bixbymural  Stylish parents with Bugaboo strollers, Samoan picnics, homeless men, kids crying because they dropped their tamarindo candy in the sand, high school boys telling off-color stories, oblivious of the elderly people in earshot.

Bixby Park isn’t the largest, most majestic park in Long Beach. That would be El Dorado Park and its 388.2 acres. Heartwell Park is the city’s most serene: on a blistering summer day you can lie in the cool shade and count dragonflies and butterflies for hours without ever hearing a tantruming toddler. Livingston Park is ideal for rowdy little boys who like to climb, and Wardlow Park is the all-around best bet for an uncomplicated playdate for kids of multiple ages. Lincoln Park, created in 1888, is technically the city’s oldest park, although it was still known as Pacific Park in 1907 when a recently annexed patch of tree-shaded land on Broadway between Junipero and Cherry was named after Jotham Bixby. bixbysign

All these years later, you can survey most of those years. Stand in the dense shade of the trees of the northernmost first parcel, with Broadway at your back. From here you can’t see the Port, it’s hard to make out the line of tankers on the horizon and the streets that cut through the park—1st, 2nd and Ocean—are lost in all of the green grass. But to the left is “The Original” Park Pantry restaurant. To the right is the old Harriman-Jones drug store, remodeled into a Rite-Aid, although from here it looks like it still might have a soda fountain inside. Straight ahead is a view that spills down against the breeze and toward a glinting Pacific ocean, past chubby babies on the swings and slide, past gangly skateboarders, past birthday parties at decorated picnic tables all the way to yoga classes on the bluff.

And you realize that Bixby Park—with downtown and urban blight to the west, and the gentrified Bluff, Rose and Carroll Park neighborhoods to the East, frequented both by families that can afford to live by the ocean and families that arrive on the bus because the ocean-front park is cheaper than a Gymboree membership … and there is a free lunch program—may be the park that is most … Long Beach.

*****

 “MY HUSBAND AND I STARTED BRINGING OUR YOUNG SON here to run around and burn off some energy,” says Claudia Schou, whose small family moved into a fixer-upper home a few blocks away from Bixby Park. “But right away, we noticed some challenges.”

Schou is choosing her words diplomatically because she loved Bixby Park at first sight and because we are strolling its crowded grounds on a sunny and warm Martin Luther King Day that’s making me wonder, so, what’s not to like? Actually, Schou is just getting to that part of her story. bixbycruisesign2

“We’d come here to play, and we noticed that people would come and throw their trash everywhere,” she recalls. “Trash would be tossed right at the foot of the trash cans, and never actually make it in.

“There was a rusty, old chain-link fence that surrounded the playground, but it didn’t do a great job of keeping the kids in—so the city removed it, and it’s never been replaced. And the playground equipment isn’t terrible … but it’s pretty old. Sometimes we would see parents come here and light up a joint while their kids played. It’s definitely developed a reputation as a rough and tumble park.”

Ah, yeah, I guess we’ve all kind of known about that for awhile. Crime has plagued Bixby Park, to varying degrees, since the late ‘70s: drug sales and vagrancy, prostitution and public sexual activity. The park is ringed by signs that prohibit—and just so there won’t be any misunderstanding, specifically define—cruising. Three times past the same point in four hours? Busted!

None of that seems problematic today. Bixby Park is packed with families. There are kids of all ages, including multiple flocks of giddy, shrieking preteen girls. Everywhere there is giggling, flirting, whining and scolding, punctuated by the clanging of the tetherball chain and the background sounds of the skate park: whirring wheels, banging boards and the occasional obscenity. Trees are lush from the recent rains and everything looks—and smells—clean.

The wholesome festivity isn’t lost on Schou, but she’s developed a deeper knowledge of Bixby Park, and points out that below the surface its hardscape (read: infrastructure) is in mournful condition and its underlying plan is incoherent.

