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. 

What's in a name?

Someone recently sent me a link to an area map that purported to show the origins of names for cities found around the SF Bay Area. I was reading the information with interest until I found the entry for my hometown, Pacifica, and read that the reason it is so named is because the town lies along the Pacific Ocean. This is patently false, so I pretty much discounted the rest of the list.

I would like to share how Pacifica (easily 'google-able' info., might I add) was given its name. 

Some months ago I posted about the Diego Rivera mural displayed at a local junior college that had been created for the 1939 World's Fair held on Treasure Island. Along with the mural, the college also has on display sculpture connected to the '39 World's Fair. One such piece, created by San Francisco artist Ralph Stackpole, is a model for Pacifica, an 80 foot beauty displayed on the fair grounds. The most imposing sculpture created for the fair, Pacifica was certain to have been a focal point for visitors. 

Here's Pacifica in all of her eight-storey splendor--

Made of plaster and mesh wire, Pacifica was only ever meant to be on temporary display. When the military took over Treasure Island in 1941, she along with other fair 'left-overs' were destroyed. 

This period postcard shows Pacifica sort of receiving fair-goers. Incidentally, the structures flanking the crowd were designed by San Francisco architect, Timothy Pflueger. A few of his buildings still survive here in town, the Castro Theatre and the Pacific Telephone building among them. 

In 1957, residents of the newly incorporated town voted for the name 'Pacifica' in honor of the sculpture created by Ralph Stackpole. The city's seal, designed a few years later, reflects this choice. 

When I was a kid, I had no idea of any of this. I always thought that the city seal image looked a bit like Medusa. 

So, now you know. Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

Miscellany, a short post

Foreman McFurry

We did a job the other day with a rather attentive house cat following our every move. He jumped from window to window, eyes following cleaning brushes, ladders being raised and boots moving up and away.

'Little Library'

These free standing book cubbies, aka Little Libraries, can be found all over the Bay Area (and beyond, I'd guess). Book lovers are welcome to both take and leave books as they see fit. 

I spied this particular Little Library out along the path to Mori Pt. in my hometown. If you 'embiggen' (thanks, EC!) the image, then you're able to better see the offerings. If I didn't know any better, then I would say that this photo might make for a good writing prompt!

The Dahlia Garden at the Conservatory is back in bloom this year. I was there recently to snap some photos. -can't get enough of the variety of flower shapes, sizes and colors!

Thirty years gone

My 30 year school reunion was a couple of weeks ago. The organizers decided to hold the event at a dive bar in my hometown. I had made plans to go with another old friend from school. She and I are no longer close, but we keep up with the occasional text message. She was my liaison regarding all things reunion as the whole affair was set up via Facebook. What began with an 'I'll go if you will' ended with her telling me rather last minute that she 'would probably go camping that weekend instead'. I didn't remind her of our having made plans & just decided to go stag. I felt a bit anxious about going solo. I liked the idea of having a security blanket of sorts in the form of a buddy. Well, that buddy bailed and I figured that at worst I'd be bored. The beach I frequent where the whales were is very nearby the bar, so I was prepared (sturdy footwear) for a walk along the ocean should the reunion suck. It would be a short drive home anyway, so what the heck.

As it turned out, there were many friendly faces at the venue when I arrived. I had great chats with a lot of old gal-pals, some nice chats with a few old crushes, and some somewhat awkward small talk with men whom I didn't recognize. Fortunately, someone had had the foresight to bring an old yearbook, so that I could match the name with the current face. There were about thirty of us in attendance. Most of us either still lived in town or drove no more than a couple of hours in order to attend. No one came from out-of-state. We ate catered Mexican food and were eventually blasted out by a hair metal cover band that, by the end of the evening, really killed the conversational mood. Screaming 'I DONT KNOW IF YOU REMEMBER ME, BUT...' into someone's ear did not make for a cosy time. In the end, though, I'm glad I went. I even secured a coffee date with an old chum from art class. We're to meet next week.

I didn't think to take any photos from the night, so instead I leave you with pics from a recent walk through Bernal Heights and the Mission District.

False front and bottle brush

Potted plants make for a pleasant stroll

Corner house on Coleridge

Whale Migration

A walk out to Mori Point yesterday yielded this shot. The folk dotting the shoreline (break out your magnifying glasses) are watching for breaching whales. They (and I) were not disappointed.

