Westlake and MacArthur

Daddy was absolutely furious when they changed the name of Westlake Park to MacArthur Park. He stood in the kitchen while my mother cooked or put away groceries and just ranted. They used to stock the lake in Westlake park with tiny fish in summer. My older brother used to take his little fishing pole on the street car and go fishing. He would bring home a pile of tiny fish, which my mother would patiently clean and fry in margarine. I wish I could say butter,but we ate the cheapest margarine in the market. I liked the taste of it until I got married and had to eat real butter.
Anyway, she fried the tiny fish in margarine, and we ate them for lunch with potatoes and whatever else was around. When my younger brothers were old enough, Dick, my brother, would take them with their little fishing poles to catch tiny fish in MacArthur Park. My Dad grew up in L A; he knew the city like the palm of his hand, and he hated to see the name of the old park change to honor a general. They don't stock the lake anymore, I don't think, but the drug dealers are under control, and people picnic there with their kids, and the new gentry jog in the evening. Of course, the old gentry are the reason the park and lake are there at all. My Dad was the old genty, and when I saw this wonderful name in such nice, square text in the middle of that rectangle right there on that lovely old building renovated within an inch of its life, I had to have the picture to remember my Dad.