Trash cans are rusting through, benches are rotting, and the old fountain—no longer operational—doubles as a trash receptacle. In the middle parcel (between 1st and 2nd streets) the playground, community center and bixbyroots band shell surround a vast expanse of cracked concrete, its surface uneven and heaving thanks to the roots of the many mature trees that fill the park.

As for a plan, well: Parcel One, home of the decrepit fountain, is underutilized and dreary. Parcels Three and Four are comprised of inviting stretches of green lawn, but children have to cross streets to get to them. Parcel Two contains Bixby Park’s crown jewel—a stately Spanish Revival band shell—but it is shmushed among a playground, basketball court, skate park and community center. During performances, the audience must spread its picnic blankets on the cracked concrete, not grass.

Now that Schou mentions all of that, this holiday in Bixby Park has gotten a little depressing. But that wasn’t the effect she was going for. She turns to me and gestures toward the horizon.

“Look at that ocean! I mean, can you imagine a better setting?” Schou asks in an enthusiastic challenge. “This is an awesome park. It serves a diverse economic population. The community needs it.”

*****

 LONG BEACH HAS ALWAYS NEEDED BIXBY PARK, if for no other reason than a reality check. Somehow, Bixby has always been Long Beach’s mirror, the place the city could look to really see itself.

The land—originally part of Rancho Los Alamitos and once covered by herds of sheep—was donated by the Bixby family to the public in 1903, and then annexed to the City of Long Beach in 1905.

Photos and descriptions of Bixby Park from the first half of the 20th century—depicted beautifully on a huge mural on the west side of the recreation center—seem from another world: rows of men in straw hats playing contract bridge and cribbage, public worship services attended by hundreds, shuffleboard parties, cages of monkeys and exotic birds.

Consider a Daily Telegram article from 1907, entitled “Trustee is in Quandary: Would Captive Bear Be Pleasure or Nuisance?” It describes a city official deliberating over the offer of a caged bear exhibit for Bixby Park, wondering whether or not “the general public would enjoy the novelty of seeing the wild creature in captivity and be amused by its antics or on the other hand censure him.”

Poly High staged a yearly pageant in the park (“A Spanish Fiesta,” “Red Men and White,” and “Sheep Shearing on Los Cerritos Rancho”). bixbyhoover

There are photos of presidential candidate Herbert Hoover atop the band shell speaking out over a sea of prim hats in the summer of 1928. Bixby Park was a perfectly sensible stop for a stump speech in those days, famous as it was for its massive state reunion picnics: at its height the Iowa picnic is said to have drawn as many as 100,000 people.

It was absolutely charming. But all of this is inseparable from the fact that the Long Beach of this era was strictly, purposely white, and prided itself on its Victorian backwardness.

The city’s largest developer, the Jonathan Bixby Company, routinely prohibited sale or lease of homes to “any person of African or Asiatic descent or to any person not of the white or Caucasian race.” In the 1930’s, the Long Beach Chamber of Commerce reportedly advertised that the “town is singularly fortunate in having such a small portion of non-English speaking races,” and by 1960 non-whites still made up less than 5 percent of the population.

In 1927, Long Beach hosted the Ku Klux Klan, which staged a massive march along Ocean Boulevard, culminating at Bixby Park. As many as 30,000 people were in attendance—six times the number that had turned out for Herbert Hoover.

***** 

 CLAUDIA SCHOU HAS BECOME PASSIONATE about Bixby Park, and she has found others who share her emotion. Less than a year ago, they formed Friends of Bixby Park, dedicated to restoring this crucial part of the city’s history and soul.

Toward that goal, Friends of Bixby Park is hosting a fundraiser Thursday night at the Museum of Latin American Art.

“Under The Stars At MOLAA” is billed as an opportunity to “experience a whole new perspective on park restoration, preservation and community,” the evening will be hosted by Helen Borgers of Long Beach radio station KKJA and include dinner, wine-tasting, a silent auction, historic photo exhibit, music, and talks by local historians.

