Swedish Family Picnic

Yesterday, I attended our annual Swedish Family Picnic. I hadn't been in nearly twenty years. The old guard is older, the mid-range folks rangier and there were a lot of young'uns whom I'd never met before in attendance. Overall, it was a relaxing afternoon amid the redwoods. 

Swedish Family Picnic, 2019

Cousin Bill made it down to the picnic, too. He's slated to move to Reno next weekend, so it was nice to be able to wish him well. 

Horseshoes game with Bill and my husband

My Dad revived the annual tradition, after a handful of quiet years, back in the 1980s. After Dad died in 2002, the picnic organizing duties were handed off to a cousin called Carol. Since Carol's taken over, the duties seem to move from family member to family member. In order to secure the same spot every year--the picnic began back in the 1930s--one has to show up just as the park opens to nab the cluster of tables right by a massive, fallen redwood. This old redwood has seen all of our footprints on it over the past many years. 

Cousin Carol brought along my Dad's carefully curated Swedish Family Picnic photo album that she had inherited. Dad had arranged all the photos around funny captions he'd written. He had been able to nab pictures of picnics past dating back from the 50s. It was a treat to view the album. 

I'm very glad I attended the picnic although it was the most standing I've done since the foot injury & resultant nerve issues last September. There was discomfort, but I pushed through it as best I could. -glad I did. 

I will leave you with a photo of a photo (forgive the glare) from the Family Picnic photo album: Great-grandpa Axel (one of the reasons this picnic all began), my grandmother, two of her siblings (and one spouse) & cousin Doreen. 

Swedish Family Picnic, ca. late 1960s

Billy the Goose

To us kids, my dad's cousin Bill was the dude at the holiday table you didn't want to hear from. He was kind of a blow-hard, a bit of a drunk & a gambler par excellence. Word had it that he had lost his mother's San Francisco rental properties on a slew of bad bets. His 'lady friend', Evelyn, as Bill would refer to her, was a sweetheart, however. She smiled easily and never had a bad word to say about anyone. Upon her retirement sometime in the mid-90s, she upped sticks and moved back to the South to care for her mother. I remember thinking: I can't blame her. Bill stayed behind, relocating to a small flat in a town just south of San Francisco called Brisbane. 

Back in 2009, through an old acquaintance, I got a gig tending bar at The Eagles Club, a members' only joint where one can drink on the cheap, in Brisbane. Given that 2+2=4, I had a strong hunch that Bill probably would be a member of this club, so I started asking around. -pretty much the everyone in the bar said: 'Billy The Goose? Oh, yeah, we know Billy!' Bill's surname is Le Gasse, so there you go. Bill finally came in one night when I was behind the bar. We hadn't seen each other in a good ten years---sometime before my Dad's death in 2002. I don't know if he immediately remembered me, but he began warming up once I reminded him of who I was. He seemed a bit frail and somewhat out-of-sorts. Maybe he was just pickled? Anyway, we had a nice, initial chat from what I recall. 

Flash forward ten years and I find myself this afternoon back in Brisbane at a burrito joint with my husband. The Eagles Club happens to be just across the street from the restaurant, so I make my way over after our meal. Peeking my head in to the bar, I can make out Bill sitting in almost exactly the same spot as he was when I last saw him there. I walk up to him, say hello and remind him of who I am. He looks a bit stunned, asking me how I had known where he'd be today. I smile and say, 'because I used to work here.' He asks me if he could 'sign me in'. I tell him I can't stay, so he comes out to the pavement for a chat and to meet my husband. 

Bill circa mid-1990s at my Dad's house. He looks much the same, but with solid, white hair & minus the beeper on his belt.

We caught up on who in the family is still kicking and who is not. And, then, for some reason, he recounted what happened the day my Dad died. (I know the story already, but didn't feel comfortable cutting him off.) A rather short story even shorter: Dad and his wife had taken Bill and Trini, his next 'lady friend' after Evelyn, out to dinner for Bill's birthday. Dad was feeling poorly, and, on his way to the toilet, started to collapse, but not before Bill caught up with him and literally caught Dad as he fell. 'He died right in my arms'. Again, I knew this story, but I don't think I had ever heard it directly from him. Or maybe I had? Dunno. 

