It’s a Family Affair

I’ve never been in love before. All my ex-boyfriends are from the East Coast and I don’t like any of them. I’ve never dated a boy from Los Angeles. This is heartbreaking because a true L.A. love story is an inextinguishable and boundless thing. Beverly Garland and Fillmore Crank were that kind of thing. The two Californians met on a blind in North Hollywood and within the year they got hitched in Vegas on May 23rd, 1960.

Fillmore was a modern day pioneer. A cowboy and a real estate developer. The youngest of three boys and the son of a realtor named Chet who built ranch-style homes in the Valley. Fillmore was a hard worker by blood. By the time he met Beverly, he was a widower with two children — Cathleen Crank and Fillmore Jr., later known as Big Smoke after his service as a fighter pilot in Vietnam. His first wife, Barbara Logan, died in a tragic car crash, the kind of accident that leaves an unshakable pain in a person. There was something classic and humble about Fillmore.

Beverly, the only daughter to a saleswoman and a radio host, was every bit beautiful as she was tough and vivacious. She wasn’t born in Hollywood. Her family lived Santa Cruz and then in Phoenix momentarily where they had a ranch and a few horses. No stranger to wild things, Beverly fought tooth and nail for success. At an early age, her beauty was undeniable but it was her talent and tenacity that made her unforgettable. Beverly was always an icon in the making. In the fifty years Beverly worked in Hollywood, she starred in over 700 movies and television shows. In practically every one of her appearances, she’s either wielding a shotgun or a sharp tongue. Her enemies were swamp monsters, aliens and frisky men. A B-Movie scream queen. She was a cult classic in human form. Fillmore adored her. He was her biggest fan long before they met, and stayed that way for the rest of his life.

Fillmore had bought parcels of land in the San Fernando Valley where he built homes, paved streets and famously relocated telephone wires underground, preserving the scenic views. Fillmore and Beverly lived in a house on Briar Summit Drive off Mulholland where they welcomed two tow-headed children, Carrington and James Crank. There were pool parties, a pet cemetery and a shack in the backyard that housed Fillmore’s model train collection. Beverly, the ultimate host, had a knack for never leaving any cup unfilled. She was the ultimate woman. A talented actress, a loving wife, a fabulous mother. Her daughter, my mother, Carrington, would follow in her footsteps in those qualities. There’s something sacred about being the daughter of a Valley Girl who’s also the daughter of a Valley Queen, and they’re both actresses. It’s like inheriting a kind of unspoken responsibility or gratitude for billboard beauty. But I live in Hollywood and I’m not an actress.

In 1972, Fillmore and Beverly took a risk and bought seven acres of land from Gene Autry between the 101 Freeway and Vineland Avenue. To most, it was an unremarkable stretch of scrubland and asphalt. But Fillmore had vision, and Beverly had faith in it. Together, they built a mission-style Howard Johnson Motor Lodge, an oasis in the heart of North Hollywood. A little slice of paradise for celebrities, outlaws, and ordinary travelers alike. Fillmore and Beverly poured themselves into creating something truly enduring. An everlasting legacy that would reflect their devotion to family and their vision for the Valley. Fillmore worked his creativity into the design, incorporating so much slump stone and rebar that Japanese architects visited to admire its earthquake-resistant construction. Beverly brought her character and sparkle, ensuring it was more than a business. It was a family affair. My mom and her niece Kim, Cathleen’s daughter, starting off in housekeeping. The water beds on the seventh floor turned out to be too hazardous for the two fourteen-year-olds. While my uncle, James, spent one summer scrubbing gum from the driveway. Fillmore planted towering Californian sycamores on the property, collecting the big leaves to showcase in the the conference room. They made it a habit to check on the lodge when driving home in their Country Squire station wagon from Sunday dinner at Bob’s Big Boy Burgers.

Fillmore and Beverly’s story wasn’t just about building a hotel. It was about creating a lasting legacy shaped by hard work, a touch of panache and a lot of laughter, just like their family. They knew how to have fun. That’s what made them magnetic to everyone around them. Their love had that irresistible charm. The kind that pulled you into their laughter, like it was meant to be shared. Fillmore’s secret to loving a woman like Beverly was to make her laugh everyday. Beverly was never bored.

During their 39 years of marriage Fillmore would draw maps for Beverly. She couldn’t read the Thomas Guide atlas that directed Angelenos from one end to the other. It made no sense to her. In his loving fashion and signature brown ink, Fillmore would draw maps dawned with shortcuts, trees and buildings. She always knew how to get where she was going, thanks to him. I’ve always bragged that I know my cardinal directions. It’s a lame party trick but I always know where North is. I never need a map as long as I can see the Hollywood Hills. Drop me off anywhere I can show you the way home. I can take you up Vine over onto Hollywood Boulevard walk you right in front of the Chinese Theatre and show you Beverly’s star on The Walk of Fame. Fillmore died three months before I was born. Beverly was never the same. She would die nine years later. My mom tells me that more than the cancer, it was the broken heart that killed her. She still had her map. He was always guiding her home. That’s the thing about a true L.A. love story. It’s an unwavering devotion. California may be battered but an Angeleno heart is bound to its home. Rebuilding from the ashes with a love that refuses to leave. I’ve inherited that stubbornness, that warmth, that unshakable sense of direction. As all Angelenos do.

My mother says the 80s should have lasted forever. Back then she had a white Triumph Spitfire convertible. You could get anywhere in fifteen minutes. The orange blossoms never stopped blooming. The wind wasn’t a threat. It was just another thrill.

I think about Beverly and Fillmore often. I think about the sycamores he planted and the way her laugh sounded. Her sparkly red dresses, his cowboy hat. Their story is about the roots and wings. The way they shaped the streets, the houses, the light. Beverly and Fillmore linger here. In the Valley, on the off ramps, in the shadow of the Hollywood Bowl lights. They’re the map I will always follow home. They’re true North. That’s an L.A. love story.