The cocktail hour begins at 6 p.m. at the Museum of Latin American Art (MOLAA). Tickets are $65—or $100 per couple—and proceeds will help fund physical improvements at the park.

This is supposed to be the City of Long Beach’s responsibility, of course, but although the city has been supportive, it can offer little in the way of funding under current budget constraints.

So Schou and fellow members of Friends of Bixby Park have been meeting with contractors and landscape designers, soliciting bids and conferring with officials at Parks, Recreation and Marine. Recognizing that park renovation will be a lengthy process, Friends of Bixby Park is taking a systematic approach, focusing on one parcel at a time, starting with Parcel One, at the top of the park, where that nasty water fountain sits.

“We’re looking at approximately $70,000,” she says, “but that would include renovations to the water fountain. If we convert the fountain into a succulent garden, the cost will go down to $40,000 to $50,000. Park benches are $1,000 each, but those are the least expensive items. Period light posts will cost about $4,500 each.”

Schou, who works full-time in marketing and public relations in addition to raising a 5-year-old boy, sounds as if she goes over these figures as she falls asleep at night.

“We’ll be putting in DG—decomposed granite—and around all of the benches there will be a circle of shrubs and grass,” she says. “We want to put in some of those little wobbly-horse seats for tots, so this could be a quiet place to read or for moms to bring really small children.”

Schou pauses for a moment, running a mental inventory of the plans, hoping that she’s not leaving anything out.

My whole interest,” she says, “is trying to raise funds to make this park as awesome as Livingston, to modernize it.”

*****

 AH, LIVINGSTON PARK. Its mention was inevitable. To be a parent of a young child in Long Beach is to know all about Livingston Park in Belmont Shore, a sliver of a play area once encircled by chain-link fence and shaded by eucalyptus trees. For years, it was little more than a convenience for local families, certainly not the sort of park anybody would drive to.

But in 2007 word began to circulate that there were plans afoot to convert the playground into a parking lot. Local parents beat the drums, organized a Tot Lot Committee, wrangled local businesspeople—and raised money.

The result? Livingston Park is a playground unlike anything ever seen in Long Beach. It is filled with colorful, sculptural climbing equipment of Danish design and manufactured by Kompan. It is organized into multiple zones geared towards different age groups. It is enclosed by a Spanish, adobe-style wall with a Hacienda entrance and potted succulents flanking the wrought-iron gate.

Parents driving in from other neighborhoods pull up to the curb, herd their children inside, sigh, and then eat their hearts out while they watch the kids play. Everyone might like to have a park like Livingston, but the city doesn’t just hand them out to families that wish hard enough.

A park like Livingston comes by way of a perfect storm: block upon block of million-dollar homes, like the kind that line the streets of Belmont Shore and Belmont Heights, like the kind that surround a school like Lowell Elementary, with its stable of wealthy families, its tradition of active PTA parents and its relationships with members of the Belmont Shore Business Association. (With Legends throwing the fundraisers, how can a project fail?)

Long Beach is years away from having the resources for a similarly monumental refurbishment of all of its parks. Even if it wasn’t, Bixby Park is far from the most run-down park in the city. Bixby would have to wait its turn.

So doesn’t it make sense to just drive to Livingston? Why fret about Bixby?

*****

THE SCHOU’S USED TO LIVE IN HUNTINGTON BEACH.

“It was too sterile,” says Claudia. “We wanted a little more diversity.” 

“Have you found it?” I ask.

“Completely.”

They moved to Long Beach in 2003, landing in Rose Park. “We were always at Bixby Park,” Schou explains, especially after the birth of their son.

In 2008, Schou was meandering past Bixby Park when she spotted a For Sale sign outside a house in the Bluff Park area, and fell in love. She and her husband made an offer. The owner, Marion Smith, promptly rejected it. They made another pitch a few month later, and got another brusque rejection from Ms. Smith.

“She was elderly and strong-willed,” Schou recalls. “Really independent. Perhaps a bit…”

Cranky?

