Long Lost Community Names

Developers and land speculators have left their marks on the Crescenta Valley in the form of town names. La Crescenta, Montrose and Flintridge are all civic names we are familiar with, yet they started as mere subdivisions, the names chosen by the developer/land owners.

Some of the names live on in the names of neighborhoods. Sparr Heights, Whiting Woods, Alta Canyada and Pinecrest are all neighborhood names that live on. But they were originally the names of the subdivisions. Why they never made it to a status like La Crescenta and Montrose is perhaps a function of having never gotten their own post office. It’s really hard to say why for sure.

Verdugo City, another subdivision, got its own post office but somehow lost its status as a neighborhood. Highway Highlands, which I covered a couple of weeks ago, got its own post office but then lost it, and so the name faded into obscurity.

Let’s take a look at some of the names that didn’t stick, going back to the boom years of the 1920s.

At the center of La Crescenta was the subdivision of Burton Heights. The namesake, Mr. Burton, had been the general manager of the Glendale and Montrose Railway and was familiar with the idea that you needed a trolley line to sell real estate. When the tracks for the Glendale and Montrose Railway were extended along Montrose Avenue to Pennsylvania Avenue, Burton went into real estate at the end of the tracks. He subdivided a 20-acre tract centered about where the 210 Freeway crosses Pennsylvania today. It had been a vineyard – and that was part of the attraction: the grapevine covered lots. He started sales with a big barbeque and laid the promotion on thick.

“Folks, we’ve got the goods and that’s the straight dope! Government statistics show La Crescenta to be the most healthful spot in the United States, and Burton Heights is right in the heart of La Crescenta. La Crescenta is the garden spot of America. God kissed this wonderfully favored section.”

Burton reportedly sold $54,000 worth of property that first day.

A similarly named tract was Landon Heights owned by developer H.N. Landon. It was on Ramsdell Avenue between Honolulu Avenue and Foothill Boulevard. Lots here started at $700 – $50 down and $15 a month. Landon Heights promoted its access to recreation: “Trails lead almost from the very doors off up into the beautiful hills.”

Honolulu Acres was, obviously, spread along Honolulu Avenue west of the business district. Its 50 acres offered a profusion of large oak trees, unlike the sagebrush-covered land farther north in the valley. Honolulu Acres offered a business opportunity as well as home sites.

“It’s an ideal spot for city folks and others who wish to get out of town for a weekend to build a cabin. On the other hand, it offers wonderful possibilities for poultry and rabbits.”

Here’s an unusual name for a subdivision: Sans Souci, a French term meaning “without a care.” It was also located along Honolulu. Note that all the subdivisions are below Foothill in the 1920s. Above Foothill were largely rocks, sagebrush and a scattering of weekend cabins, ranches and large estates.

Over on the La Cañada side there was Alta Canyada Terrace, which promised parkways with extensive landscaping. Promoters said the subdivision was just being opened up to “the greedy lot-buying public,” perhaps to stress the urgency of buying a lot today. The promoters also promised: “Beautiful Alta-Canyada Canyon, consisting of 100 acres, has been reserved for the perpetual use of the purchasers in this tract.”

Rounding out the La Cañada subdivisions was the aptly named La Cañada Acres “with lots facing on the boulevard.” Orange Manor was probably carved out of a La Cañada orange grove in the same way Sparr Heights was carved out of Mr. Sparr’s lemon groves.

In the 1920s, local real estate was king and the community names, some fanciful, others practical, were plentiful. Most of those names fell away as they melded into the larger town names around them and are now largely unknown.