Maybe it’s the shortening of the days, the way darkness now is falling so fast. But I find myself especially wistful lately as I watch old Los Angeles being torn down all around me. I am grateful for every effort to preserve our better-known city treasures — historically significant architecture, landmarks like Angels Flight. But the quaint century-old homes, the homegrown, one-of-a-kind small storefronts, the low-slung vernacular architecture that to me so represents the city is getting disappeared fast by developers with barely a word in its defense. In Hollywood, where I live, on some residential streets, it seems every other modest bungalow built in the early years of the last century now is tucked behind a green construction fence. Usually when I come upon one, a “Notice of Demolition” already is up. I stand still and soak up a gently pitched roof, decorative shingles that look like the scales on a fish, an old porch built to be friendly and inviting. I let each little detail soak in. And then, because this is the modern age and I am ever equipped, I pull out my iPhone and record an image or two of the condemned. I am a Los Angeles memory keeper. I know I am far from alone....