Echo Park Avenue used to have a red car trolley line running from Sunset Boulevard all the way up to Grandma’s house. Past her house, the street began its uphill curve into the mysteries of Lost Horizons, where trolleys couldn’t run. The end of the line location gave Grandma the perfect opportunity to get the trolley conductor to do her grocery shopping for her. I think my mother got her moxie from Grandma. Apparently they shared more than the same chin and three hairs. (I am not saying they had three hairs growing out of their chins, although there is nothing wrong with that. Lordy knows, we all do. No. I’m repeating the phrase my mother used to describe the hair on her head. It was fine and sparse. She would say, “I have to go comb my three hairs.”) Judging from old photos, Grandma had the same fine hair and determined set to her chin when she decided the world should start spinning in reverse. The first time Grandma walked up to the trolley man and handed him a grocery list, he was reasonably taken aback. She told him he should get off the trolley at Sunset, go into the little grocery store on the corner, and give the list to the grocer. In the time it took for the trolley to wait for the return trip, the grocer could come out with a bag full of food and deposit it on the trolley floor, which the conductor could then hand off to Grandma at the other end of the line. What could be easier? Of course, the trolley man objected to this plan, but, you know, Grandma’s chin. After she got done telling him how she was stranded at home with so many children to feed and no way to leave them to get groceries, he caved and made this a regular routine. If any of you remember Pioneer Chicken, it started behind the Pioneer Grocery Store at the corner of Sunset and Echo Park Avenue, and that’s where Grandma got everyone to do her bidding. A lot of food had to be hauled by others in time for Sunday meals at Grandma’s. By the time I came along, family meals at Grandma’s house were history. Actually, she died before I was born. Grandpa married someone else and moved to a small bungalow in one of those cute little courtyards that we love so much. Therefore, the grandmother I knew was not able to host 30 people for supper, nor did she wish to. I’ve been told that she was parsimonious with food, but you couldn’t prove that by me. Their bungalow was closer to Sunset, so we cousins would stop in on our way to Woolworth’s or the movie theater. The first thing New Grandma did was crush me to her bosom in a fierce clasp that left dents in my cheek from the brooch on her dress. The next thing she did was push food on me. “Have some soup.” There was always a pot of chicken soup on the stove. “No thanks, Grandma. I’m not hungry.” “How about some fruit? Here’s a nice apple.” There was always a bowl of apples and oranges on the table. “No thanks, Grandma. I’m not hungry.” “Then take an apron.” On the days when I refused the soup or the apple, I left with a crocheted apron, lovingly made by Aunt Frieda, given to her step-mother, who promptly distributed it to the first granddaughter to walk through the door and say no to a knosh. I am not making this up. I still have one totally useless 10” x 6” green and ecru crocheted “good for company” apron in my bottom linen drawer. I’ve given away the other fifteen. This is a digression from my main point, which is that once the real grandmother died, the uncles had three free Sundays a month to do recreational things, most of which required trolleys for transportation. My family did not understand camping. Going out into nature on Sundays meant carting grocery bags filled with sandwiches and fruit onto a trolley, bus, or car and heading to a park, the ocean, or the mountains, spreading a blanket on the ground and taking a nap. Most of the time we didn’t have to go far. Echo Park Lake was just down the street. You carted your outing necessities onto the trolley, rode to the end of the line, and walked a few blocks. You returned with empty food bags, and pails filled with treasures captured in the lake. Echo Park had everything you needed: the lake, tree-shaded grass, a bridge for the fishermen, and thousands of little perch waiting to be caught. While the women chatted and the men napped or fished, we children would run around looking for frogs and tadpoles to take home, or sneak by the forbidden Lotus Pond, the roots of which would capture our rotting bodies for eternity if we dared fall in. Echo Park even had wooden tables with benches to sit at when cousin Rose brought cold borscht. (Side note: cousin Rose invented lemonade beet borscht by adding frozen lemonade, also a new invention, to beet borscht with sour cream. It tasted much better than it sounds, which is ghastly.) Our family filled the entire park as it existed in the late 1940s. It’s since been gentrified, drained, cleared of corpses, and is home to cute little paddle boats you can steer into a giant water spout. Now it’s a hipster hangout. But in my childhood, it was a haven of outdoor play, as well as dinner. The uncles would climb back onto the trolley with buckets of perch that the aunts would have to clean for hours and then fry. One perch equaled one bite. The Echo Park trolley was more than mere transportation. When it reached the end of the line, close to where we lived, the conductor would walk down the aisle and flip the backs of the seats to change which way the passengers faced. Then he would pick up the coin box, carry it to the other end of the trolley, and place it on a stand there, ready for the trip back down to Sunset. Most days he would let us climb aboard and flip the seat backs for him, which we thought was great fun. Sadly, he never let us touch the coin box.