Venice Of America is a book of photographs by Sweet William, a photographer and my family's neighbor when we lived on Thornton Avenue in Venice, California.  Although I was unaware of it at the time, his book documented the memories of my bohemian childhood. 

Thornton Ave. certainly wasn’t Mr. Roger’s neighborhood (unless Mr. Rogers secretly dabbled in drugs and ran from the cops). Our block was a gorgeous, dense, raucous, walk street (no cars allowed) separated from the beach only by a small alley and a parking lot. The dwellings were a mix of apartment buildings and bungalows, bounded by Thornton Towers, a stunning art deco building on the corner. We lived at 22 Thornton Ave.

In our white, one story home that my parents, both teachers, rented for $250 a month, a Black Panthers poster greeted visitors in the living room. Bob Dylan or Jimi Hendrix blared from the speakers and the smell of hashish wafted lazily through the living room. There was no TV, only shelves overflowing with books. Of course, we were vegetarians. My younger sister and I were homeschooled. It was the late 1960s and early 1970s and Venice was a hotbed of political and social activism.

 (The families of Thornton Ave. Photo: Sweet William)

Those were turbulent times. The Civil Rights Movement, President Nixon’s Watergate, the assassination of President Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. dominated my parents’ consciousness. Anti-establishment activities and political activism weren’t optional, but necessary, they believed. Musicians, artists and writers lived on the street. And Hells Angels. One of the moms on the block, Arlene, was a biker chick.  With arms covered in sleeve tattoos before they were all the rage, she sported them proudly, hopping on the back of her boyfriend’s chopper. Biker dudes fathered several of her kids and then split, leaving her a single mom to three children.

Long before “helicopter moms” watched their kids suspiciously for signs of stranger danger, the kids of Thornton Ave. ran amok and nobody panicked.

(L. to R: Kids Of Thornton Ave. Kevin, Me, My Sister, Bobby, Dawn, Kim. My front yard, 22 Thornton Ave. photo, Sweet William)  

My sister and I were in and out of neighborhood houses at our leisure. Doors were always open. I’d sit for hours listening to our next-door neighbor play the guitar on his front steps.  Seeing my parents nude wasn’t unusual. Kids on the block had names like “Solo” and “Thor”.  My mom changed her name, from “Peggy” to “Kia”. Adult political discussions lasted long into the night, fueled by pot and wine. Bedtime for us was pretty much whenever we fell asleep. I was 6 years old.

Seeking inner peace, my parents chased one Indian guru after another, saying, “this one is for real”, just to dump them a few months later for another more charismatic one. My sister and I tagged along to ashrams and communes, eating weird food and playing in the dirt while our parents did yoga and chanted. Luckily, my parents had the good sense not to give all their earthly possessions away and let those greedy, corrupt charlatans bankrupt them.

It was a remarkable childhood that was deceptively grown up.  What few rules we had could easily be broken. We were treated like little adults, exposed to things that would later make me blush. 

When this crazy cool urban scene became too intense, we moved. I was 10 years old. But, the pull of Venice was strong and for a long time, my family would return to visit.

I was 32 years old when Sweet William organized a reunion to photograph the former kids of Thornton Ave. We’d had an unforgettable impact on each other and the idea of a reunion was intriguing. Everyone showed up.  Strangers, we instantly recognized each other.

(Thornton Ave. Reunion, 1996. Photo: Sweet William) 

Seeing the kids I used to play with now grown up was bittersweet. We’d shared a life during our formative years. A few of them struggled with drug problems. One owned a chain of very successful restaurants. Others worked in various low skilled jobs. My sister and I were the only ones who went to college, yet that didn’t prevent us from experiencing our share of problems. My sister and I hadn’t spoken for almost a year and seeing her there was disconcerting. Everyone was friendly, but there was awkwardness as so much time had passed. My sister stayed in contact with some of the group for a short time, then drifted away. I had completed that chapter in my life and didn’t stay in touch with anyone from Thornton Ave.

In retrospect, mine was the most remarkable childhood I could have asked for—not that I had a choice.  Remembering my unconventional upbringing on an incredible walk street in Venice is melancholy. It makes me grateful for parents who, in their search for peace, love and happiness, took their very young kids along for the journey.

The tattered copy of Venice Of America dated September 1, 1977 that sits on my bookshelf is dedicated by Sweet William to my late sister, who I wrote about in a piece on Open Salon called, “Que Sera Sera…She Was The Masterful One”. September 1^st was her birthday. God, I miss her.