Bill also mentioned that our Swedish Family Picnic at the usual spot was still up and running after Dad revitalized it back in the 1980s. One of my second cousins, a cousin of Bill and my Dad's (that makes one a second cousin, no?), has been organizing it since Dad's death. I haven't been to the picnic since before Dad died. I took Bill's no., so I suppose I will call him for a firm date on the picnic. It's either in July or August. It might be a bit weird to attend, but it could also be nice to visit with some of the other 'Swedish' relations after all this time. 

I will leave you with the reason why we picnic--my great-grandparents, Axel and Anna, two Swedish immigrants meeting and marrying in Bernal Heights, San Francisco, ca. 1904. 

431 Jessie St.

According to city records, this building has never housed a printing press. It was, at various times throughout the 20th century, a saloon, a candy company, a window display business, a charitable institution, and a sign painting company.

But, given the ABCs across the top of the building's facade, had it also been a printing business at some point? I'm a horrible internet sleuth; my search yielded little results. That which I have shared was cribbed from my husband.

The uber-trendy, dark grey paint job and house nos. du jour above the entryway would sort of imply that monied folk own the space now. For what purposes, I do not know.

In the office--

The big news of the week really isn't, to be honest. Twenty years ago, I was gifted a Danish desk a la mid-century design by my cousin. Recently, he asked me if I were 'still using' the desk. I took that to mean that he wanted it back, so I gave it to him. As a result, the office is a pile of papers and other miscellany. 

Here's a small sampling of stuff now littering the office floor that I've been holding onto since even before acquiring the desk. I perhaps should just either toss this stuff out or put it in a manilla envelope (and leave it on the office floor). 

A zinger from Dad

I haven't looked at clippings of my father's letters to the editor since putting together a memory book dedicated to him back in 2003. Reading this snippet from him now, I think I'm seeing that my Dad, a life-long Democrat, may have been becoming a bit more conservative in mid-life. I have never thought of my father as either a hardcore patriot or a prude, but maybe he was becoming one or both?  

My friend's father, fondly known as Der Meister (to be read in a Schwäbisch accent), was an accomplished artist. He trained as a silver engraver, but was also an adept painter, a sculptor and he could carve a mean woodcut. The above image shows one of his many designs he and his wife had printed up for their annual holiday card. The inside of this particular card includes a poem by Hölderlin (noted Schwabe) & heartfelt season's greetings. I so loved receiving these cards.

Der Meister: Selbstportrait (culled from the internet)

Der Meister was in art school when he was conscripted into the German army in 1940. He was put to work as a stretcher bearer on the Western Front. He'd kept a diary during that time filled with sketches and poems. I was lucky enough to view it once two decades ago when der Meister was still living. One page particularly struck me as it contained both a rendering of and an ode to his worn combat boots. 

Ritter, Tod und Teufel

Showing a picture of this postcard depicting one of the most detailed engravings by Dürer I have ever seen is almost an affront to the piece. I can guess as to what the symbols of both skull and hourglass reference, but as someone who knows very little about Christianity, I can't say I understand the piece in any fundatmental way. Apparently, the subject/s of this piece have been hotly debated for centuries. Dürer postcards in American art museums usually consist of his rhino and hare images. I caught a Dürer retrospective in Frankfurt some years back, so there happened to be a fine selection Dürer postcards in the gift shop to choose from. I still marvel at this work.

Flintstone House

For as long as I can remember, there has stood an odd cave-like sprawl of a home up on a hill overlooking the 280 freeway. As a child, I would point excitedly at the structure and squeal: 'Flintstone house, Flintstone house!' whenever my parents drove down I-280. I suspect that not only children in the '70s like me said this, but adults as well as the name has stuck all these years. In recent articles regarding The Flintstone House, it is now also known as an 'eyesore' and a property 'not in keeping with community standards'. 

The home's architect, William Nicholson, was interested in creating dome-like structures by spraying shotcrete, concrete projected at high velocity primarily on to a vertical or overhead surfaces, onto steel rebar and wire mesh frames over inflated aeronautical balloons. The technique had been developed just a year before in 1975 and was still considered experimental at the time. Nicholson apparently created a series of these 'dome homes', but this is the only one you might have heard of as of late. 

