October updates

My somewhat newly found aunt died last month. Her memorial is this upcoming weekend and my mom and I will be in attendance. Aunt Meg's health had really taken a knock during the pandemic and it just didn't seem that she could come back from the challenges faced. She entered hospice care at the beginning of September and was gone two weeks later. The fact that we found her at all was a tremendous gift. Thanks, 23 and Me! I'm grateful for the time spent with her since our first meeting back in 2019, but I surely would have wished to have had more time together.

I've not been working this past week as my brother, unfortunately, finally contracted Covid. He's still in the thick of it, so work will continue to be on hold this week as well. My first bout with the virus was last month and it sucked hard. Listening to my bro share what his experience has been--lack of taste/smell, chills and muscle aches, chest congestion and MAJOR headaches--I can say I feel his pain. 

Yesterday, I volunteered to pass out candy at The Great Hauntway, a now annual Halloween event started by two local Dads during the pandemic. Costumed kids and their parents were able to traverse about a mile's worth of roadway along the Pacific Ocean while trick or treating. The weather was more than cooperative, in fact it was somewhat unseasonably warm! I was glad to have brought both some sunblock and a large bottle of water with me. And I wound up stashing my cold weather clothes in a bag under the treat table for the duration. There were some really clever costumes on the Hauntway among the usual suspects. Someone came dressed as a massive grater with a cute piece of cheese on the side (parent and child, I suspect). And I saw two adults dressed as these beloved Sesame Street creatures from another world--

Yip, yip, yip!

Their costumes looked so spot on and I couldn't help but laugh really hard while pointing and giving a big ole thumb's up. The aliens, in turn, gifted me with a rousing chorus of 'yip, yip, yip, yip!' It brought me straight back to childhood and was probably the highlight of my day, to be honest. 

Better than television

This past Sunday was somewhat unseasonably warm here in the city. By noon the fog had burned off, so the midday heat was accompanied by a bright, blue sky. The hubs and I grabbed some gear & went to the beach. In anticipation of the warm temps extending out to the ocean, I wore a bathing suit under my clothes. I don't think I have worn a suit to our local beaches since the early 1980s. And, in my memory, those childhood trips to the coast were always beset with strong winds and chilly temperatures. Yesterday, however, the hair-whipping winds & cold didn't make an appearance.

Arms out for balance.

Cautious of the midday rays, I slathered myself in sun cream, or so I thought, before making my way to the water. I had totally forgotten to get my feet, so I've a nasty burn across the top of them. Oopsie! Burn aside, I had a delightful day at the ocean. I spent a majority of my time wading, letting the wee two foot waves repeatedly knock into my legs. A three-footer with some gusto eventually knocked me on my backside. Falling backward, I somehow managed to twist around, land on my hands & 'eat' a bit of salt water in the process. The sand at this particular beach is fairly coarse, so it almost felt as if I had landed on sandpaper. All I could do was get back on my feet, wipe the beach bits from my palms & laugh my sand-covered kiester off. In the above shot, you may or may not be able to see that I kept at it even after the spill. The sand seemed to have stuck to me like glue!

The below shot shows a speck of seal just out from shore. He eventually came in to play in the surf a bit, but kept mostly out of sight. 

The tiny black bit in the water is our seal friend.

Our seal pal wasn't out there in the Pacific by his lonesome. I think there must have been a massive fish run happening as there were scores of Pelicans, Cormorants, Terns and Gulls congregating in a large group out on the water. We witnessed multiple Pelican dives. There were bands of Terns tagging along behind the great birds in anticipation of dropped fish. Beyond the scrum were a few dolphins swimming in various directions. I witnessed a dolphin 'tail move' that I would guess were meant to corral the fish into swimming in a certain direction. At one point in the afternoon, the birds, a few dolphins and a few seals were all visibly doing their thing out in the ocean together. It was a bounty of marine activity and it was a delight. 

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. 

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

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---

Hope chest

Mine's full of old records and winter sweaters.

My mother was given a Lane cedar chest upon graduation from high school by her parents. When mom married and moved in with my dad four years later, the chest came with her. Inside the chest were mementos from her high school years & from her time working as a stewardess for American Airlines. As a little girl, I remember being enchanted with her hope chest and its contents. I loved the smell of cedar and how everything in the chest seemed to be infused with it. My ritual was thus: I'd fiddle with the tassle on her mortarboard before putting it on. Then I'd thumb to all the pictures of mom in her yearbook (she was cast as the battle-axe mother-in-law in her high school production of Bye, Bye, Birdie! and looked very funny in a wig and fur coat). I'd also play with all the charms on her charm bracelet as if they were Monopoly pieces. There were also bits of fabric and some tulle in the chest, but I never figured out what they were for. Mom kept a pair of pale-pink pumps in the chest that I would wear around the living room, while pretending to be a grown-up. I remember about ten years ago mom saying that she'd like to give me her hope chest. Her husband told her not to. That was fine with me as it didn't seem she should be done with it quite yet.  

