(Editor’s note: Harold Waterhouse, a co-Citizen of the Year in 1993, died on December 27 at the age of 94. Born in Pasadena, Harold was a carpenter when he built his own house on Wildomar in 1947, but he spent most of his working years as a film technician for Consolidated Film Industries in Hollywood. He is survived by his wife of 52 years, Edith; his son, Ted of San Luis Obispo; and his brother, Paul of Pasadena. A celebration of Harold’s life will be held in Temescal Canyon later this winter, with details to be announced in the Palisadian-Post.) By LISA SAXON Special to the Palisadian-Post Harold Waterhouse knew he was dying. Still, he never lost his passion for living. A week before he died, he asked his son, Ted, to look into hiring a typist, because Harold wanted to finish an important manuscript but couldn’t get his fingers and that blasted computer keyboard to work in unison. The topic of this manuscript, like hundreds of others Harold wrote over the years, surely was peace’the kind of peace that can be found in a world free of the threat of nuclear warfare, the kind of peace of mind that comes with knowing there is life after death. Harold achieved the latter by embracing the philosophy of the late paleontologist Teilhard de Chardin, who believed that humans have evolved to a point at which their minds will never die and instead go on to become part of a universal Omega. (Please don’t ask me to explain. My husband and I never fully comprehended the complex theory even though Harold never tired of trying to explain it to us in layman’s terms.) Harold never gave up his pursuit of the former, writing letters to Congressmen, presidents, presidential candidates, movie producers, newspaper editors, and neighbors. He had worked hard on California’s nuclear freeze movement during the ’80s and approached the project with renewed enthusiasm’and focus’the last 10 years. He believed that one man could make a difference and that every man had to try to do so. His booming voice, his passion, and his resourcefulness made him a force impossible to ignore’ and a person we count ourselves lucky to have known. One of the defining moments in Harold’s life came during World War II when, during a trans-Atlantic voyage aboard a troopship, he vowed that if he survived the war he would spend the rest of his life working for world peace. An Army grunt, Harold was among troops that landed in Normandy a week or so after D-Day and worked to build airstrips there and throughout Europe. He survived the war and returned to Southern California, where he built his own house in Pacific Palisades and made good on his promise. He joined the United World Federalists, marched against the Vietnam War with his young son, and then campaigned the rest of his life against nuclear weapons. Angrily opposed to the invasion of Iraq, he helped to organize Palisadians for Peace and spent several Sundays manning an information stand at the Swarthmore farmers market. He hand-painted signs, spent hundreds of dollars on photocopies of articles, envelopes and postage stamps, and talked to anyone who would listen. And he made people listen, finding ways to steer conversations about dinner or vacation plans to discussions about peace. Harold’s voice resonated with commitment’and decibels. He could not be ignored. ‘There he goes again,’ Harold’s wife, Edie, often said, punctuating the comment with a gentle laugh. Harold and Edith Waterhouse, our dear neighbors for more than 17 years, had a profound influence on our lives. They helped shape the way we view some political issues’and sunsets. Whenever the sky was putting on a spectacular show, Harold would call and urge us to take a few minutes to look beyond the treetops. We shared more than 1,000 sunsets together, toasting most with a glass of wine while sitting inside the Waterhouse home. We raised our glasses for a final time in late November, a few days before Harold fell and broke his hip. After that ‘wine party,’ Harold asked his caregiver to deliver a copy of a manuscript to our house. We found the 15-page article left in Harold’s usual drop-off spot, the clothes dryer on our service porch. Clipped to the manuscript was a handwritten note from Harold that read: ‘I’m sending this to the Atlantic Monthly in the hope that they’ll publish it as an article. If you have time to read it, you might find some things I should change. Love, Harold’ No revisions are necessary, Harold. The manuscript has a few problems, but the real story’the story of Harold T. Waterhouse’is wonderful. We’re proud to have known the author. (Editor’s note: Lisa and Reed Saxon lived next door to Harold Waterhouse for more than 17 years. He and Edith lovingly referred to their neighbors as ‘their adopted kids.’)
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