The original house was a drab beige and sort of fit in well enough along a hillside made up of ever-green trees and dry brush. Sometime in the the mid-2000s, the house was painted a burnt sienna color. -really easy to spot from the freeway (although it always had been). A few years ago, the home was listed on AirBnB. The AirBnB ad showed a structure that had morphed bit from monochrome to this: 



A woman called Mrs. Fang bought the property two years ago and decided to go whole hog with the Flintstone theme. The property grounds are now host to an interesting assortment of statues and other structures. The view from 280 shows a menagerie of dinosaurs. At the entrance to her home stand life-size Flintstone cartoon characters including Betty, Barney and Fred. 

This is what the property looks like now: 

Front entrance

View from Interstate 280

Her neighbors have registered a complaint with the city and it's been determined Mrs. Fang is in code violation. I think the wealthy citizens of Hillsborough are mostly up-in-arms because they think her house looks garish. What's vaguely ironic is that given how large the lots are in this area and how the greenery rather obscures one's view, the neighbors who are upset can't actually see much of what Fang has done to the property lest they are driving by on the highway. 

Fang has retained the services of attorney Angela Alioto, a woman from a prominent San Francisco family who recently unsuccessfully ran for mayor. Mrs. Fang, also not unknown in SF's 'high society', if you will, is the former publisher of the San Francisco Examiner newspaper. 

Alioto alleges that racism is behind the opposition to Fang's *ahem* improvements. 

According to court documents, the dinosaurs standing in her yard count as 'unenclosed structures that require prior approval and a building permit'. Neither of which Fang has obtained.

I'm interested to know how this saga will pan out. Will Mrs. Fang have to dismantle her pre-historic zoo or will her neighbors have to suck it up in the name of a bit of a cartoon fun? 

An unadulterated Nicholson design in Palm Springs

My cousin

I managed to write up a short piece about my cousin, Erik, for his 50th b-day bash being put together by his partner. The plan is to gather missives about Erik from friends and family, replete with photos, into a booklet format and present it to him. If I'm being honest, I really didn't want to write anything. I'm still dealing with the pain syndrome in my foot and that seems to suck up much of my focus. 

Here's the snippet: 

Even though I’m only one year younger, I have always looked up to Erik. He was the one all the adults seemed to like. He was funny, charming, articulate and just pleasant to be around. He could sing, act, dance, ride horseback…what couldn’t he do?!

I remember when he got the part in A Christmas Carol at the A.C.T. in San Francisco. It was a huge deal and we were all very proud of him. I went to see the production with my Dad and remember hearing Erik recite his lines from on stage. -very thrilling. He had such talent at such a young age.

The thing that has most impressed me about Erik was that he always seemed to be his unvarnished self: audacious, a bit flamboyant with tons of charisma. Occasionally, I meet 20-somethings today that remind of Erik when he was that age and I think: Erik did it first, sweetie.  

Erik is a terrific provider for his family and a great father. I’m just as proud of him today as I was then.

Pillow fight between my cousin and me, ca. 1977. I am clearly losing. 

My cousin and me, 2013

Sort of Irish Grandma

My cousin's partner has asked that friends and family write a blurb for my cousin's upcoming 50th birthday bash about how much he means to us. We're also meant to include pictures. I have some old photos stored on the computer, and, while looking for cousin snaps, I stumbled over one of me from 1970ish. I put the more current pic up just below it for contrast. :D 

In the Kodak picture, I'm on my Grandma's lap at the house in Little Hollywood. Grandma Irene was a lovely woman and I adored her. Irene had four siblings: Alice, Bobby Rose (I couldn't tell you her given name) May and Margaret. I think they all might have been born here, save for one girl, Alice, who died on the boat journey over, to Irish immigrants escaping destitution back home at the turn of the last century. By the time I came around, Bobby Rose was both a widow and a drunk; she was nice yet sad. May I knew rather peripherally as she no longer lived locally & Margaret I knew not at all save for the time she came down for a visit & smacked me across the face for interrupting her while she was talking to Grandma. I was 7. Oops. 

After May died, Grandma inherited her dogs: Mr. Chips & the one that had had its larynx removed. Back in the 70s, it was fairly common for barky dogs to undergo this procedure in order to remove their ability to bark. It sort of worked. The barky dog just sounded like it was dry heaving all the time instead. Mr. Chips was lovely, however. Chiquita, Grandma's chihuahua, didn't much like the arrangement, but she, of course, had no say. 

