Guest Opinion | Kathleen Clary Miller: Under the Oak Trees at Pacific Oaks

Whenever I drive up to Pasadena for the day, I walk my old neighborhood on South San Rafael Avenue, turn the corner on La Loma, and head across the bridge. My stop? Peering over the wall into the play-yard of Pacific Oaks Nursery School, one of my first and fondest memories of childhood.

I was a cautious child in 1954, as I still am as an adult. It was under the oak trees that despite trepidation I learned how to climb, how to share things I didn’t necessarily want to, how to paint with my fingers, and patiently nap on my cot despite unbridled energy, my favorite swing beckoning to me not to go inside and lie down. I even bridged the gap between friendship and romance for the very first time when my three-year-old hand reached out and held the willing one belonging to a boy. My teacher crafted a lengthy written assessment of my personality and character that, to this very day, is exactly who I am.

I read today that residents are not always pleased with the commotion surrounding the school, and I am certain that for those people their concerns feel valid. The house I live in now is around a corner from a grammar school, so I do understand traffic and parking concerns, but I must confess that I enjoy hearing the sound of small children at play. When I am out walking, I return their genuine, innocent greetings as they run to the fence at recess, waving wildly and calling out hello.

As for Pacific Oaks, I would gladly trade places with those who live around the corner and complain—lighting concerns, trash, noise—I’d take it all, were I still do miraculously enjoy that option. But then, I freely admit that I am biased: As I rise on tiptoe to look over the familiar fence, whatever concerns may be of the present cannot possibly interfere with the perfect past in my pocket.