborhood with a windmill in the front yard next door, a junkyard of old gasoline pumps on the other side and a wrecked car poking out of a garage across the street, he then qualifies as an expert in slum creation.”

I had mentioned in the column that in my old neighborhood were things that delighted a kid--among them a half-scale windmill a man built and let us play on. I also mentioned a man in San Juan Capistrano who collects and restores old gasoline pumps--museum pieces, in effect--and you can see them from the street.

But the man from Irvine classifies these sight unseen as blight. He sees no possibility that they could be fascinating, even ornamental. He is certain that they constitute a “junkyard.”

He has found a community he likes. Many neighborhoods without regulations are pleasant neighborhoods, but at Woodbridge they are unwilling to take any chances. Property values are what matter. If you sterilize the community, no weed-people will sprout. No roses will, either, but that, apparently, is not too great a price to pay.

One writer from Irvine had the good taste to agree with me:

“In 1972 I moved from Madison, Wis., where I had lived for 30 years. I moved to San Clemente, and I lived there until February of this year.

“In February--you guessed it--I moved to Woodbridge. I remarried and my husband had a house there.

“After four months, I still make wrong turns to my house at night, because everything looks the same to me.

“I’m grateful that my children were not raised in this community. I see people here as ‘consumer units.’

“I could go on and on. There’s no depth, charm, character or warmth here--and everyone is 21!”

She said it would be unfair not to say something positive. It’s a shorter drive to work, she conceded.

If she’s still living in Woodbridge, you can bet that her home is indistinguishable from any other in town. Yet lurking behind that bland facade is the germ of rebellion.

I’m willing to provide her name and address to the village committee, but it’ll cost a bundle. The letter is my property, and property values are what count, you know.