The only time I really understood that Grandma had had a slightly different cultural history than me was when she referred to where her family was from. She'd say what sounded like: County KAHRK. In American English, the county name preceeds the word 'county'. In Ireland, it was apparently the other way 'round. I had no idea where this magical-sounding place could have been. It took me until the early 90s on a trip to Ireland to realize that 'KAHRK' was, indeed, Cork. I have to tell you that when I saw the word 'Cork' for the first time written in Irish (Corcaigh), it sort of all made sense.

Grandma was Irish Catholic. She never much mentioned her faith, but there was a massive portrait of Jesus in Grandma's house. Jesus' eyes would follow you everywhere you went in the room. As a girl, I sometimes would purposely walk bath and forth while looking at him directly in the eye just to test this theory out. It never failed. This Jesus was of the bloody, thorn-crown variety. He was in agony. I found him very unsettling. 

Grandma also made a sort of stew she called Slumgullion. I can't remember all what was in it, but it was hearty and filling (and inexpensive to prepare). I sort of made it up that Slumgullion was an Irish thing (read: poor folk cuisine), but, maybe it was simply an immigrant dish brought over by those hailing from both Ireland and Great Britain. Anyone else grow up eating Slumgullion? 

-off to look for pics of my cousin now. 

55 years ago...

the first graduating class of Woodrow Wilson High School (Spring '64) in San Francisco buried a time capsule on the grounds of their school. What was inside? -nothing about either Elvis or The Beatles, apparently. Found in the capsule were items almost exclusively having to do with school life: prom mementos, a class photo, a commencement brochure & a copy of the school paper. 

In 2014, as the campus was being converted into Phillip Burton Academic High School, a group of adults from the first graduating class were invited to participate in the unearthing of the time capsule. My mother happened to have been class president her senior year, so she was extended an invite to attend. You can see her in the second photo down to the left of two other Class of '64 kids.  

Extraction

Unfurling the class photo

Prom program, the theme was “Non Dimenticar,” Italian for “never forget". Tickets were $5.

School newspaper

Wilson was the first high school on the southeast side of the city to have been built. My mother never talked about it, but I've heard from others that there was a lot of racial tension as blue-collar white kids mixed with with black kids from Hunters Point on campus. During my Uncle's time at Wilson some 8 years later, the school had already developed a rep for being 'tough'. When I was a teen, Wilson kids were seen as those whom you didn't fuck with. 

Having closed its doors in 1996, Wilson High School is now but a distant memory. How nice for my mom and her old school chums to have been able to participate in the time capsule excavation. 

Progress and Uncle Kenny

Since my foot went on the fritz back in Sept. of last year, I've had a heck of a time getting back on my feet, literally.

Some positive things of late:

I can again stand while riding public transportation (much to the delight of aggressive, older Chinese women who regarded me as bogarting their preferred seats by the door). No cane=no handicap

I can again cross the street within the alloted time thus not incurring the wrath of motorists who are in a GODDAMN hurry & would peel out in frustration around me. No crutches=no reason to be walking slowly

I can again perform housework for longer stretches of time & the joint is back to looking less like a dump and more like a home.

A road not yet taken would be the one concerning physical fitness:

I can't yet jog, rollerskate or bike ride. I'm semi-seriously considering taking up swimming. If that is to work, then I will need to learn more than the dog paddle.

In other news:

My super sleuthing bio cousin has somehow found pictures of the presumed half-sister of my mother. Her name is Margaret and, according to my cousin, was adopted at birth by a wealthy San Francisco family in 1947. Records indicate she's still alive.

On the left: Meryl, my biological grandmother, who, in 1946, gave my Mom to a family friend to be raised as her own.

On the right: The woman called Margaret whom my bio cousin believes to be the third daughter Meryl gave up for formal adoption in secret. Margaret and Meryl favor each other, I think.

 

Below is a comparison of Margaret (left) and of my Mother (right). Both photos are contemporary. I see less of a similarity between them in these current photos than in the earlier pictures.



I met Meryl when I was a brash 19-year-old in 1989. I knew the family story and it yielded very little information, so I wanted answers. Why I thought I was entitled to any was beyond me. I also regret now that I didn't have any tact when speaking with her. I only knew--what we all knew--that she had had two boys she kept and two girls she gave away. The fathers of the girls were not known. That story, 30 years later, has changed. We now know who my mother's biological father is. We also now know that Meryl gave up three daughters between the years of 1943 and 1947. I wish that I had had more sympathy for her when I met her. Instead I felt anger toward her for having put my Mother into fosterage. It matters not that Mom was ultimately adopted by her foster parents at the age of 8, I believe. And she was the only foster child to have been adopted, I might add. That fact does not and did not make her feel special. The woman who raised Mom was a foster parent for 30 years. She loved babies--the more, the merrier. During my mother's childhood she saw a lot of children come through the house. Her take-away was to not get too attached to the newcomers for they would ultimately leave. Well, all but my Uncle Kenny left grandma's home. He was kept, but never adopted.

