A Lonely Fight to Hold L.A.’s Autos at Bay

It’s always perilous to stand in the way of progress. And for nearly a century, Los Angeles has moved forward on the automobile’s four wheels.

But there have always been a handful of naysayers willing to throw their bodies in the way of what they saw as not simply oncoming traffic, but also bad transit policy. Most now go unremembered. None, however, waged a longer and lonelier fight than Mary Johanna Larson, who personally held the city and its notions of automotive progress at bay for decades.

Larson’s epic confrontation with City Hall was set in motion in 1924, when Los Angeles’ voters rejected a proposed 110-mile system of subways and elevated trains in favor of a comprehensive street expansion program.

Accomplishing that goal involved using the city’s powers of eminent domain to obtain and demolish any building--or home--that stood in the way.

In 1928, Los Angeles decided that among the homes it needed was Larson’s cottage, which stood squarely in the way of a mounting stream of commuters restless to motor their way from Silver Lake to Echo Park.

Actually, the city planned to seize and demolish several homes, leveling off the southeast corner, making the streets wider and improving the visibility for drivers.

Larson’s neighbors were initially outraged over the plans, but soon realized that nothing could be done about the power of government to acquire property by eminent domain. The prices paid for properties were considered fair on the whole. But Larson held out.

Six years of debates and lawsuits followed. Although a court ultimately ruled that Larson’s property was worth $7,500, the city still wouldn’t budge from its offer of $3,200. Frustrated city officials finally lost their patience with Larson and bulldozed a short, angled street behind her house connecting Riverside Drive and Allesandro Street. The shortcut turned Larson’s property into a true urban island, a plot of land completely surrounded by intersections.

Still, Larson was a woman not to be rushed. Nor one to let eight lanes of concrete or the fact her lot was now 15 feet above street level destroy her serenity.

For 17 years, Larson lived in her tiny green cottage, nurturing her flowers, as well as fig, walnut and loquat trees. She built wooden stairs for easy access up and down the tiny mound. They also helped her safely escape the speeding cars she dodged on her trips to the market across the street.

Nor would Larson be silent: “When you give me a reasonable portion of the money the court awarded me for my property, you may cut [my house] away. “But $3,200 is not a reasonable part of $7,500. I just want a fair portion of it, not the full amount. After all, my life savings went into it, and it’s the last bit of property I have left.”

In March 1936, after eight years of unsuccessful attempts of trying to negotiate a deal with Larson, the city paid her attorney Lee A. Dayton his $526 legal fee. The fruitless plan was abandoned.

Years later, when Larson had gone, city officials finally obtained the property and completed the long-delayed street improvements.

The automobile may have won the final battle, but Larson had never lost her war.