Impossible Dream Comes True--Eventually

The Amadors of North Arizona Avenue stay put.

In these footloose days in this, the most footloose of places, steadfastness isn’t a quality much praised, or even considered. But take a look at any measure of social disintegration--the breakdown of families, for example, or rates of incarceration--and imagine how a little bit of social glue might help.

The Amadors are glue, verging on concrete.

They have been in East Los Angeles’ Maravilla neighborhood through the Great Depression, two world wars and a variety of other tumultuous times, including the only one that really tested their resolve: the gang wars of the 1980s.

It seemed then, says Frank Amador III, “every day there was another drive-by. I mean, really, every day. Then it stopped. I guess the older gangbangers were either dead or in jail.”

The Amadors are now into their fifth generation on Arizona. But staying put is a more and more difficult proposition. Frank and his wife, Christine, have been living with Frank’s mom and dad for six years. Frank’s folks live next door to Frank’s grandparents. This sort of togetherness is rare, and one of its great benefits, as Frank and Christine can testify, is built-in child care.

First a son, Frank IV, then a daughter, Karissa, were born. In addition, Frank’s siblings and their families were living at home. At one point, the little beige three-bedroom had 12 people living in it. The house was getting crowded.

Last year, Frank and Christine started thinking of getting a place of their own. Preliminary investigations weren’t promising. Even in neighborhoods like Maravilla, a humble, chain-linked place, housing prices were out of reach. They talked about looking farther out, expanding their search, as have so many other families, into San Bernardino County.

Frank works in Pasadena, Christine in downtown Los Angeles. The prospect of twin hour-plus commutes was daunting; like thousands of others, they felt they had little choice. But even that far out, prices were still too steep. They couldn’t afford it.

They put off the house, which didn’t bother Frank all that much since he had his eye on a new truck, a Dodge Quad Cab, and he thought maybe he could use their savings for that. Turned out, though, they would have a hard time qualifying for a loan even for the truck.

Then one day last year Frank came home with a Realtor’s brochure advertising a house to be built right up the block. Los Angeles County owns dozens of vacant lots scattered around the county. One of them was right there on Arizona Avenue. As a pilot project designed to provide so-called in-fill housing at affordable prices for first-time home buyers, the county had contracted to have a house built there.

GC Management, a contractor, was experimenting with a way to speed up construction. A company in Oregon had devised a system of building the walls of houses in a factory there with electrical and plumbing hardware already installed. Then the walls would be shipped to a construction site and erected, like Tinkertoys, in a single day. In addition to saving labor at the site, the system promised to eliminate the need for security.

One problem that drives up the price of in-fill housing is the need to secure building sites. Often, full-time security guards have to be hired. Otherwise, supplies tend to walk off in the middle of the night.

The new building system meant that the Arizona Avenue house would be fully enclosed on the first day. The contractor could lock it up and go home at night and be assured it would all be there the next morning.

The county agreed to provide the lot; GC would build the house. Young couples like Frank and Christine were the target market. Christine is, shall we say, a woman very committed to her own opinions. She wasn’t persuaded.

“How could we buy a house? We couldn’t even afford a truck,” she said.

In fact, though, they did qualify. They signed the papers and got ready to move. The house was to be built in October. They’d be in by Thanksgiving.

“We were so excited, we were taking pictures of the dirt,” Christine said.

Sure enough, last fall a crew came. The slab was poured on Saturday, the walls went up on Wednesday. In a week, something that looked very much like a house existed. Because it was a test project and he wanted it to be special, Joe Lagerbauer, the builder, threw in some extras. As discussions were held on such esoteric subjects as the underground irrigation system and the marble tile in the entry, the Amadors could barely contain their excitement.

“I was trying to keep my cool,” Frank says. “I was holding it all in, saying, ‘Oh, yes, that marble will be fine.’ ”

“I don’t think he started screaming until we got home,” Christine says.

Walking through the place last fall, planning who would get which of the three bedrooms, thinking about appliances and blinds, Frank couldn’t stop grinning. Christine kept whispering, “Pinch me. I’m on Cloud Nine.”

They made plans to have the family’s Thanksgiving Dinner in the new house. It seemed too good to be true.

It was.

The county discovered that the lot the Amadors’ new house was built on didn’t drain right. A retaining wall was needed at the rear of the property.

Thanksgiving came and went. The wall had to be re-engineered. Christine bought Christmas lights. The wall needed to be anchored. Christmas came and went. Steel and concrete caissons would be set deep in the backyard. New Year’s. The cost of the wall became a significant fraction of the whole house. The county agreed to pay the $28,000 bill.

New targets were set: Valentine’s Day; St. Patrick’s Day.

They all came and went. Finally, the wall was done. Come the earthquake, Lagerbauer says, this wall will be the only thing left in Los Angeles County.

The Amadors were anxious. At first they couldn’t believe how lucky they’d been. Then they couldn’t believe how long it was taking their luck to come true. Finally, early last month, everything was done. The final walk-through was scheduled. The county would inspect the house, sign off on the wall and turn the whole thing over to the Amadors.

The inspection was canceled. It was rescheduled. Twice.

Finally, the day of the walk-through arrived. The county inspector did not.

Red-faced supervisors showed up and said he had somehow been sent to attend a training course instead. It seemed a cruel tease.

It was like that joke, “We’re from the government. We’re here to help.”

The Amadors, still grateful, grew frustrated and angry.

Last week, the last inspector came and went; the last paper was signed; the checkoffs were all checked. Finally, at long last, this week, the Amadors moved in.

The moral of the story is this: Government works.

Sort of.

In any event, it appears Arizona Avenue will have Amadors on it for some time to come.