I don't know why I'm feeling so confessional today. Maybe it's the (peri)menopause. Anyway, below is a picture of my Uncle Kenny. He was born nine years after Mom. Kenny came to live with Grandma and family when he was barely 1 year old. His Mother, a single parent hailing from Hawaii, had put Ken into fosterage while she was finding her financial footing here in San Francisco. She was to retrieve him when she could & visited the house often. As Mom tells it, a teenaged Kenny had his suitcase packed and was waiting for Nell to come and get him, but she neither came nor sent word. About a week later, a stranger claiming to be Ken's Uncle came to the house, bluntly told Ken that his Mother had stepped into the road and been struck by a Muni bus and killed. The Uncle was to take Ken to live with him in San Jose, a city some 50 miles south of San Francisco. Ken, having never met this man before, did not want to go. Grandma also did not want to Ken to leave. A deal was made. Ken could remain in my Grandparents' care, but he could not be adopted. So Ken stayed yet retained his surname of Nakamura. This fact would present a problem for Mom when Ken died five years ago in a motorcycle accident. She was 'next of kin', but not legally. Ken's remains were property of the state of California while Mom sorted out how to prove their relation in order to retrieve them. I was still in Zurich during this time, unfortunately, and could not be of any help to her. I can't imagine how hard that must have been for Mom. She and Ken were the only two foster kids that had been kept. That kind of bond is one that I can never understand. Mom's loss was tremendous.

Uncle Kenny, 1953-2014

Scuttlebutt

So, I called my Mom today to ask about whether or not she thought there were any truth to the rumor that her biological mother, a woman called Meryl, had indeed bore a fifth and final child in 1947. She told me that Grandma Irene (the woman to whom my mother had been given by Meryl) had heard 'around' that Meryl had had another child. My mom said, 'Nobody said that they saw her pregnant, but had just heard that she was.' Well, OK. I guess that this is proof enough? 

My sleuthing biological half-cousin, Dee, sent over some pictures of a woman called Margaret whom she thinks is Meryl's child and I can say that she doesn't look unrelated. Margaret, according to Dee, is the mother of a woman on 23 and Me who may be a half-cousin of ours. This mystery woman-maybe-sorta-cousin has not responded to a friendly 'Hey, how are we related?' type query sent a couple of days ago. May she yet do so!

If I had a photo of my mother looking dead into the camera, then a better comparison could be made, but, barring that, I think I do see a certain something around the eyes in common between the two women. 

So, the first image is one of my Mom taken when she was in her early 30s. The second picture shows Margaret from her college yearbook, mid-1960s. I presume she would have been in her early 20s in the shot. It is thought that Meryl had had, ahem, extramarital relations, and that Margaret would only be a half-sibling, if she were one at all. 

My Mother 

Margaret

Do you all see any resemblance between the two women? 

Carol Channing

Carol Channing has died. I remember her vaguely from various TV spots back in the 1970s. Maybe she did an episode of the Love Boat or appeared on The Muppet Show? I can't be too sure. What I am sure about, however, is her contribution to the 1973 album Free to Be You and Me. I still have my original scratched copy replete with bite marks on the sleeve from my cat, Vichon. The recording she made is ostensibly about the purpose of adversting and the bucking of gender roles. I can still hear her voice in my head as she says: 'Your mommy, hates housework, your daddy hates housework...' 

I suppose we might call this type of thing 'spoken word' nowadays. Regardless, it's a fun few minutes' worth of listening to Ms. Channing. I would encourage you to give it a listen. 

Carol was a graduate of Lowell High School in San Francisco. Lowell is one of the premier college prepatory schools here in town. Four of my family members attended. My cousin was the last to go, having graduated in '87. Carol Channing spoke at his commencement. My cousin described her speech as funny, engaging and a bit silly. For years he'd recite this bit to be read in Carol's voice: 'I graduated (Lowell) in 19---oh, well, I better not say!' It always got a laugh. Having recently read her obit, I now know that she had graduated in 
1938. 