The whole experience was a trip. I'd look in vain for a bit of whale or evidence of blowholes a-blowing, and just as I would turn away or blink or get distracted in some way a whale would show itself. My silly camera phone could barely record any of it, alas.

When I was a kid, I don't recall whales coming through town. And, if they did go up the coast, then, perhaps, their path was farther out from shore. Yesterday, the tide was very low. Some of the whales were breaching just beyond the breakers. It was nuts that they were so close.



Can you see in the above picture a bit of black jutting up from the ocean waters? Well, that's a whale! It's the one shot I could manage. Also wonderful was being able to hear the puff of air being pushed out through the whales' blowholes.

At one point I stood at the edge of Mori Pt. with a few other lookie-loos. We waited. We watched. The intermittent cries of cormorants sunbathing on a rock in the distance filled the air. I could also hear, like a sort of back beat, soft chirps coming from the hillside. And then a geyser-like eruption from the water. Pfuuuh! A blowhole. Then black. A whale body. A head. A tail. It was marvelous.

What I had planned as an hour walk became a two-hour meander. -lots of standing, staring at the ocean, turning to move on, and then turning back for one more look toward the water and, hopefully, a whale.

The view as I walked back to the car. 

Baywatch?

When I lived in NYC, I met someone who was actually from the Jersey Shore. (For UK readers, that's the New Jersey Shore.) 

Snooki, from (New) Jersey Shore

As he said 'Jersey Shore', I actually did not think of that reality show filled with seemingly dim, overly tanned men and women who then went on to garner quite a lot of money endorsing products and such. I did, however, think of summertime, family outings, and carnival games. When I told him that I was from California, he said, "Oh, California! What part? I got a buddy who's stationed in San Diego. I hear it's really nice there. The weather is like always 75 degrees there." When my partner said he had grown up in Colorado the response, less enthusiastic, was, "Uh-huh."

Does it really help to explain where you're from?  People, based on whatever ideas they've received about your home, will think what they like and go from there.

There were a fair number of other college kids from across the USA also living in my German dorm during my year abroad. It was always interesting to note the German students' reactions when us foreign students said where we were from.

"I'm from Wisconsin."  = tepid response/non-response

"I'm from Florida." = enthusiastic response of some sort, so this may have been before the spate of car-jackings on German tourists by Floridian criminals.

"I'm from South Dakota." = same response received as the dude from Wisconsin

"I'm from California." = "Ah, Baywatch!"  "Ah, Los Angeles!"  "Ah, Disneyland!"

Mind you, these three typical responses touch, in no way, my experience of life in California. The weather where I am from is not conducive to rescuing drowning victims in the ocean while looking hot in a one-piece bathing suit. LA is approximately a seven hour drive south from my home town. -sorta like a "double decaf non-fat latte" order: Why bother? It was not until the death of my father, when I was 32 years old, that I thought I'd finally go check out what all the fuss was about Disneyland. Let's just say that the signs posted at entryways for most of the rides should read "If you're over this height, then you'll be bored outta yer fecking mind if you get on this thing."

  
Summer in Pacifica or This is not San Diego

Turtleneck weather

Summertime, for me, meant overcast days spent at our local beach, Linda Mar, in a turtle neck eating sand-sandwiches cuz it was usually so darn windy out. Venturing out to Coyote Point in San Mateo (another family-outing spot) was much the same experience with just a bit more wind and sand.

Overcast Fog Fest

Early-Fall or Actual Summer 

This time of year in Pacifica often ushered in slightly warmer temps. The fog would have normally burned off by early afternoon, and we'd be treated to a couple of weeks of Indian Summer, our warm weather period. 

Pacifica's annual "Fog Fest", held at the end of September, was hardly ever foggy. I guess the organizers should move the event to anytime between June and early-August for a grayer experience, but, I'd imagine, that they don't want folk not to show up.


Suffice it to say that really no time during the year was the right time to put on a red one-piece bathing suit and bounce down the beach, hair waving in the breeze and warm surf lapping against one's toes. Pam Anderson would have frozen her derriere off if she'd tried to pull that shit at Linda Mar.

Bea, Duchess of San Mateo County

In a nod to Meghan's California roots, her Coat of Arms includes our state flower: the golden poppy.  

I have to say, I dig this nod to the West Coast. Looking at her Coat of Arms, I began thinking of what my Coat of Arms might look like were I to magically have one. Mine wouldn't just have an element of our shared homestate, but would be entirely made up of elements representing my No. California coastal upbringing. 