Just today I found a Lane chest at a second-hand shop in fairly good nick and bought it. It even came with a key for its wee lock. Check out the key's envelope. If only I could put a quarter in the mail in the hopes of receiving a replacement key should mine go missing! 

Literal WC

We're probably out of our minds, but we think we might be able to afford buying property here in the city. The market, unfortunately, is still a seller's delight with contractors rapidly buying up fixers, making all manner of upgrades, then smacking a hefty price tag on the end result. And guess what? These babies sell right quick.

The more livable square footage, the higher the price. This mind-set seems to be leading some to make rather strange 'upgrades' to property before it going to market. 

The above pic shows some of the nuttiness we saw today. This house, a perfectly reasonable purpose built 2 bedroom/1 bath, was converted recently (the paint was still drying when we viewed) into a 3/2. If you look closely, you'll see that the bedroom closet was converted into a stall shower and toilet room. Mind you, the closets in homes from the 1920s until the late 1940s were all walk-in and fairly spacious. But just because there's room for a bathroom doesn't make putting in a bathroom a grand idea. Your bedroom now has no closet and you're sleeping next to a toilet. -hope the ceiling fan works well. 

One feature of SF architecture of the 1920-1930s that I really enjoy is the tile work. Inspired by Spanish-Moorish design, California architects sought to recreate a bit of the Old World here. Ceramic tiles adorning these homes were fashioned in Southern California. Two of the heavy hitters in California tile production were Catalina Tile Co. & Taylor Tilery.  One house we viewed today boasted a tiled external staircase. Below is one of the tiles. 

Part of a tiled stairway.

The color scheme of orange-green-black-yellow is a hallmark of Taylor Tilery. Catalina, by contrast, seems to have offered a broader range of color combos, many of which are a bit finer and somewhat muted. 

Here's a sort of blurry shot of the stairs--

The home was lovely as well. It did, however, have an illegal in-law unit on the ground level. I figure the current owners were probably making duckets as AirBnB hosts. We were cautioned that before inspections were to be made, potential buyers would have to make the in-law unit's kitchen look less like a kitchen. *sad trombone*

Scenic Route

Along Lobitos Creek Rd.

View from the car

The husband and I took a short trip down the coast today. We drove the scenic route to Redwood City in search of possibly finding a second-hand desk. After a few days of good rain, the skies 'round here are clear and the air no longer smells of smoke. It really was a perfect day for a drive. 

I had thought we'd take the usual route from the ocean, going east on HWY 92 at Half Moon Bay, but the hubs suggested we take the road he sometimes cycles along to get to work. Having grown up here, I thought I knew all the roads going inland from the coast chiefly because there aren't very many, but I had no idea where we were going. We took a left turn off the highway just south of Half Moon Bay onto a street called Verde. After a few minutes, we veered left at a fork in the road and found ourselves on Lobitos Creek Road. I had no idea these roads even existed, but, really, why would I? This area is still primarily farmland. The only cars usually found here are driven by area locals, not day-trippers like us. Lobitos Creek is a narrow wind full of hairpin turns coursing through some lovely countryside. 

More Lobitos Creek

About 15 minutes into our drive along Lobitos, eucalyptus, coastal scrub & pine gave way to a massive grove of redwoods. Entering the grove, the air changed and the temperature dropped slightly. Ferns, moss & the big trees were our new driving companions, as it were. 

Entering the Redwood grove

Reaching the end of the road

After a leisurely drive through the redwoods, we made our way to town. We struck out on the desk search, but did enjoy the journey it took to get there. 

Family then and now.

Uncles on Madrid St. 

In preparation for a move that we are now not making, I had recently begun the Great Sorting of Things that were to go to either the charity shop or friends/family. While emptying out a large oak wardrobe (still) promised to my cousin, I found an old family photo album. Among the black and white pictures, I spied this shot of two of my uncles from the mid-1940s. What I really dig about this snapshot is the sort of Rockwellesque quality about it. And, also, who puts a car seat in a lil' red wagon? Uncle Jim was certainly cruising in style. :)

Four generations in the back yard. The Excelsior, SF. 

The above photo is a family shot circa 1959. My dad is the the young man on the far left. I had heard from my mother that dad had been very self-conscious about his weight when he was a young man. He had only begun to shed the extra weight around the time he met my mom in the late 60s. Dad's three brothers were all bean poles (note the slim guy second from right), so I can sort of see why he would have felt a bit like an odd man out.