Here's a write up in the Chronicle on Carol for having won a contest while still a student-- 



And, finally, here's a somewhat recent-looking photo of Carol visiting SF's Twin Peaks vista point---

A bully and a fibber

We checked out a few open houses last weekend. I wasn't expecting much, but did get a bit more than bargained for. 

One of the homes we viewed happened to have a similar floor plan to the home I had grown up in--this one was flipped around so that the bedrooms faced the street whereas ours had the bedrooms facing the back yard. I was keen to see how the place looked IRL (in real life), as the kids say. Pictures never give a true impression, it would seem, of what sort of shape a house is in. This house, sadly, had not been well kept up. It sort of reminded me of what our family home might have looked like had there been grubby upgrades done to it in the past 40 years and had there been absolutely no care taken in maintaining the wood flooring. A wall of mildew-stench hit us in the face when we first walked in, so that in and of itself was alarming, nevermind how shit the place looked. 

Two estate agents, a hubby and wife team, greeted us at the door. They handed us some literature about the house before leaving us to explore. At some point, the husband came to find us to ask if we had any questions and to see if were familiar with the area. I told him that I was from the area. The wife piped up with me a 'me, too!' in the background. As it turned out, she and I attended high school together. Her face didn't strike me as familiar, so I asked her her name. 'Laurel', she said. We shook hands and I said the only person I knew by that name was Laurel Zimmerman. Laurel the listing agent then made a face and proceeded to tell me how the other Laurel had been mean to her, that she had been, in fact, scared of her, and that the other Laurel had taken the boy she fancied to the prom. All I could say was, 'Oh, that's too bad. Laurel was one of my best friends'. 

My Laurel was, indeed, a brawler. Standing at 5'2" and with the face of a sweetheart, one could never know that a cross-eyed look would send her into a rage. She may have even slammed a girl's head into a locker at school, I can't really remember now. What I do remember is that during an argument, she threw a full Bud tall (an extra large can of Budweiser) at my head. Fortunately, she missed, but the wall behind me wasn't so lucky. 

Laurel and I were arrested for shoplifting at the local mall when we were 15. She, short & preppy-looking, and me, tall and wearing heavy, black eye-liner & kitted out in a rock jersey & tight jeans (the quasi uniform of stoner kids across America at the time), were taken to a room behind the retail area of the store to be questioned. What struck me immediately was how favorably Laurel was being treated by the adults. It didn't hurt that she produced a few tears as well for them. They (incorrectly) assumed that not only was I the ring-leader, but that I had inticed Laurel into stealing from their store that day. Actually, the whole thing had been her idea. She sort of introduced me to the art of shoplifting, if you will. The biggest lesson I learned from that experience, besides figuring out the hard way that you can't pull off stealing from a store after you've consumed three bottles of Mickey's big mouth, was that adults can be easily duped and place just as much importance on outward appearance as any child could. After being questioned and being made to give up the loot, we were sent to juvenile hall to be processed. Eventually, I was allowed to go home. -awful car ride with my dad fuming in the driver's seat all the way home. Laurel, on the other hand, had to stay the weekend at 'juvie' because she had 'priors'. (I think the locker head slamming incident was one of them.)

Cell at Hillcrest Juvenile Hall

Of course, what I know now is that my Laurel had 'acted out' because of a difficult childhood laced with adults behaving badly & an absentee mother. Back then, she just seemed like the kid you didn't want to fuck with, but you didn't think to ask or find out why.  

Realtor Laurel went on to say that she had raised her own children to not only not be bullies, but to stick up for other kids who were being bullied. She told me that her children would often come home from school upset because a classmate was being treated unfairly. She mentioned that her son, in particular, would sit and eat lunch with a child who seemingly had no other children to sit with. I found that very moving. 

After all the high school and child-rearing talk, I asked Laurel what the deal was with the smell in the house. She told me that the elderly woman who'd lived in the place was a 'chain-smoker' who owned a dog. So, the smell in the house, she said, was likely due to that. Ummmm, no. It was damp as the day is long, people. I don't really see the point of lying about it when it's all going to come out in the disclosure package. And doesn't everyone, especially those in the house-selling biz, know exactly what mold and mildew smell like? Well, it's not like we were keen to buy the old place anyway. We thanked them both for their time and left for the next open house. I have to say, aside from the wee fib, this Laurel seemed to have turned out all right. 

