Long Lost Family sans Davina McCall

Meryl, grandma and Buddy, San Francisco,1947.

I wrote about a potential half-sibling of my mother's here. However, to recap a bit, here's a bit of background: I and another biological half-cousin, Dee, sent notes of inquiry via the genetic testing site 23 and Me to a woman called Ginny. Ginny, it appeared, was exactly as genetically related to us as Dee and I were to each other. The email that I sent to Ginny went unanswered and I let it lie. 

Unbeknownst to me, Dee was persistent and sent a further more detailed note to our genetic relative which ultimately ignited a response. The two of them compared notes and it was determined that my mother and Ginny's mother were, indeed, half-sisters born 14 months apart. Both were given up--my mom was given to Irene to raise with her husband and two older children and Margaret was formally given up for adoption at hospital.

Ginny's mother Margaret, an only child, had always known she was adopted. Adoptions were a closed affair back in the 40s, so Margaret knew, of course, nothing of her birth family. Ginny's mother was thrilled to find out she had a half-sister and quickly got in touch. 

Yesterday, my mother met this long-lost half-sister for the first time at a restaurant at Pier 39 in San Francisco. I tagged along at the behest of my mother and I'm glad I did because I was able to take photos of the two of them, write down bits of information shared and steer the conversation when needed. 

All of us had brought along a few family photos to share. My mom shared photos I had never seen. The above snap was one of them. In the picture are my bio-grandmother, Meryl, my grandma, Irene, and my uncle. I knew that Meryl and Irene had known each other via Irene's younger sister, May, but hadn't really visualized the two of them ever socializing together. Interesting to note about this photo is that it was taken after my mother had been born, but before Margaret had been born. Had Meryl known when this photo was taken that she were pregnant? 

My Mom and Margaret seemed to get on and I liked Margaret, too. With them sitting across the table from me, I could see, actually, that they didn't much resemble each other. They both, however, possess dark-green eyes which I thought was neat as did they.

After lunch, Meg and Mom wanted to walk around Pier 39, visit the sea-lions and see the double-decker carousel. I really wanted to leave them to themselves. I wasn't feeling tip-top anyway and asked them if it were all right that I left. They were in favor. I sat on a bench and watched them disappear into the crowd before I stood up and left for home. 

Mom waiting for Margaret

Mom and Meg, meeting after some 72 years. 

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

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.

Mental maps of San Francisco, then and now.

I dug up a definition of 'mental map' in large part because I am too lazy to put it into my own words. 

Here you go: A mental map is a first-person perspective of an area and how they interact with it. An easy example would be the image you have of your neighborhood. Your mental map of where you live allows you to know how to get to your favorite coffee shop. It is what you use to plan activities and routes to travel. 

My modern mental map of SF, 2019 (excuse the misspellings)

I showed a buddy of mine the mental map of SF comprised of select memories from the 1970s - 1990s and she dug it. This person then asked me if I'd create an updated 'mental map' of San Francisco. I laughed and said my modern mental map would just be bookstores and coffee shops. (Surely this person's mental map of SF would be much more exciting?) While my modern mental map turned out to be a bit more than just books and lattes, it does still feel like it is a bit lighter on material than my mental map charting out 'yesteryear'. 

Another version of my SF mental map ca. 1975 to 1990

Did I used to engage more with the city or is there simply less in the city that I wish to engage with? This answer is: probably both. 

San Francisco Mental Map

This is my mental map of San Francisco. Spots noted were cherry-picked from my own memories of this town during the 70s, 80s and 90s. Accuracy is secondary to what you think about a place when it comes to creating a mental map. 

In another post, I created a mental map of California. It took me all of three mintues to cobble the pencil sketch of California together. The SF mental map took me about 2 hours to complete. Again, as mental maps are quite personal, these images and references might hold very little meaning to others. However, I will bet that there are other Gen-Xers who grew up here who would probably get a lot of what I put down! 

Beach Blanket Babylon

Beach Blanket Babylon meets Beach Blanket Bingo! 

After 45 years, the musical revue extravaganza that is Beach Blanket Babylon is closing at the end of this year. I was somewhat heartened to read that the the imminent closure was not as a result of a massive rent hike, but rather that the show's head felt it was time to end things. 

HRH the Queen, Mary Martin (Peter Pan), Tony Bennett & Steve Silver, the show's creator 

I first saw the revue with my mother sometime in the late 70s. My hazy memories of the show include Snow White looking for love, massive head pieces worn by the performers that would make Carmen Miranda groan, and a cast of characters pulled from both political and popular realms. The last time I saw BBB was in the late 80s and I want to say that they sent up both former SF mayor Diane Feinstein and Michael Jackson. 

Charles and Camilla on stage with cast

Some of the cast and crew have been with the production for decades. I would imagine that they are reeling at the news. These performers have been blessed with a steady gig and great benefits like paid vacaction, paid sick leave, and health insurance. What will they do next? There aren't many shows in this town for local performers to sink their teeth into over the long haul and there certainly aren't any other shows like Beach Blanket Babylon here at all. A sensational piece of San Franciscana is going the way of the dinosaur come New Year's Eve and how unfortunate it is. 