Schou laughs. “Well, maybe. Maybe. The other residents had a lot of respect for this woman. She was a lady. But they didn’t mess with her.”

The Schou’s made a third offer, this one accompanied by a heartfelt letter professing Claudia’s love for the property … and waited.

“I remember praying, ‘Please God, if this woman will let us purchase this house at this price I promise that I will do anything I can to give something back to the community.’”

Schou didn’t only say that in her prayers.

“It’s kind of what I wrote to [Ms. Smith] in my last letter,” she admits.

This time, the offer was accepted—and an obligation to the community was created.

“I guess all of this effort now is part of my commitment to Marion Smith—to give back to the neighborhood, because she gave us the opportunity to live by the park,” says Schou. “So I kind of have to make good on that commitment.”

*****

MAKES SENSE, AND I ADMIRE AND APPRECIATE HER FOR IT.  But I still don’t get it.

A bit of self-disclosure: I am the mother of two small children. We utilize local parks almost daily—choosing which one according to its particular strengths and weaknesses, along with the family mood—but I don’t consider any one of them to be the family park, the one that will stand out in my maternal memories.

Our neighborhood park is Veterans Park. We never go there: its bathrooms are frequently unusable because people defecate in the middle of the floor, and there is a grim little playground, visited by shuffling, muttering men with eyes so swollen and red that it looks as if the rims of their eyes are bleeding. It’s sad, but I tell myself, “There are other parks.” 

Meanwhile, Schou has made a hundred phone calls, crammed grant-writing and bid-gathering into the dinner hour and forged a shared vision of what the park should be—one that goes beyond providing a clean, safe place to play.

Schou imagines Bixby Park as a functioning city center, with its own civic ecosystem.  She has forged relationships with the rec center staff, checking on the free lunch operations and brainstorming how to enlarge the center’s offerings. Homelessness is an obvious problem, but no one wants to see vagrants rousted and shooed away. Instead, Schou feels that the park should be a stage for outreach. She acknowledges that the skate park has probably increased drug traffic, but as she shades her eyes with her hand as she watches the railslides and near-collisions, Schou explains that it has also helped to cut down on petty crime and vandalism.“They’ve been a real blessing to this park,” she insists. Schou is particularly eager to establish a regular free children’s theater.

In effect, Bixby Park might become a more inclusive version of its much older self, a relaxed and sunny town square, the place to go to see and be seen.

Wonderful ideas, Claudia, but … why?

Schou stops abruptly, and the focused tone she’s been using to describe her many-faceted mission loosens into soft earnestness. And she explains:

“When I was growing up, my mother had multiple sclerosis, so she wasn’t able to get out of the house too often. It was really difficult for her, and toward the end of her disease she couldn’t really walk. My father had passed away when I was 8 years old, so my mother was a single mother, raising two girls, and it was really difficult for her to do things with us.

“But I had a best friend whose mother was also a single mother, and she took us everywhere. And the one thing that she loved—my best friend’s mother—was going to parks. All summer long, from the time I was 10 to about 18, we would go to parks.

“We went to the Redlands Bowl every summer to watch performances of classical music and Broadway musicals like Bye Bye Birdy and Brigadoon, and operas like The Mikado.  I grew up in San Bernardino, and hadn’t been exposed to a lot of arts and culture, because my mom was pretty ill in those years. So I felt really fortunate that I had this best friend and her mom who took us to see free theater in the park, and also took us to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco—drove us all the way up the coast, and so we stopped at all these great parks on the way up–and showed us Zion National park.

“In San Bernardino there was a park called Paris Hill Park, and every summer I remember going and watching this theater group called Junior University. Most of our time was spent having picnics and playing at all these different parks.

“And I remember those years being really challenging for me because my mom was ill and we didn’t get to go out often. But visiting parks and seeing free theater was something that I did get to do, with my best friend and her mom. The cultural influences and musical education that I got from these parks certainly helped shape who I am today.  Whatever that means. Parks may not make you a great person, but they definitely make your life more enjoyable.”