Bernie

I was thinking of my old pal, Bernie, and wondering what he would be up to these days were he still alive. I then 'googled' his name and found this rather flattering and accurate obituary-- 

 

Bernard Stoffer -- union activist, jazz enthusiast

Bernard M. "Bernie" Stoffer of Oakland, a retired television cameraman, sound engineer, jazz drummer and union organizer, has died unexpectedly of a heart attack. He was 75.

He was struck down Nov. 30 in the midst of a benefit fund-raising party that he organized in El Cerrito for a close friend, pianist Tony Archimedes, who had been severely injured in a car accident.

Mr. Stoffer was born on June 15, 1928, in St. Paul, Minn., the youngest of five children. He was a drummer in a high school jazz band and became active in left-wing political causes, marching to support integration, civil rights and labor activists.

He moved to the Bay Area in 1952 and got involved in both politics and the local jazz scene -- passions that continued his entire life.

"His first passion was playing music," said his nephew Lincoln Bergman of Richmond. "But out here, he became more of a fan than a player. . . . In fact his last words were 'the band sounds great.' "

In addition to his avid and lifelong support for big-band jazz, Mr. Stoffer was one of the first employees when KQED-TV, Channel 9, began in San Francisco.

As an innovative sound technician and creative cameraman, he played an important role in many notable programs and interviews and later became a member of the special projects and experimental film team. He helped organize the first union at KQED.

After he retired from full-time work at KQED, Mr. Stoffer became a taxi driver for many years, saying he preferred the constant person-to-person communication and exciting adventures.

"He loved being sort of a tourist guide," his nephew said. "He loved to drive. But he loved the social aspect of driving. He loved to talk about nightspots and places, he loved to hear stories and tell them, too. He was extremely positive."

Mr. Stoffer is survived by a daughter, Robin Reisberg of Sonoma; a son, Woody Stoffer of St. Paul, Minn.; a sister, Dorothy Broms of Berkeley; and seven grandchildren.

His ashes are scheduled to be scattered today. A public memorial service and jazz concert will be held later.

I first met Bernie in 1994-5 through his granddaughter, my friend and then roommate, Rebekka. Wednesday nights he'd swing by our apartment in his large sedan in order to take us out for a night of big-band jazz music. Bob Enos's Soundwave was the name of the group we'd see and they had a standing gig at a joint in Alameda called Rooster's. The Soundwave played some of the best music I have ever had the pleasure of listening to. If you're inclined, then have a nose around YouTube and you'll find oodles of videos recording bits of their live shows.  

In addition to being a passionate music lover, Bernie was also a talented artist. He made sculpture out of recyclable goods, plywood and cardboard. During my study abroad year in Germany, Bernie and I exchanged letters. Enclosed in his missives were snaps of his current art pieces. I recall his writing to me that there was interest in his work from a gallery.  There had been an offer to exhibit his creations. He wrote to me wondering if what he making was good enough to be shown. I thought it was and gave him a hearty thumb's up.  In a subsequent letter, he thanked me for being supportive of his work. He made it seem as if I had somehow had a hand in getting him to have his work shown. That was the thing about Bernie--he always made you feel vital, included, and a part of things.  

3 inch piece; a study for a much larger construction

Photo of 3-D recycle art standing about two feet high

Memory and remembrance

Thursday's crossword was a wash. I knew the answer to only one, lousy clue. It was something having to do with Norma Rae the 1979 film starring Sally Field. I can usually be counted on to know a random film factoid. This knowledge made me especially good at answering all the pink cards in Trivial Pursuit. 

My dear friend Mrs. R has been on my mind the past couple of days. She died four years ago this upcoming January. I spoke to her last in December 2014 when I was in the middle of preparing to move back to the states from Zurich. I had rung her again on the 26th hoping to hear how she had spent Christmas and, for the first time in our 17 year friendship, not only did she not pick up, but also her answering machine didn't click on. I eventually got hold of her neighbor, a woman with whom I was friendly, and was told what I had feared: Mrs. R had recently entered into hospice and died. That was very hard to hear, but not entirely unexpected. She'd been unwell for some months. 

The last time I saw my friend, in May 2014, I could see she had greatly slowed down and come to rely ever more on her daughter for help. Still, her mind was fit & her humor intact. 