My Coat of Arms would also include the California poppy alongside a smattering of ice-plant sprigs. Standing on the greenery would be two red-tailed hawks flanking the crest. Maybe one could have a gopher in its talon? I'd replace the quills with three crustaceans, crabs to be precise. Crowning the top of the crest would be a light blanketing of fog. 

Snaps of my hometown

Waited for folk to get out of shot. 

A view to the bits you can't walk to.

I took a walk up to Mori Point yesterday & took these photos. The coastline is stunning; I never tire of looking at it. Even that graffitied bit of old, I'm assuming, WWII bunker looks lovely.

When I was a youth, Mori Pt. was only really accessible by the well worn foot paths made by locals. Many of whom were teenagers looking for a secluded spot to party, myself included. It was the 80s and we lived between the ocean and the hills. Having kegger parties out in nature was the fashion. Kegger at the beach. Kegger in the hills. You name it, we rolled a keg out to it or up it.

Today, Mori Pt. is part of the national parks system. Paths have been widened & made safer, wooden walkways have been put in & signs with historical information have been erected. There's even a public toilet. It's very user-friendly and I appreciate that, but with regulation come a small cost. Now, EVERYBODY (and their 'free range' fidos that sometimes like to charge up behind you while you're hiking) from all over comes to town for a hike up Mori Pt. Its 'locals only' status long since gone.

While I like that the area is now being maintained, I don't necessarily dig that the area is used by all and sundry. When your hometown becomes a tourist spot, well, it just feels a bit invasive.

Living in other cities visited by scads of tourists never bothered me. Heck, I live in one now. But, maybe there's something to having one's small-ish hometown open up to the world that feels a bit funny. What was 'mine' is now everyone's. There are also no local businesses (yet) that cater to the growing numbers of Mori Pt. visitors. To be honest, there's not much in this area for locals either. People drive in, hike up, then leave.

I guess the good thing about more folks out on these trails is that if one does have an accident while out hiking, there's always going to be someone around to call for help. Now if we could only get the dog owners to put their charges on leashes, we'd be golden.

German Club--small world

Kinda kooky, but I actually had a woman at my German group this month whose children I had gone to school with back in the 70s & 80s!

She hadn't signed up on the online list, so I wasn't expecting her at the Treff. She had come as the guest of a new group member. They were 'early birds' to the event, so I didn't spot them right away. It was only when I began assembling tables for our pow-wow that they waved me over to their spot in the corner, and asked if I were from the German group. Klar doch!

We got straight to chatting and I quickly found out that the woman, originally from East Germany, came over in '61. She fled East Germany on her own. I think, though, that she'd already met her husband before leaving the DDR. How exactly, I didn't quite catch. They married here in America, I'm fairly sure. Her husband was what was then called a Displaced Person, or DP, from Silesia, now Poland. The woman couldn't remember if she had left the DDR before or after the Wall had been built. I should think it must have been before as it was almost impossible to leave East Berlin after the Wall had been erected. I asked her if her children were around my age. Then I asked after her family name. As soon as she said it, I knew immediately who her kids were. They grew up up the street from me. We were all close in age, but not so close that we ever shared a class together. I recall having walked with her daughter to school occasionally. Her kids seemed really clever, and, I now know why, a little bit different. And I don't mean that in a bad way. They just seemed more reserved than the rest of us kids in the neighborhood. Given their parents' personal histories, I could see why that might have been.

Sharp Park

I got off work a bit early yesterday and decided to drive the scenic route home up Highway One. It was a beautiful day. October in the Bay Area is lovely. -little fog, blue skies, mild to warm temperatures, and low humidity. I made a pit stop at a supermarket in my hometown of Pacifica, then drove to the beach in Sharp Park, one of about ten districts that make up the city.

When I was a kid, Sharp Park was known as the 'stinky' part of town because that was where the wastewater treatment plant, what we locals simply referred to as the 'sewage plant', was located. The treatment facility was just across the street from the beach in a residential neighborhood. Unable to contain its odorous output, on certain days of the week most of Sharp Park simply stank.

It's been at least 5 or 6 years since the wastewater treatment facility closed (couldn't find actual closure date), moving its operation elsewhere, but I still expect Sharp Park to smell everytime I visit. I am surprised that it doesn't, and, of course, glad. The old sewage plant was built in the style of what I might call 'California Mission' & its grounds took up one square block. I know that there has been talk to relocate the rather cosy Sharp Park library to this site, but nothing has yet come to pass. Behind the still-standing office building, what looks like a quarry/building site is fenced off to passersby.