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? 

More secrets and lies?

I have never been much interested in the ancestry craze that has taken hold these past few years. I know what I am: Whitey McWhiterson. I know from which part of the world my great-grandparents hailed & have always doubted that there would be some sort of genetic whammy in the mix. My hubby, on the other hand, was always keen to spit in a tube and send it off to some genetic testing company. He did it a few years ago and got me to do it as well. As I had predicted, there's no sort of 'big reveal' for either of us, genetics-wise. Although, I am, like, three percent Neanderthal and that was pretty trippy to find out. The hubs discovered some recent Eastern European ancestry that probably came about from someone having been unfaithful to someone else a couple of generations back. Still, it's not like he'd found out he was part Polynesian or African or something. 

I posted on here some months ago about the discovery of who my mother's bio dad was and how thrilled my mother was to find out specific information about the man. I, on the other hand, felt angry when reading about his life. 'Isn't he handsome?' 'I think you have his nose.' All I could muster up in response was, 'I guess so.' He'd literally lived almost the whole of the 20th century and had not been in contact, although he knew perfectly well where my mother was. I read from his obit, found online, that he was 'survived by a step-grandson'. Whatever. 

So, my mother's 3 bio-siblings were also raised in San Francisco. The two boys were kept by their mother and the two girls, my mother and her half-sister, were given up for adoption. My mother found out who her biological mother was when she was 16. She'd been a friend of the family who'd regularly come by for visits, ostensibly to get a gander at my mom while she was growing up. Finding out that the 'family friend' was actually the woman who gave my mom up didn't sit well. As a result, I never really had contact with my bio-grandma although she'd lived her whole life here in town. Some of my bio-cousins, interestingly, had even lived a few miles from my childhood home. My mother tells me that we all got together at least once way back when. I don't remember. One of those cousins now lives very near my mother out in the Central Valley. They have had the occasional lunch date and even chat on the phone. This cousin is very outgoing and very interested in her biological family. She and I email from time to time. She's very keen on finding out ancestry stuff & spends a lot of time on said sites. I received a mail from her this morning letting me know that she's found someone related to us, perhaps another half-cousin or second cousin, on the 23 & Me site. We three are all about the same percentage related to one another. As a user of the site, I am also able to see this mystery person. She and I are connected through the maternal line, sharing the same mitochondrial haplogroup. So, either my bio-grandma had given birth to a third girl and given her up for adoption or...I dunno, really. My sleuthing bio-cousin just sent this mystery relative a note. May she respond soon as my interest has been piqued!

Shower lights and cops

We viewed a property this past weekend just across the street from the high school my father attended back in the 50s. The school suffered coming into the 70s with race riots, budget cuts and such. By the 80s, it was considered an academically underachieving school. By the 90s, I think it was, it had become ringed with treacherously high fencing that made it impossible for one to come and go freely during school hours. Looking at it, I can't tell if the fence is meant to keep creepy people out, or keep pupils in. -probably both.

Fencing rolls open during morning and afternoon hours.

Back to the propery--it boasted a lovely, tiled bathroom from the 20s. Most of the room was still original and still in decent condition. The shower stall had this rather bright light in it that looked like it would have been more at home on a back deck, or something. I though it looked a bit funny, so I snapped a pic.

I was en route to the train after a lunch date with a pal when this scene unfolded just outside the station: two undercover cops were doing goodness-knows-what with this man. What's sort of amusing is that their plainclothes garb and backward caps resemble a uniform. They also look like they might have been going to a sporting event. Of course, the sidearm sort of gives them away. I have no idea what the dude did to deserve being cuffed. He was compliant, however, and all seemed fairly calm. I'm not sure why I was compelled to take a photo. Maybe it was the sight of the plainclothes dudes. One rarely sees them. Out of frame was a highway patrol officer just sort of hanging out by his car. -really don't know why he was there. I have noticed that for every incident involving a single civilian there are multiple cops on scene. It seems a bit overkill, no pun intended.

Home/s

I popped the postcard to John in Wales into the post today. -walking those few blocks to the post office was a challenge, but the weather is absolutely lovely today (17C/62F), so I enjoyed my very slow saunter in the sun! 

Speaking of temps, I'm still hot under the collar regarding what happened in DC last weekend. The main brat who stood in front of the elder smirking (his PR firm says he was 'praying') has been invited on a morning chat show to, I guess, talk about how he was actually trying to take the air out of a rather tense situation. Yes, folks, he was actually the 'Gandi' of the melee in his MAGA cap who was, let us not forget, in DC to demonstrate against women's bodily autonomy. 

These sorts of anti-choice demos featuring entitled Catholic school boys were neither a feature of my teen years nor of my 20s. The numbers of people who are interested in wrestling bodily control away from women have certainly grown in my lifetime. It's a very unfortunate development. 

My Uncle sent me the below photo of Grandma's house in the Mission. She lived there with her first husband in the 1930s. Goodness knows how many hundreds of dollars were paid to buy this (then) not very old home. I think it's worth 2 million now. Bummer it was sold out of the family years and years ago. If I remember the story correctly, her son from that marriage inherited this and a few other properties and 'gambled them all away'. How nice. I could make some sort of sad collage of images of all the homes both sides of my family owned here. They are all G-O-N-E. 