I was just looking at an old hotmail account and wondering why in the heck I still had it when I got the bright idea to look at all the images sent to said acount. I'm glad that I did because I found this picture---

A chance meeting in DE: Mrs. R and my bar pal from California

On the face of it, the above shot doesn't seem remarkable, but it is. In 2005, I had taken my yearly autumn trip to Stuttgart to visit Mrs. R. She and I were on the DB platform, having just visited a village flower show some 50 km away, when I spied a man I knew from back home. He was a regular at the bar where I worked in Berkeley. What were the odds we'd both be in 'small town' Southwest Germany at the same time? We three wound up taking the train to Stuttgart together, chatting all the way. 

Mrs. R was a teenager when the war started. After allied forces nearly bombed out Stuttgart, she and her 7 younger siblings were sent south to the countryside to sit out the war. Fortunately, as she had said, she and her siblings found themselves in the American sector. The soldiers were friendly and would ply the kids with chocolate. She once told me of how an American soldier took a shine to her three-year-old brother. The soldier expressed a desire to take the brother back to America and adopt him. This was not at all on the cards, but I guess the soldier was fairly adamant. It got to the point where Mrs. R kept her baby brother indoors when that particular soldier would come around. She also told me that the soldiers would often be outside 'playing ball' with tins of food. After one such game, one of the siblings noticed that the tin doubling as a ball had been left behind. He pinched it, bringing it back to the house. I will never forget Mrs. R's face as she described the thrill she and her siblings felt when the tin was opened to reveal chunks of pineapple! None of them had ever eaten anything so exotic. What a treat that pineapple must have been to them. 

The story of how Mrs. R and I met is a bit long and convoluted, so, please, bear with me. Mrs. R was the friend of a friend of an American acquaintance of mine I had made in the exchange program at the University of Tübingen. We bothed lived in the same dormitory and hung out loads together after classes. Unlike the rest of us foreign students, my dorm buddy happened to have a family friend living in the neighboring village of Wurmlingen. The family friend was a very welcoming sort and I usually got to tag along on outings to her place. My dorm mate's Uncle Geoffrey had been stationed in Germany after the war. During his time in Baden-Württemberg, her Uncle Geoff had been quartered by an artist and his wife, a former Red Cross nurse. Their daughter was the woman whom my dorm pal and I visited regularly just down the road from Tübingen. Mrs. R had been a neighbor of the artist and his wife and knew Geoffrey as well.  

During one of our village visits, Mrs. R rang the house and found out that the American soldier's niece was currently studying in Germany. Mrs. R invited us both (I think she was being polite) to Stuttgart for the afternoon. We set a date. On the day in question, my friend flaked out, so I headed to Stuttgart via train on my own. Mrs. R, as she would come to do in the intervening years, met me at the Hauptbahnhof. We took the tram back to her place for a lovely meal and a chat. My German was still fairly rough at that point and Mrs. R was very forgiving. That afternoon marked the beginning of our friendship. 

She and I spoke formally, per Sie, for the first ten years of our relationship until Mrs. R invited me to use 'Du'. We toasted the change in language with a white wine at hers. Even with the switch to 'Du', I felt most comfortable referring to her by surname. 

I remember when the film Das Leben des Anderen came out. It seemed to be a seminal film in German cinema. It was both beautifully shot and acted. She'd seen it as well and was less impressed. The film's protagonist, a Stasi officer, was protrayed as having had a heart of gold, to put it simply. Mrs. R didn't buy it. She told me that there was no way a Stasi officer would have been so empathetic. I think she referred to it as a 'Hollywood film'. She was probably right, to be honest. 

Although her life's trajectory had been knocked about by war--she'd had to quit school & watch after her siblings as a result of the evacuation--she was never bitter. She'd often say: 'What we Germans did...I don't ever dare complain.' The total capitulation and subsequent divvying up of Germany by the allied countries was talked about with a 'we deserved it' matter-of-factness. 

Mrs. R loved Bach and Barbra Streisand. She began learning Italian while in her 50s and regularly took solo trips to Pulgia. Her potato salad was tops as were her Maultaschen. She was a thoughtful person who could also be a bit cheeky. She liked to have a laugh. One of the last meals we had together when she was still ambulatory was at a pizzeria near her flat. We drank loads of red wine, eat pizza margherita and nearly shut the place down we stayed so long. I was lucky to have had her in my life for as long as I did. 

Here's a shot of us from around 2010--