Thinking of Milton Bratton on Veterans Day
By Kitty
Bratton
Today is Veterans Day and also
my dad’s birthday. Milton Bratton would have been 84 today if only he had
survived 1987.
In his 63 years he had lived all over Venice
Beach, and had a bookstore there, on Dudley for
years.
He knew so many people and was
so loved, his ending just did not fit that
life.
He stayed at 517 Ocean Front Walk
from ‘68 till ‘85, when the building was suddenly sold, with only a
couple days to put his things in storage and find somewhere to live, it was
unreal, we did the best we could, but it was such a shock at the time, I did not
know the Boardwalk was for sale. And nowadays it happens all the time, progress
instead of people, greed instead of
good.
So my dad drifted from place to
place, among our small family, sometimes staying in cars or with
friends.
One time some mental health
group found him on the beach, and forced him into a shelter, they called me and
said I had better pick him up or he was going to jail, or a hospital. These
folks were going to put a stop to homeless, broke people living on the beach.
Where are they now?
Most of the time I
had housing and my father stayed with me and his four
grandkids.
We would take breaks here
and there, we were on one of those breaks when his, and therefore, our tragedy
happened.
He was, unknown to me at the
time, just sleeping out on the sand, at the same beach he had met and married my
mother, the same beach we had rode the tram countless times to POP (Pacific
Ocean Park), the same beach we had strolled on daily to Harold’s Bakery,
Al’s Deli, the Lafayette Cafe, or Nupars Restaurant. It was the same beach
the drummers played on and old friends met on. And those who cared, tried to get
him in somewhere out of the elements, in those last days of
May.
A bus became available to sleep in
and the owner was in jail. But some warned there were drug people with an axe to
grind. Dad did not heed the warning, he had lived outdoors in Mexico during the
50s, he had survived the army, he was known for his inner strength and calm
manner.
He just wanted to lie down
somewhere comfortable, the arthritis of his knees made it hard to get around.
I was back in Escondido, thinking
about the couch I would soon be getting for him, and how I would welcome him
into my new apartment in grand style, when I got an urgent call from the police.
The insane drug people had gone thru with their plans. My dad was horribly
burned by their firebombing of the bus. He only lived five days longer, and
pulled out his breathing tube himself, because enough is
enough.
Homelessness can and will
happen to anyone, we all need compassion and
help.
We also need mental
hospitals/healing hospices open again instead of passing folks around, getting
nothing real done, just prescribing chemical
restraints.
Meanwhile, my kids and I
strive to recall the good times we had with my
dad;
There was a time when he knew
everybody on the beach, and the future looked bright. I spent those golden
summers with him, going to the bookstores, movies, the Apple Pan restaurant....I
guess I am trying to say to cherish your loved ones now, lend a hand, because
they can be gone tomorrow.
Until my
next inspiration, best regards to all,
Posted: Sat
- December
1, 2007 at 07:16 PM