Eunice Gastelum, 96, Who Could Find Anything the Times Ever Printed
For forty years she ran the newspaper's clipping morgue under a filing system of her own devising, and for thirty more the paper called her at home when it got lost in it.
Remembering the lives of our community.
For forty years she ran the newspaper's clipping morgue under a filing system of her own devising, and for thirty more the paper called her at home when it got lost in it.
For fifty years he threaded film and tended the carbon-arc lamps in Hollywood's movie palaces, keeping the light steady from a hot booth the audience never saw.
For half a century he stood on scaffolds with a brush the size of a broom and painted the horizons that fooled the camera; colleagues said his clouds looked more like clouds than clouds do.
From a teenager with a flashlight to a fixture of the balcony on a crowded night, he made a craft of seating strangers in the dark without a word.
From a family shop off the Boulevard, she built the arrangements that framed opening nights and funerals alike, and she could tell you which was which by the order.
For forty-one years she worked one school corner with a whistle, a stop-sign paddle and every child's name, until the neighborhood could not picture the curb without her.
For four decades he was the engineer behind a Hollywood radio station's signal, nursing its transmitter through earthquakes, brush fires and the occasional act of God.
A studio session player of the old school, he sight-read film scores for seventy years, took union scale, left no credit, and called that doing it right.
From a walk-up studio with a sprung floor and a wall of mirrors, she taught the children of her first students, and then their children, for six decades.
A studio seamstress who built hero garments in matching copies and aged new cloth to look worn, she knew everyone's measurements and kept every secret.