Mr. Drollinger was an exception to many rules because he was different from most of his peers. As a community-builder, he was a granite giant. True community-building is such an outdated, old-fashioned concept that it is like saying a man was an outstanding designer of buggy whips. First he was a visionary, and then with a boost from his religion, he matured into a philanthropist. The telephone directory is full of people with strong resumes. But they were less than Mr. Drollinger because none of them was the son of Ella Drollinger. Mr. Drollinger’s most valued assets never would be found on a resume. Through both inheritance and environment, he grew up with an unquenchable spirit — that possibly more than any other quality distinguished him. On occasion, Mr. Drollinger would sit at a huge table off his office with his longtime Westchester/Fox Hills friend Art Garcia, himself a sharp businessman, and no stripling, either. Mr. Drollinger would entertain his small audience with fascinating tales of the pioneering, adventuring, fear-free spirit of his unusual mother. She was his hero all of his life, and he made no apologies. On the contrary. No one ever had the impression he was embellishing when he would recall the iron-minded Ella. Her indomitability foreshadowed the wide path her son would carve through the outer limits of the Westside. Perhaps Ella Drollinger was unmindful of her gender in the 1930s and 1940 — but how could she have been? — striding across the business landscape of Los Angeles as if, well, as if she were a man. Women in those days were supposed to be at home ironing, washing clothes, hanging them out on clotheslines with their ever-disappearing supply of wooden clothespins. Striking hardheaded business and property deals in Los Angeles and in the sleepy, still shapeless future community of Westchester, just to the north of LAX, was man’s work, wasn’t it? Gender goofiness aside, Ella Drollinger probably never left her son’s side all of his days. And now, after 70 or more years of community building, both Drollingers have been gently, gratefully placed at their well-earned rest. It is scarcely hyperbolic to say that his death marks her passing.

Off to the Side

A few years ago, dear reader, we talked of my first meeting with the best known Los Angeles rabbi of the last century, Edgar Magnin of Wilshire Boulevard Temple. I was young and he was old. Philosophically, we had less in common than a liberal does with a serious person. Rabbi Magnin was, nonetheless, a civic figure of towering achievements and outsized will. He practically willed himself to become a great leader in the community. When you were in his presence, the texture of the air changed. You quickly realized you were sharing space with a generational giant. And so it was with Mr. Drollinger.

For the last great battle of his life, Mr. Drollinger decided to spend his precious, waning energy fighting his oldest living nemesis, the everloving expansion of LAX. Historically, the supposedly space-starved airport has been like a fat man who wakes up early and goes to bed late so he can squeeze in more fast-food meals. Although Mr. Drollinger lived a long and uncommonly productive life, I saw him more sadly, through the prism of a father who had lost a child before the youngster had a chance to blossom. The last previous expansion of LAX struck 35 years ago, and Westchester still shows the effects. To clear room for growth, the airport bought up thousands of private properties in Westchester, driving away at least 10,000 residents. The cumulative damage hurt the city for years. Mr. Drollinger probably recovered better than Westchester did. His spirit was break-proof.