As told to my beloved grandchildren
My dear grandchildren,
As I sit here in our Point Loma home at eighty-four years old,
looking out over this magnificent San Diego Bay that has been my
companion for so many decades, I find myself wanting to tell you
about the life I've lived in this beautiful city we call home. Your
grandmother Emily keeps encouraging me to write down these memories,
and I suppose at my age, it's time to share what I've learned along
the way.
The San Diego I Was Born Into
When I came into this world on November 2, 1891, San Diego was
nothing like the city you know today. We had fewer than 17,000 people
in the whole county! The streets downtown were mostly dirt, and you
could walk from our house to the edge of town in just a few minutes.
Your great-grandparents, Austin and Della, lived at 16th and Market
then, and I remember my Grandmother Abbie telling me stories about
how quiet the nights were—no cars, just the sound of horses' hooves
on the dusty streets and the distant crash of ocean waves.
I was the only surviving child your great-grandparents had, which
made me pretty special in their eyes, I suppose. When I was seven,
Papa built us that house at 2105 30th Street, right on the corner of
30th and Hawthorn. That house was my whole world growing up. We had
the whole family nearby—my grandparents D.J. and Rebecca Carringer,
my uncle Edgar Carringer, and Grandmother Abbie Smith. Uncle Davey
Smith and Aunt Matie also lived here in San Diego and we saw them
occasionally. Sunday dinners were quite the affair with all of us
gathered around that big table.
Learning the Value of Work
You know, children, when I was just fourteen years old—younger
than all of you are now—I started working at Marston's Department
Store downtown. It was 1905, and I was what they called a "cash
boy." My job was to run payments from the sales clerks to the
central cashier and bring back the change and receipts. I made very
little money, but I learned something more valuable than gold: the
satisfaction of honest work and being dependable.
Every morning, I'd ride the trolley down 30th Street to Broadway
to downtown, then walk to the store at 5th and C Street. Those
trolley rides were magical—watching San Diego wake up, seeing the
harbor in the distance, breathing that fresh ocean air. The city was
growing so fast in those days, and I felt like I was part of
something special. I loved exploring downtown and all of San Diego as
it grew.
Over the years at Marston's, I worked my way up—cashier, mail
order clerk, post office clerk, floorwalker, auditor and finally
accountant. Each promotion came because I showed up every day, did my
best work, and treated customers and fellow workers with respect.
When I finally retired in 1960 after fifty-five years with the same
company, I realized I'd witnessed San Diego's transformation from a
frontier town to a major American city, one workday at a time.
Serving My Country
In 1917, when America entered the Great War, I knew I had to
serve. I was twenty-five years old and working as a floorwalker at
Marston's when I enlisted in the Marine Corps Reserves on May 7th. I
committed to four years of service, and I meant every word of that
commitment.
I'll tell you something that still makes me chuckle—when I got
to North Island for rifle training, I'd never even held a gun before!
But on August 1st, somehow I managed to qualify as a marksman. I
wrote in my service record that it was "lucky, as have never
handled rifle before." Sometimes you surprise yourself with what
you can do when you have to.
I trained in San Diego and also Washington state, then was
stationed right here at the Marine Barracks in Balboa Park. I worked
as a clerk in the Post Exchange, and while I never saw combat, I was
proud to serve my country. The discipline and sense of duty I learned
in the Marines stayed with me all my life.
Finding Love
The most wonderful thing that happened during my Marine service
was meeting your grandmother Emily. She was just eighteen, with the
prettiest smile and the kindest heart in all of San Diego. I was
twenty-six and completely smitten.
We were married on June 19, 1918, at Central Christian Church,
with only our immediate families present. The newspaper said it "came
as a complete surprise to the many friends of the couple," but
Emily and I knew we were meant for each other. She wore a beautiful
blue silk suit with a large white hat—no fancy wedding dress
needed. What mattered was the love we shared and the life we were
beginning together.
Our first home was at the Marine View apartments at First and
Hawthorne with Emily’s mother. It wasn't much, but when you're
young and in love, anywhere feels like a palace when you're together.
Our Precious Betty
On July 30, 1919, your mother Betty came into our lives, and
everything changed for the better. Emily and I had moved to 2054
Harrison Street by then, and we had Emily's mother, your
great-grandmother Georgia Auble, living with us. What a blessing she
was—helping with baby Betty and making our house feel like a real
home. My parents loved their only grandchild!
Betty was the light of our lives from the very first day. I
probably took a thousand photographs of her growing up—learning to
walk in our yard, playing in the garden, going to school. Every
milestone was precious to us because she was our only child, our
little miracle.
Building Our Dream on Fern Street
In 1920, we built our house at 2130 Fern Street, and oh, what a
house it became! I borrowed money from my parents—$21.10 a month
for the mortgage, which seemed like a fortune back then. But Emily
and I were determined to give Betty a real home with a yard where she
could play and grow.
That house became famous in our neighborhood for the gardens we
created. We had four fish pools—can you imagine that? Four pools
with goldfish that were so happy they'd sometimes swim right out onto
the grass! Emily and I spent countless evenings working in those
gardens, planting flowers, tending the fruit trees, and building what
the newspaper called our "outdoor living room."
The lath house was my pride and joy—furnished with chairs and
tables where we'd entertain friends and neighbors. We had tropical
fish in heated aquariums in the glass house, each tank with its own
radiator and thermometer. Friends would come from all over San Diego
just to see our little paradise.