Semi-permanent building site.

The old treatment structure collecting dust.

This is the beach at Sharp Park. These views are to be found directly across the street from the old treatment plant. I can imagine that the city is desperate for some mixed-use, tourist-friendly buildings to be erected on the old sewage plant site. The added revenue from a hotel, shops and what-not certainly couldn't hurt Pacifica's coffers.

There has already been a recent spate of posh condominums going up in Sharp Park near the ocean. They stand in sharp contrast to the sand-worn apartment complexes and wee wooden bungalows that still dominate the area.

Old Sharp Park

New Sharp Park

These condos don't appear to be lived in yet, but I assume they are already sold. I saw no signage to the contrary. Guess where they were built? Just across the street from the derelict sewage plant---

Nice view?

I'm glad that Sharp Park has outgrown its unappetizing reputation, but I wonder what the fresh, ocean air might bring to this area. I'd wager more 'grand designs' and Porsche SUVs are to come. And won't that, too, be 'stinky', but in a different way?

January weather

Last night, a group of women (& one 'male ally') met up to make Jan 21 march signs at the local offices of an organization dedicated to keeping women's access to reproductive healthcare open.  

I had a nice time trying to color in my lettering while chatting with like-minded women. It's a marvel any of us actually showed up given that it was storming something awful for most of the day yesterday. Each new arrival to the office looked like a drenched cat, shaking off the rain while shedding raincoat & boots at the front door.

A snippet of our signage.

'Arty' black and white shot.

The rain storm and attendant high winds were responsible for more than a few felled trees doing damage, and, in my nearby hometown, mudslides. One such tree lay across the local rail tracks, cutting many of us off from making it swiftly home after the sign-making event. I jammed myself into one of the many 'bus bridge' buses for a slog down one of the main thoroughfares, getting home around around 30 minutes later than I normally would have. The winds, already strong, really kicked up after I was indoors (fave umbrella took a beating during the day, so I had to put it out to pasture, sadly). The hubs said to expect 50 mile/hour gales late last night. The winds that came certainly sounded fierce. However, nothing on our partially enclosed deck toppled over, so that's good.

The southbound span of the Great Highway (along Ocean Beach) was still partially flooded out today. There were a decent number of walkers, bikers, and joggers taking advantage of the closure. I tried my feet at jogging on the road, but not preferring to run on cement, eventually trundled back up to the somewhat graveled path nearby. 

At least it wasn't raining during my run along the Great Highway. Tuesday's outing saw no such luck. I was at Lake Merced, thinking I could squeeze in a run between rain storms. I had almost gotten away with it, but not before the rain hit hard just I was 3/4 of the way around the lake. Jogging with wind & rain hitting you in the face pretty much sucks.

Here are a couple of shots, post run, on Tuesday-- 

Between gushes at Lake Merced

Lake Merced penguin statue after a 'shower'.

I think this week should see more rain, and, with it, probably more flooding, slides & the occasional fallen tree. May we all stay safe & relatively dry!

'Liberal' Bay Area

I grew up in a coastal town near San Francisco. At that time, in the 1970s, the population was made up mostly of Democratic working class, intellectual artist types, and what I like to call 'coastal rednecks'. My family was Democratic working class/lower (American) middle class that included people of color & openly gay folk. As far as I knew, we accepted everyone. -not so in other kids' families.

As a young teen, I began dating a guy a few years my senior. He was a sweetheart, but happened to have some friends who were anything but. One such friend, a real 'tough guy', was the son of a cop & seemingly had something to prove. I recall an outing to the city, a favorite destination for us suburban kids, where we drove around town while 'tough guy' alternated between yelling hateful obscenities & blowing a vuvuzela out the car window at men he thought were gay. I was about 15 years old at the time, and didn't trust myself to speak up about how mortifying & wrong I thought the whole thing was. My favorite Uncle was gay & died of AIDS related complications in 1986. I think he may have already been sick during this car ride episode, but I can't really remember. After Uncle Gerry died, I do recall telling off the homophobe for reciting some dumb anti-gay joke. I was sixteen & full of rage. He called me a 'kill joy'. Uh-huh.

