If there's one constant to Corona del Mar's 100-year history, it's change. Whether it's the current "mansionization" of the once quaint (read, forgotten) village thanks to skyrocketing real estate values, the booming times after the war, or the schemes and struggles to put CdM on the map at all in its early years, CdM has had a rollercoaster history as colorful as its vintage cottages.

Officially, it started in 1904, when CdM was nothing but the dream of L.A. developer George E. Hart, who bought what was then known as Rocky Point, a small corner of the 100,000-acre Irvine Ranch. Hart paid $150 an acre for about 700 acres and subdivided half of it into 2,500 lots - the CdM of today. "He only bought it because he was told the Red Car, the electric railway, was coming to the area," says Dr. Bill Hendricks, director and historian of CdM's Sherman Library and Gardens. But the next year, the Pacific Electric Railway owners decided not to extend service to CdM; then-struggling Balboa became the end of the line. Corona del Mar remained the land across the bay - accessed by small boat.

Perhaps this is why in the following three years, Hart sold only five lots. And it wasn't for lack of trying. In the promises department, Hart was prolific; unfortunately, the only things that kept pace were his failures. To entice buyers, he promised an ocean pier, which he tried to build at what is now Corona del Mar State Beach. After being hammered by a few south swells, the pier was destroyed. He promised abundant water, but it took years for this to come through. He promised a Tent City to rival then revered Coronado's; no tents materialized. He did come through with a land route - today's Bayside Drive - and the three-story Hotel Del Mar in 1908 - "It boasted a bathroom on every floor," says Hendricks - but by 1915, Hart had only sold about 100 lots and CdM consisted of just 15 homes. Defeated and tired, Hart traded CdM for some farm land near Riverside.

The new owner of CdM was F.D. Cornell, who came to town as full as Hart with ideas on how to get CdM booming. "First," says Hendricks, "he wanted to change the name from Corona del Mar to Balboa Palisades, to try to take advantage of the Balboa name." But the few CdM residents objected. They had no problem with Cornell renaming all the streets, however, from numbers to today's flower names.

But nothing, it seemed, could interest buyers in what was seen as the boonies of CdM. When the Great Depression hit, all hope seemed lost - government repossessed lots were available for as low as $25. Corona del Mar became a vacationing spot for L.A. and Pasadena residents who hadn't lost everything, and it remained that way until after WWII.

"We came to CdM from Kansas in 1948," says 90-year-old Inez Howald, who still lives here. She and her husband, local legend and the late CdM Postmaster Grant Howald (the park is named after him), with their eight-year-old son, came for the weather. But the weather was the only thing easy about CdM in the 40s and 50s."There were no markets," she says. "We could get milk, eggs and bread delivered, but everything else we had to go to Santa Ana or Long Beach for." Of course, they had all the lobster and fish they wanted; the local waters still teemed with life.

And CdM did, too, in the form of children. The post-war baby boom meant CdM was overrun with kids, and the Howalds were instrumental in creating opportunities for them in many ways. Aside from helping found youth centers, parks, baseball diamonds, and schools, Grant Howald established scouting in CdM, which peaked with the famous Boy Scout Jamboree of 1953, when 50,000 scouts camped out in the fields off Jamboree Road.

One of the kids who was running around CdM at the time was Charles Wolf Masters, Jr., whose father, a builder, moved his family to CdM in 1946.Masters, Jr. was five years old. "At first Masters Sr. was putting up pre-fab homes," says Masters. He soon began building spec homes. And while he did well, it wasn't the boom it is today; Masters Sr. built over 80 spec homes in CdM and "more than a few times came close to losing his shirt," says Masters Jr. In fact, the China Cove home Masters Jr. lives in today, one house away from the sand, his father built in 1954 for $19,000. "He put it on the market for $29,500," says Masters. "Everyone got mad because they thought he was trying to drive up the prices on them." But he was saved since his wife loved the house so much, she insisted they move in themselves. Despite giving up building in 1964 because of the frustrations and red tape, they stayed the rest of their lives.

"It was like being Tom Sawyer as a kid in those days," says Masters. "It was wide open. There was the Big C crew, the Little C crew; Laguna was like an entirely other nation; the Wedge crew, who never spoke but just growled a lot, and nothing above 5th street."

But it couldn't last. Corona del Mar was slowly becoming a more desirable place to live, and as the 70s and 80s came, so did the people. The face of CdM changed, and perhaps there was no better example than the recent demolition of its first home: the Ocean Blvd. home of Bella Burton and, until her death earlier this year, her daughter Mary, who led the fight to save Corona del Mar State Beach from development in the 40s.

But while many have left CdM, fleeing the 30-by-90 lots, the traffic, and the construction, many realize that the essence of the place has not changed. CdM may be worth more on paper, and beach cottages are harder to come by than 4,000-square-foot manses, but at heart, CdM is still a small town. A place where residents buy flowers at the local stand, meet at the local Post Office and watch the sunset from a place called Inspiration Point. It's a place that feels all alone, in the middle of Southern California.