Category: City of Monrovia

Community Voice

I’ve been told that often ‘the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” Such was the case in our Community’s performing arts center on a recent eve where a crowd gathered to hear about the state of our schools.
The glossy agenda laid out the night’s speakers in bold letters Among the names a young lady had been scheduled to sing our Nation’s Anthem and kick off the program. As it happened, that featured performer took ill and at the last minute an understudy was found to treat the crowd.
The nervous teen took the stage and greeted both the spotlight and the awaiting audience with a nervous smile. Then, with no background music her strong and powerful voice radiated through the mic and speakers and the room was coated with her steady voice.
All was well until the moment in the song where we imagined the stripes and stripes gleam over the ramparts still standing after the barrage. Suddenly, the understudy in a light panic broke from the song and it was clear she had forgotten the lyrics to come. Disaster on stage was impending.
Then a natural thing happened. The crowd of Monrovians, young and old, all came to her aid by signing the line to come. This instant chorus then finished our nation’s pride in joyous communion and sent off the beaming understudy with a round of hearty claps.
I know this because I was there as a witness and as a voice in the throng.

The Vigilant

After a long and trying meeting at our local Middle School I began the short half-block walk to my truck. At the stop light on the corner of Myrtle Ave the red-hand-light made it so that a young lady and I had to wait for permission to walk. When the light finally turned I started to take my old man stride across the Duarte Road and quickly her quick pace over took me. 
In seconds she was several paces ahead of me. That

Humoring the Humorist

Standing and facing west from the corner of Myrtle Avenue & Lime I spotted three lanky, sweaty and tousled-haired teenagers. With skateboards at their side they were walking towards the prominent statue of Samuel Clemens at the south-east corner of Library Park. As they came closer to it their strides grew long and they started mimicking monkeys who then danced around the mustachioed bronze artwork. Unaware of my audience they made goofy noises and taunted Mr Clemens with silly questions and remarks. 
“You’re not so smart sitting here in the sun huh Mr. Einstein.” “Why don’t you 3.14 yourself an umbrella Mr. Smarty Pants” they shouted. 
When they noticed my approach they stopped and I took a moment to point out that they had their figures wrong. “That’s Mark Twain fellas” I told them with a smile and they stood there with a polite but quizzical look on their face. Then I pointed to the Library in the background and told them that they could learn more about him in there. 
They laughed and one, the shortest of the three retorted. “We Might.”

A Pat on the Back

On a morning walk about my hood I walked past and overhead the goings-on of a Seasoned pair. 
The prestigious looking gal had too-tight a bun upon her hair, was spectacled and I deduced a foot injury based on the black brace she wore at her ankle. The gentleman caller at her side was twenty years past the designation of a silver-fox but limped with the confidence of one. They had to make their way across the street and she was harping on about the house never having

Chirps of Anarchy

There is a gang issue in Monrovia that many of us just put up with. This throng makes it a habit of dashing and flying about the city from morning to night. They wake up neighbours with their loudness and sit confidently perched knowing they own the town. Easily identifiable hey sit there with their green vests mocking on lookers. Their catcalls are birdlike. Their numbers stay steady.
Flyin