I write this to tell you that I have never been under any illusions that California is truly the Land of Fruits and Nuts, as some in other parts of the country dismissively refer to us. I know we are a mix of people who are socially liberal, fiscally conservative & everything in between. Having said that, I do tend to sometimes forget that there are some awful, hateful people living here along side of us more tolerant folk.

Yesterday, my co-worker told me a story involving one of our regulars, A.C. Recently, A.C. had been shopping at Bloomingdale's in Palo Alto (a wealthy enclave in the Bay Area) & found herself in conversation with another shopper while waiting to pay. The conversation happened to be in Spanish. A stranger interrupted them to tell A.C. that she should be speaking English, 'we speak English in America', and if she didn't like it, then she could leave. There was also some reference to the recent election, as if the Trump win were license for the stranger to behave like a dick in public. A.C. told my colleague that she now feels afraid living here. Mind you, she's been in California for forty years, having fled Bolivia during that country's coup.

The a-holes seem to be coming out of the wood work, emboldened by the recent election to spout their ugliness. From what I've read in the news, this sort of thing has been happening in earnest across the country since the Trump win. Sadly, it's happening here as well in the 'liberal' Bay Area. I'm not totally surprised, but I wish it weren't so.

Vancity visit

The hubs and I took our second trip to Vancouver this past July. We were there in December last year for the first time & loved it. The summer trip was all that plus warm weather and more day light. The best part of the visit was being able to spend a lot of time by the water. Our digs were near the harbour, so everyday included a stroll/jog/what-not past the marina & down into Stanley Park.

Fave apartment building in Vancouver, Stanley Park adjacent

Orderly queue for the bus

Vancouver seems to me to be the city, to a degree, that San Fran wishes it were. Or maybe SF doesn't want better public transport, exceptionally user-friendly bike lanes, and really excellent coffee shops? Living here, it's sometimes hard to tell. The one thing these two cities do have in common are extortionately high housing prices due to a proliferation of foreign investment. Like San Francisco, Vancouver is a great place to visit, but hardly affordable as a place to live.

Mr. Vancouver

At the mid-century modern shop on Commercial

The above mirror may not be really photo-worthy, but there's a story here. After the divorce of my parents in '78, my mother & I moved about a mile away from the family home into a dingy apartment. Mom decorated the apartment with hand-me-downs from friends & items found in second-hand shops & made it cosy as she could. The above mirror is exactly the same one we had in our little apartment. It hung in the kitchen, if I recall correctly. The only difference between the one in Vancouver and ours is the frame. Ours was wooden. Upon my moving out of the house in 1990, my mother gave me the mirror to decorate my own flat with. Sadly, in 2013, I inadvertently ruined the forest decal by cleaning the glass with a water-vinegar solution & wound up tossing the thing out. It was great to see 'my' mirror again, and so far away from home.

'Painful' memory.

I was recently reminded that alcohol in the eyes burns like a mo-fo.  It was 25 years ago at a house party in my home town that I had a drink thrown in my face.  -not as exciting as it looks in the movies, let me tell you.

Yesterday, a fit, red-headed man with freckles and a fine tan came into my shop to purchase lunch.  Tall and striking, I stared at him a bit before realizing that I must know him from somewhere.  As my workmate was ringing him up, I asked if he were from Hayward-by-the-Sea.  He said that he was and I said I was as well.  He gave his name and I blurted out, 'I think I partied at your house'.  He asked my name and as I told him he smiled and said, 'Oh, yeah! I remember you!'  That made me wonder if we'd hooked up, or something.  He quickly went on to say that he works as a carpenter and is often on jobs with D.L.  D.L. was the douche who threw a vodka tonic in my face all those years ago in the backyard of Red's house.  Apropos red, my co-worker said I looked like a beet at the mention of D.L.

Weird stuff and weird memory.  F.U., D.L.

Mom's visit.

My Mom and her husband came for lunch at the weekend.  She'd mentioned beforehand that she'd be bringing along a box of my things that she's been storing for the past 25 years.  I had no idea I'd left anything behind and was more than mildly curious to see what the box yielded.

-turns out the trove was not much more than old notes written back and forth between me and my high school friends.  Major themes of the day were boys, partying and shopping, in that order.  I read about of half them before chucking the lot.  Among the folded up pieces of paper were a few old pictures.  My favorites were a Polaroid picture of my first, serious high school boyfriend sans shirt, circa 1985, and me with co-workers at my first, not-so-serious job in the city, 1990.