Those were wonderful years. Betty grew up in those gardens, and
some of my happiest memories are of summer evenings when she was
little, sitting by the pools while Emily and I worked among the
flowers, and the three of us would be together as the sun set behind
the trees.
The World Comes to Fern Street
In the 1920s, I started collecting stamps, and what began as a
simple hobby opened up the whole world to us. I began corresponding
with stamp collectors from everywhere—Australia, New Zealand, even
Pitcairn Island in the South Pacific. Some of these pen friends
became real friends who actually visited us in San Diego!
Family and friends knew about my hobby, so whenever they traveled,
they'd send postcards from around the world. Our mailbox became like
a window to everywhere—letters from London, postcards from Paris,
stamps from places I'd only read about in books. It made our little
house on Fern Street feel connected to the whole world.
Through Good Times and Hard Times
We lived through the Great Depression in the 1930s, and while
money was tight for everyone, we were blessed. My job at Marston's
was steady, and we had our gardens to provide vegetables and fruit.
We helped neighbors when we could and never went without the
important things—food, shelter, and most importantly, each other.
Emily worked too during those years, helping out at the store when
needed. We were partners in everything—marriage, parenting,
building our home, and weathering whatever storms came our way. I've
always believed that the secret to a long, happy marriage is to
remember that you're on the same team, working toward the same goals.
When World War II came, I registered for the draft again at age
fifty. I was ready to serve if my country needed me, though
thankfully they had plenty of younger men. Betty was just out of
college then, she studied art and had started teaching at a junior
high school, and we were so proud of her intelligence and creativity.
In July 1942, she married your grandfather, Frederick Seaver, and
they started their family.
Our Point Loma Paradise
In 1950, Emily and I made one of the biggest decisions of our
lives—we sold our beloved Fern Street property and bought this
triangular lot here on Point Loma. I was fifty-nine years old, and we
decided to build our retirement dream home right here at 825 Harbor
View Place.
What a view we chose! Every morning when I wake up, I can see San
Diego Bay stretching out before me, the city skyline, North Island
where I trained as a young Marine, and those beautiful mountains to
the east. Emily and I have spent countless hours on our terrace,
watching the sun rise over the water, and watching the sun reflected
on the downtown buildings as it set, grateful for the life we've
built together.
We terraced the land below the house and planted fruit trees and
flowers. It's a different kind of garden than we had on Fern Street,
but just as beautiful in its own way. And oh, the memories we've made
here with you grandchildren! Watching fireworks, fishing at Shelter
Island, walking up and down Lucinda Street. Those Christmas Eves when
you'd sleep in the spare bedroom, singing carols together, and you'd
try so hard to stay awake for Santa Claus but always fall asleep
before he came.
What I've Learned in Eighty-Four Years
My dear grandchildren, as I look back over these many decades,
there are some things I want you to remember:
Work matters. Find something you can be proud of
doing, and do it with all your heart. I spent forty-six years at
Marston's, and every single day, I tried to do my best. Work isn't
just about earning money—it's about contributing something valuable
to the world and building your own character.
Family is everything. Your grandmother Emily has
been my partner and my best friend for fifty-eight years. Your mother
Betty brought us joy every single day. You grandchildren are the
crown of our lives. Love your family, take care of each other, and
remember that the time you spend together is more precious than any
treasure.
Home is what you make it. We've lived in several
houses, but each one became a home because we filled it with love,
laughter, and purpose. Whether you live in a mansion or a tiny
apartment, you can create beauty and peace if you tend to it with
care.
Stay curious about the world. My stamp collecting
taught me that there's a whole wide world out there full of
fascinating people and places. Read books, write letters, travel when
you can, but most importantly, never stop learning and wondering
about the amazing world God has given us.
Serve something bigger than yourself. Whether
it's your country, your community, your church, or your family, find
ways to contribute to something beyond your own wants and needs. I
served in the Marines, worked faithfully at my job, and tried to be a
good neighbor. Service gives life meaning.
Find joy in simple things. Some of my happiest
memories are of everyday moments—Emily humming while she worked in
the kitchen, Betty laughing as she played in our garden pools, quiet
evenings watching the dusk settle over San Diego Bay and the lights
of the city appearing. You don't need fame or fortune to live a rich,
full life.
As the Sun Sets
As I finish writing this memoir, the sun is setting over San Diego
once again, painting the sky in those magnificent colors that never
get old no matter how many times you see them. Emily is in the
kitchen preparing dinner, humming the way she has for nearly sixty
years, and I can hear your voices from your last visit still echoing
in these rooms.
I've been blessed to live my entire life in this beautiful city of
San Diego, to watch it grow from a frontier town to the magnificent
place it is today. I've been blessed with work that provided for my
family, a wife who has been my companion through every season of
life, a daughter who brought us endless joy, and grandchildren who
light up our golden years.
But most of all, I've been blessed to understand that a good life
isn't measured by how much you accumulate or how famous you become.
It's measured by how much love you give and receive, how faithfully
you fulfill your responsibilities, how much beauty you create and
appreciate, and how much you contribute to making the world a little
bit better than you found it.
Your great-grandparents Austin and Della came to California on
their honeymoon with dreams of a better life. I hope I've honored
those dreams and passed something worthwhile on to you. Someday, when
you're old like me, I hope you'll look back on your own lives with
the same deep satisfaction and gratitude that I feel today.
Take care of each other, my dear ones. Love your families, work
hard, serve others, and never forget that you come from a long line
of people who believed in building something lasting and good.
All my love, Your Grandfather Lyle
Point Loma, California - Spring 1976
