Tributes Tell Why Valley Is Home

Couched as it was with reminders of the earthquake, the wildfires and the sagging economy, our question to readers was simple: Why do you stay in the San Fernando Valley?

In dozens of poems, essays and even a limerick, written on manual typewriters, computers or scrawled on note cards, you responded, defiantly defending your neighborhood, your strip mall, your Valley.

For some, it is the memories that keep you here: of orange groves, farmlands or the deer that once roamed the Valley floor. For others, it is as simple as the convenience of nearby malls or the endlessly sunny days. Others point to something less tangible, a collective spirit that rises in the face of each new disaster.

But we asked for your words, so we’ll let you explain. Here are some of our favorite remarks, illustrated with photographs by Brian Vander Brug about why there’s no place quite like the Valley to call home.

Multiethnic Food, No Fashion Fixation

Let’s face it. The Valley is no Garden of Eden. It doesn’t have the breezes of Santa Monica, the elegance of Beverly Hills, the chic of Brentwood, the charm of Pasadena, nor the trendiness of West Hollywood. It doesn’t even have the orange groves and cheap housing of its not-so-distant past.

So, what’s to like? Plenty. I’ve lived in the Valley since 1954 (having failed in my two halfhearted attempts to move “over the hill”) and learned to accept and love this diverse and dynamic piece of geography.

The Valley reminds me of why I like cactus. Unlike more delicate hybrids, it thrives under adverse conditions. It lives with frequent heat, survives with minimum water, and is oddly appealing in an ugly, prickly way.

I’ve actually grown to love those strip centers and mini-malls that litter the neighborhoods. First of all, they’re convenient--you’re never more than five minutes from a Slurpee or Winchell’s doughnut--and they’re a plucky thumb-your-nose at pre-planned, homogeneous, architecturally correct communities.

The once “white bread” Valley (I remember not being able to find a bagel for miles) is now multiethnic. I can now eat tandoori, drink sake, or buy humus all within a three-mile radius. I can eat in restaurants with names like Frankie’s Falafel House, Sam’s Sushi Palace, Willy’s Wok, and Nick the Greek’s, not just Bob’s Big Boy.

The Valley never was nor ever will be fashionable (Encino pretensions aside), and that makes me very happy.

MADDY ZIMRING

Tarzana