How he manages then to look just as old as most guys my age now is beyond me.

Happiness was working in an ice-cream parlour.

Weather wimps we are not.

To the knucklehead-transplants living in my home state of California and currently making weak jokes about how the storms, flash floods and mudslides were nothing more than 'a little rain', I say, 'fuck off'.

I ran across this 'har har' photo on my FB feed--

Now try these images on for size and keep on chuckling...

Flooding in No. Cal.

Mudslides in So. Cal.

From Halloween past...

Mild-mannered 'Boo!'

Keeping the blues at bay

The most recent news from back home is that a close relative is suffering from a rather brutal form of cancer.  Since finding out, I have been fighting feeling down-in-the-dumps.  It seems all too easy to let bad thoughts in and feel paralyzed by what one can't do to fix the situation.

As a way of combating the upset feelings, I walked to the store today thinking about the things in life that make me smile.

Here's a wee list I've compiled thus far:

1.  Music
Harry Nilsson's album Nilsson Schmilsson is on in the background.  If you've never had the pleasure (think: Lime In The Coconut and the theme to the movie Midnight Cowboy), then I would suggest a listen.  You can hear his recordings on the online music site:  Grooveshark.

2.  Words that really don't translate well into other languages
There's a company down the road from where I live called MEH.  I would imagine that MEH is probably an acronym for something, but I am not sure what.  Whenever I walk past I think of the way most of us use 'meh' back home as a tepid response to something and have a chuckle.  This company's name would never fly back home.  It's like trying to introduce the Chevy Nova (no va) to the Latin American market.  Interestingly, I saw a Chevy Tacuma parked up the street the other day.  Yes, it was a Tacuma, not Tacoma.  I don't imagine that the Swiss know of Tacoma Washington's 'meh' reputation as a city, so why Chevrolet CH offers a Tacuma instead of a Tacoma is a bit of a quandary.

'69 Chevy 'Si Va'!

3.  Heh, heh...butts...
When I say my surname here for someone to spell the end result usually comes out looking like BUTTS.  The only vowel in my name is an 'a' and is pronounced here like 'ah', as in 'open wide for the tongue depressor!'  How people get an 'uh' sound from an 'ah' sound is beyond me.  'Ms. Butts, to the white courtesy phone.  Ms. Butts...'
Heck, I admit it, sometimes I still get a laugh from reading the word (Ein)fahrt on a road sign.  Immature? You bet!  It could be worse.  At least I don't laugh every time someone says the number six in German as it sounds a little bit like 'boom-boom in the zoom-zoom', of you catch my drift.

He likes big butts.

These humorous interludes only last for so long.  I could use a 'helping hand', por favor.  What tickles your funny bone?

Memory Book-updated

On Christmas, I began writing about how the idea of making a 'memory book' for my Dad came to be.  What resulted was a sifting through of, mostly, unhappy memories about how folk don't, or can't, or won't acknowledge loss.  That's not the sort of post I had wanted to write, so I ditched it. So here's a post detailing some of some of the 'good bits' that unexpectedly came my way after Dad died.

As mentioned in the Xmas post, the phone call I had made to the recycling center in January 2003 brought me unexpected comfort.  The recycling information man with whom I spoke, before retiring, had, like my Dad, worked in the beverage industry.  He, in fact, had known my Dad for years in a professional manner. As it turned out, the recycle guy had worked for management, while my Dad worked on behalf of employees as a union rep.  They had worked on opposing sides, if you will. The man on the phone had told me how much he had respected my Dad and that Dad always did what was right for the workers.  Once my Dad dug his heels in on an issue, well, he couldn't easily be budged.  Apparently, Dad's tough-headed attitude did not win him many admirers from management, but it did garner him respect.  The man at the recycling center said to me on the phone, 'not many people liked your Dad [in management], but I did'. He then talked a bit more about Dad and what it had been like to work with him some twenty years before.  I had never heard much about Dad's work growing upp.  Dad certainly didn't share his work life with his kids, or, at least, not that I remember.  It seemed that that bit of him was part of 'grown-up stuff' that we kids weren't necessarily privy to knowing.  The memories that this man shared of having known my Dad in a business capacity was an absolute gift.  I wanted more of these 'gifts' from others who had known my Dad.  I wanted a greater picture of who Dad had been to the people in his life both personally and professionally.