Just as I had last year, I spent Turkey Day with my siblings and their mother, B., a woman from whom the sibs had been estranged for many years. They are now in regular contact with their mother and all seems to be going fairly well with that relationship. I remember meeting B. when I was little. She'd occasionally come by the house to pick up my brother and sister to take them on outings. I find her nice, if a bit ramble-y. One doesn't so much have a conversation with B. as just let her talk and be agreeable. Both this year and last year B. referred to my father's widow by my mother's name. I gently corrected her on that score. What I also found interesting is that B. used a nickname for my mother that she herself neither uses nor wishes other people to use. -like calling an acquaintance named Dorothy 'Dolly' before having first ascertained if that were OK.

Thanksgiving dinner was nice. We crammed around grandpa's (above holding my cousin up by his arms) old dining table for turkey with all the trimmings. My sister made great grandma Bea's (third from the left) stuffing recipe. The pumpkin pie my husband and I baked turned out well to boot. Contraband tonka bean in the pumpkin mix did the trick as did the super flaky pie crust.

Anyway, may all of you who celebrate have had a lovely Thanksgiving!

Trump's Forest Management Plan for California

Melania, hard at work.

“I was watching the firemen the other day and they were raking areas, they were raking areas where the fire was right over there,” he complained. “And they’re raking trees, little trees like this that are not trees, little bushes that you could see are totally dry. Weeds. And they’re raking them, they’re on fire.  That should have been all raked out. You wouldn’t have the fires.”  

-The Donald in conversation with Chris Wallace of Fox 'News' 

Smoky air and crooked streets

SF City and County schools are closed today due to poor air quality. Municipal rail is also allowing riders to board for free. The recommendation, however, is to stay indoors and keep all windows shut. Even if I wanted to venture out, I wouldn't as I don't have an air filtration mask. At this point, masks are sold out at local stores and online ordering would take a few days. It's best just to stay put. The husband is working from home and I'm holed up on the sofa. What we need is a bout of strong wind to just blow all this heavy air out. It's been so still and dry out the past week. The smoke has really settled in. :(

I was slated to have Thanksgiving at my cousin's place up in Marin on Thursday., but he and his family have decided to decamp to Tahoe for the week. I can't blame them for wanting to get away from the lingering wildfire smoke. 

Smoky sunset

I belong to an online group whose mission is to share pictures of San Francisco. (I posted the above picture to the group yesterday.) The only group rule is NO politics. If you want to rant, then you're shown the door. Well, most of the time. The group's moderator is not always quick to put the kibosh on people bickering. Given that both liberals and conservatives might enjoy looking at a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge, sometimes even the most benign image can trigger a disagreement. 

I once posted a picture of an e-scooter (the scoorge du jour here in town) leaning up against a bus shelter and that sent people into a tail spin. The picture was then rather quickly removed from the group's website. Womp. Womp. 

Virtual finger-wagging aside, I enjoy the group as some pictures stir up the old memory pot. 

For example, did you know that famed Lombard St. is not the most crooked in town? That title is held (by a section of) Vermont St. between 20th and 22nd Sts. I had heard this growing up, but never did investigate the claim. Yesterday, on the picture-sharing site, someone very thoughtfully posted a short dash cam video showing a slow-moving car trip down Vermont St. I thought it was cool. Other viewers of the vid took no time in complaining how crap the street looked and how unkempt people's front garden areas appeared. Suddenly, whatever city agency responsible for street maintainance and the residents of Vermont St. themselves were villians who had conspired to ruin this stretch of road. HOW DARE THEY?! (Yes, it gets that dramatic.) 

Anyway, another group member posted side-by-side images of Lombard and Vermont Sts. 

Here it is--

Comparing snakes

Both streets would appear to be the same amount of crooked. The major difference between them is one is clogged with tourists while the other is, apparently, clogged with weeds. Ha. 

I could find no other aerial views of Vermont St. while sifting through Google. However, there are shed loads of Lombard St. images on hand. 

Sort of side view, Vermont St. Traffic is now one-way going down the hill. 

Vermont St. ca. 1940s. 

Lombard St., aerial shot taken by drone.

Lombard St., the non-curvy bit, was used for location shooting in the Hitchcock film Vertigo. 

After two decades, the owners of the 'Vertigo house', seen below, had the exterior completely remodeled in order to detract potential film buffs from visiting. I sort of think that they are spoilsports, but I get it. Nobody wants lookie-loos at their front door day after day. 

Scene from Vertigo: Kim Novak in the background as Jimmy Stewart approaches.

I suppose the residents of Vermont St. might be on to something by keeping their road a bit user-unfriendly, eh? Well, if you do go for a drive down Vermont St., don't tell them I sent you!