You Take the 2, I’ll Take the Lanterman

Growing up, I lived about a half-mile from the freeway that was my hometown’s namesake. We never, ever called it the 5. The 5 was a line on a map way up north in the San Joaquin Valley. In Santa Ana, our neighborhood freeway was always the Santa Ana.

Maybe I was spoiled. Names made sense, numbers didn’t. To get to the beach, we’d take the Santa Ana to the Newport. What could be simpler?

It was only after I got my driver’s license that I discovered just how puzzling our daunting pretzelwork of freeways and highways could be. I learned there were two kinds of Californians: Those who preferred names and those who preferred numbers.

I’d ask somebody directions and he’d talk numbers, not names. Or someone would ask me and, hearing names, would give me a blank stare. Names could be confusing too, but numbers always seemed worse. Imagine the poor dyslexic who was told to take the 10 to the 110 to the 101. At least the 170 and the 710 don’t intersect.

But as my universe expanded, I found myself using numbers as readily as names, sometimes more readily. I now tell people I take the 118 to work, not the Simi Valley or the Ronald Reagan freeways.

Took me about 20 years, but today I’m almost fluent in both names and numbers. Still, numbers seem so dehumanizing.

And so it was that I felt at once confused and charmed when, several months back, I first noticed a sign on the Glendale Freeway--or the 2, if you prefer. I was northbound, just beyond the 134 (bet you don’t know its other name), and there it was: Frank Lanterman Freeway.

Maybe you know who Frank Lanterman was. Not me. Curious, I did a little research. Lanterman was, as I suspected, a politician. A 1994 news clip described Assemblyman Frank Lanterman as “a dedicated and well-respected public servant who represented the area . . . from 1951 to 1978.”

Lanterman, who died in 1981, was the grandson of a Michigan couple who moved to the area in 1875 and purchased a 6,000-acre Mexican land grant known as Rancho La Canada and helped establish the community of La Canada Flintridge. One of the old Lanterman family homes has been preserved as a museum.

It was nice to learn this bit of local history, something I may have never known were it not for that sign. Here in Los Angeles County, Frank Lanterman is in rather select company. Four other human beings have been so honored.

We’ve already mentioned Reagan. There’s also the local stretch of the Christopher Columbus Transcontinental Highway. And there’s the Glenn M. Anderson Freeway, named after a congressman who was adept at securing federal highway funds. The Anderson is one freeway that is best known by its nickname, the Century. You’d think it would be the 100 but it’s really the 105.

Lest we forget, the Marina Freeway, the number of which I can’t now recall, used to be the Richard M. Nixon Freeway. But that honor was revoked.

Compared to Columbus, Reagan and even Anderson, there’s something quaint about the Lanterman, a little nod to local history. Indeed, it’s only that stretch of the Glendale north of the 134 that bears the moniker.

Jim Drago, a Caltrans spokesman in Sacramento, explained how roadways get extra names. A resolution must be approved by both chambers of the state Legislature, and the supporters of the resolution have to pay for the highway signs.

Drago, a highway history buff, noted a curiosity: For whatever reasons, among the 15,158 miles of freeway and highway in California, Greater Los Angeles seems to have something of a name shortage. People in Northern California and San Diego County seem to be more interested in promoting such honors.

Up north, for example, there are two stretches of roadway named after President Eisenhower. One is on California 41 in Fresno, the other on Interstate 80. And I-80 boasts other names too. Another stretch is named for Alan S. Hart, a Caltrans district engineer who, as Drago put it, “built I-80 over the mighty Sierra and got it open in time for the 1960 Olympic Games.” Yet another stretch was named for Linus F. Claeys, but not even Drago could remember who Linus F. Claeys was.

Meanwhile, down in San Diego, the Jacob Dekema Freeway is named for another Caltrans engineer. There’s also a stretch of road called the Ted Williams Highway, for a local baseball hero. And, just as there used to be a Nixon Freeway, there used to be a Richard T. Silberman Bridge.

Silberman was a political financier and former state Cabinet official in the Jerry Brown administration. The bridge was named for him before he was implicated in a money-laundering scandal. After that embarrassment, lawmakers informally agreed to bestow such honors only posthumously. Reagan was the rare exception.

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Chatting with Drago left me thinking that maybe it’s just as well that Angelenos aren’t aggressive about such honors. More names might mean more confusion, though I sometimes think of the Foothill as the Rodney King Freeway. And I still wish we had an alternative for the 134.

My favorite stretch runs past the animation building at the Walt Disney Studios. It’s an extension of the Ventura Freeway, but Ventura doesn’t seem right. It heads to Pasadena, but Pasadena’s already taken. I’ve heard it called the Glendale, but that’s flat wrong. According to Drago, the official alternative name is the Colorado Freeway, after the boulevard it roughly parallels. But nobody calls it the Colorado.

So, what should it be?

The Toluca Lake Freeway? The Eagle Rock? The Eisner?

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Readers may write to Harris at the Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth, Calif. 91311. Please include a phone number.

After I got my driver’s license, I . . . learned there were two kinds of Californians: Those who preferred names and those who preferred numbers.