Yesterday, we bid near the estimate on a small house out in the Sunset District. Because there were a few challenges with the home that would need $$$ to make better, we did not bid as high as we would have had there been no issues. The listing agent, who was also the owner of the house, reportedly received ten offers and ours fell short. I'm not unhappy, but living two blocks from the beach would have been pretty rad. 

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---

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

City critter and an Open House

This coyote was (lawfully) crossing the street down by Fisherman's Wharf, a massive visitor attraction in the NE end of town, and a photographer was lucky enough to have captured his image. Pretty cool picture, but I wonder what in the Sam Hill the coyote was doing over in a part of town that doesn't have a ton of green space. Do he and his pack live at the beach? This guy is a fairly robust specimen--I've seen some scrawny ones over in the canyon near where I live--so I suppose he's living high on the hog somehow.  Keep it up, Wiley, but beware the tourists! 

Living room with a view.

We went to an Open House today & were delighted to find that the place wasn't a total dump. The listing price was set so that the most eyeballs possible would see the joint. Driving to the neighborhood, streams of people all walking in the same direction clued us in to the fact that we were nearing the property.  We arrived to a house that was at capacity, visitor-wise. It sort of felt like we had entered a really shit party. There were no refreshments and it was hard moving from room to room. Interestingly, what I thought would look like our current rental (same barrel front & similar floor plan), was actually a much smaller version of ours--each room just *that* much narrower. Another difference was that the back (bed)rooms were connected by a shared door. How's that for privacy?! The majority of the garage, like so many homes here in town, had been taken over by an illegal in-law unit. I'm no fireman, but the in-law bedroom looked to be a death-trap. The windows were too small to let an adult pass through. In case of fire, one could be screwed. If one did want to lawfully use the space, then it could cost a pretty penny to have renovations done, nevermind the difficulty in getting the planning permission. Having said that, the house, overall, was tidy and the neighborhood decent, so we've asked to see the disclosures. If we were to put in an offer, I'd imagine there would be stiff competition. 

The Largent House

Any a-hole, even a monied one used to getting his way, should have figured that razing a house designed and built by an architect of some renown would not go well. For years now, property developers here in SF have acted with impunity with regard to building. Modest homes are routinely razed and replaced with McMansions & then sold for millions of dollars. Of course, one is supposed to have only permitted work be performed. Having toured open houses for the past three weekends, I have seen first-hand, that many home renovations have been done 'on the sly'. Unless a formal complaint is filed, no one at City Hall would have any inkling what's going on out here in the residential areas. 

The case of the Largent House is, on the face of it, a huge bummer, but there is a cherry on this shit cake. One of five San Francisco homes designed by architect, Richard Neutra, the Largent House stood atop Twin Peaks until the beginning of this year. Built in 1936, it was one of a handful of top-notch, modernist buildings in SF. I would imagine all the neighbors of the Largent House knew of its provenance. When one such neighbor returned from a week-long trip to find a pile of rubble where the house once stood, she filed a complaint with the local planning commission. As it turned out, the new owner, a property developer, had obtained permission to remodel a portion of the dowstairs of the home. What he did not have permission to do was demolish the 1,312 square foot home and replace it with one nearly 4,000 square feet in size. The developer had figured on an easy go-around: he had attempted to retroactively obtain approval for the demolition. Had the house he had razed not been designed by a man considered to be one of the most important modernist architects of the 20th century, the developer would have probably gotten away with his plan.

Instead, the case of the Largent House was heard before the planning commission. There was a 5-0 ruling against the knucklehead developer responsible for the demolition job. Not only must the developer have the house be rebuilt exactly as it was, but he must also have a plaque affixed to the house describing its fate. The SF planning commissioner has said that this case represents a 'line in the sand'. Property flippers/speculators need to know that they can't willy-nilly raze modest-sized homes and replace them with mega-homes that sell in the many millions. 

Viennese-American architect, Richard Neutra

The Largent House, Twin Peaks, SF

Purpose-built interior pool

Arial shot of the demolished home.

EINE

Ben Eine, from what I've read, created a series of murals in Octavia St. as a sort of 'calling card' for his then upcoming show at a local gallery here in 2011. The only mural of his that I remember noticing and had the pleasure of photographing is the one above from 2013, when I was visiting home from abroad. Upon moving back in 2015, I found that the mural had been painted over. -shame, really. Also: Can you identify what this piece is called? 

When I was living in London, Eine's work seemed to be everywhere. -that or I was spending a lot of time in Shoreditch. The first piece I recognised as Eine's work was CHANGE. I took a photo of that one as well, but don't know where I've stashed it on the computer. Given that Eine has been fairly prolific, there are shed loads of images of his work on the net. 

Here is CHANGE--

I have just read that Eine's work is displayed in galleries & on buildings all over the world. I hadn't realised how successful he was. I suppose the person who had his mural painted over in San Francisco didn't know either. 

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!