Gladys in the Storm

Rain was falling and the wind was howling the day I visited Miss Gladys. Water rushed down the streets and trees bent to the rush of the storm through Morningside Park. Winter was in a fury.

But Miss Gladys has seen many winters, and came to the door of her green stucco house in full glow, like a flower in the rain, nourished by the weather, drinking in the elements.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” she said, leading me into her large living room. She meant it. The storm that flexed and postured outside bothered her not at all, nor did the huge jetliners that roared overhead, settling lower into a flight path that led to LAX.

I guess every day is a glory when you’re 94. Time towers over storms and other small inconveniences. Miss Gladys would be the first to tell you they matter less and less as the years go by.

Her full name is Gladys Waddingham. She’s a frail, white-haired lady with flashing blue eyes and an ability to put life in its proper perspective.

“You get that way,” she told me as she made her way slowly to a sofa. “I don’t need a walker yet,” she explained. “That’s good.”

Miss Gladys lives in a well-kept neighborhood in the Morningside Park section of Inglewood. She moved here 72 years ago, when you could see across the bean fields all the way to the ocean.

For 45 of those years she taught at Inglewood High, and later founded the city’s historical society. She remains active in community affairs, to the extent that a library lecture hall bears her name.

Miss Gladys, by any measure, is the grand dame of Inglewood.

*

I went to see her not because of all that, although it played a part. What brought me there was her obvious pride in Inglewood, a place renown for neither its safety nor its serenity.

Six years ago, for instance, on the day it was named an All-America city, a man was shot to death in a phone booth, and the half-naked body of a woman was found in an alley. Two days later, a student was killed at a bus stop.

Miss Gladys herself was knocked to the ground and her hip broken three years ago by a mugger who stole her car keys and jewelry. He was caught by police, convicted and sent to prison.

“This sort of thing happens everywhere,” she said at the time from her hospital bed, pain racking her body. “It isn’t a matter of Inglewood.”

The spirited defense of where she grew up and grew old isn’t confined to Miss Gladys. I have heard it so often from those who live in Inglewood that it ought to be translated into Latin and strung across Manchester Boulevard.

Even after the riots damaged 18 commercial buildings and the movie “Grand Canyon” depicted the city as a bloodstained ghetto, Inglewood’s boosters were vocal in their praise.

They made the place sound like a little slice of Paradise.

A city administrator summed it up more realistically after the All-America award. “We’re not a perfect city,” he said, “but we’re trying.”

You hear that from the large minority population, and you hear it from the smaller white population. With all that effort, as one critic observed, Inglewood is difficult to dislike and easy to root for.

*

My attention turned there after I received a copy of a Christmas message Miss Gladys had sent out. In it, she said, “Friends say Inglewood is not a good place to be, especially for a 94-year-old living alone. It doesn’t deserve that reputation. I’ve worked and lived here 72 years and am proud of the city.”

“I’ll never move,” she said to me that blustery, storm-pounded day. “I was thinking about going to one of those retirement places once, but a friend said I wouldn’t like it there. Too many old people.”

Miss Gladys remains forever young. Like the city she loves, she’s still growing, still trying. In the past year, she’s written two books on Inglewood, and is planning anniversary events for the historical society.

She’s outlived many of the students she taught long ago, but some who survive still write. She has seen them become parents, and then grandparents. Miss Gladys rests gently on their memory.

“It’s too bad so many white people left the city,” she said as we parted. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re all good people here.” She straightened in a posture of defiance. “I’m never frightened.”

We stood in the open doorway for a moment as rain slanted across her front yard. Miss Gladys was as vibrant as the weather and completely at ease with the storm.

She was still standing there as I drove away, breathing in the wonders of her Inglewood.