Inspired by the chat with the man at the recycling center and the note he'd nicely tucked into the recycling literature sent via post to my house, I set about collecting memories from others.  My Dad's widow generously gave me a list of dad's personal and professional contacts.  I made a list of family members on my mom's side who'd spent time with Dad back in the 60s and 70s.  I sent out emails, made phone calls, and sent post to everyone of them.  Most people whom I contacted responded.  Those that didn't, well, what can I say?  I tried to sweeten the deal by letting folk know they weren't going to have to 'give' without 'getting'.  Everyone who contributed a memory to the collection was sent a copy of the memory book I'd created.  I think I had about 23 copies made.

I had given myself one year to complete this task and was finished on October 17, 2003, just shy of the one-year mark of Dad's death. 

I'm still very grateful to all of the people who participated.  

Here's the 'book' in some of its glory:

Memory in print

Dad and his brothers in the Excelsior Dist., San Francisco

30.12.12

The hubs read this post, and felt that it was incomplete.  He suggested that I include a memory from the collection.

Here are two, short memories:

It was some years ago at the annual family picnic.  I had sampled some of Doug's delicious chili.  Wanting to know how to duplicate such a good pot of beans, I asked for the recipe.  Doug found the empty can of beans that he had used to make the chili, peeled off the label and handed it to me.  I got a kick out of that.

**
I remember one time going down to your dad's house for a visit.  This was when Tara, the Siamese cat, was still alive.  I reached out to pet her and she hissed at me.  Your dad turned to her and said without missing a beat, 'Crab-ass!'  That was so funny.

'New hometown'

Over the past few weeks I've read in various different publications the expression 'new hometown'.  The latest example featured someone who'd moved to a new city and within one month was referring to it as, you guessed it, her 'new hometown'.  Like with the confusing, new use of 'bespoke' to now mean anything hand-made, I'm a bit perplexed at how to understand the joining of 'new' with 'hometown'.  Sure, I've read 'adopted hometown' which I've taken to mean 'the place in which one now lives and considers home, but not the place where one is originally from'.  That makes sense.  Of course, there is also that interesting breed of folk who, for whatever reason, were moved around a ton by their parents when they were growing up.  They may claim multiple 'hometowns', or even, 'home regions/countries'.  I think, however, that the majority of us aren't 'army brats' or children of diplomats and didn't have (what I see as) the privilege of experiencing a variety of different cultures/places during childhood.

Maybe most young folk today have moved around quite a bit since being born, and I just sound like a crotchety, old crab-ass here, but, when I was a kid, I lived, with the exception of a few years, in the same town until I turned 18 and moved away from home.  Even then, I only moved about 35 miles away.  We're not talking about a massive uprooting.

I recall meeting a fellow 'Californian' while working at a Farmers' Market a few months back.  -turns out the guy was actually from Ohio.

Our exchange went something like this--
Me: (upon hearing his American accent) where you from?
Dude: California.
Me: Oh, really?  Me, too.  Where are you from (in CA.)?
Dude: San Francisco.
Me: Cool.  I'm from Pacifica.  You know, it's just south of city on HWY 1.
Dude: (blank look on his face) Oh, cool.

The above exchange alone should, sort of, tell the reader that this dude was not from San Francisco.  At that point in the convo I figured he was from a small town somewhere in the Central Valley, or up by the Oregon border or what-not.  I teased him a bit about not knowing Bay Area geography and he fessed up to having moved to SF from Ohio and living there for about six years before moving to Zurich.  I'll wager he probably referred to SF as his 'new hometown'.   

Ohio, with its very pronounced seasons, and, I would imagine, different architecture based on the fact that it doesn't suffer from earthquakes, is very, very different from coastal California.

We are shaped by our environments.  I have to say that, compared to an Ohio teen, I had it pretty easy all year 'round.  -no snow-shoveling.  -no intense summer heat waves.  -no giant insects.  Of course, I didn't appreciate how good I had it until I left.  I remember my first 'white' Winter when I was living in Germany.  I went outside to 'experience' snow, took my first step, and promptly fell on my ass.  I didn't even know how to walk in the stuff! 

Since leaving the home-turf in 2009 for places both snowy and foreign, I can now say I know how to successfully walk in snow.  I wouldn't say, however, that the town in which I have been living for 7 months, Zurich, is my 'new hometown'.  And it would certainly take years for me to even consider Zurich my 'adopted hometown', if at all.