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. 

A bully and a fibber

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

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

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

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

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

Cell at Hillcrest Juvenile Hall

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

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

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

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! 

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

Park trip

When your brother gives you lemons, squeeze the juice into an ice cube tray and pop it in the freezer!

Last Sunday, that same brother, our sister and I decided to take a trip to Memorial Park. This park, created in a redwood grove, was our family's go-to day trip spot in the 70s and 80s. We'd go to swim in the creek, play kick-the-can and barbeque. We hadn't been back as a family in about 30 years.

What struck me on this visit was how small the park grounds felt. The redwoods, on the other hand, felt even more massive. The creek, previously dammed for visitors' enjoyment, now runs freely. The steelhead that spawn in the creek are helped by this move, but the we who would like to take a dip are out of luck. We took our shoes off, rolled up our jeans & waded in. The water is still icy cold just like we remembered.

Redwoods in formation

Fallen redwood. Its bottom bits look like burl.

Blackened bit of bark from a long-ago fire. Redwoods are notoriously flame retardant.

Age: 490; 8' in diameter.

The largest living tree we saw in the park was recorded as being 1600 years old and 13' in diameter. It boogles the mind that a tree could still stand after so long.

Memorial Park was created in the 1920s. Many of the woods surrounding the park had been logged for timber in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Had the park not been created, I wonder how much old growth redwood forest we'd have in San Mateo Co. today. 

The visitors' center included an exibit featuring taxidermied animals found in the park and the surrounding environs. Most of the specimens had a sort of Velveteen Rabbit quality to them as they dated from the mid-twentieth century. The hawk, seen below, looked to be the most well-preserved. 

I'm glad to have gone back to the park with the siblings and am resolved to visit again before another 30 years pass by. 

Red-tailed hawk

An interesting way of asking people not to muck about. :)

Old growth forest just over the bridge. :)

We Were Here

It was the spring of 1986 and I was fifteen years old.  My father's favorite brother and my favorite uncle, Gerry, had come over for what would turn out to be his final visit.  I don't remember being told in advance how his illness would make him look.  I don't think I remember being told how he'd become ill.  'His immune system is under attack; it's compromised.'  Okay.  So what did that mean?  What that meant was that a previously healthy, tall, trim man of 43 years had been reduced to a frail and bent figure who was not at all the man who had previously been able to pick me up and carry me in his arms when I was still in single digits.  He now walked with the aid of a cane.  He came to the house wearing a knit cap and pea coat & it wasn't cold.  He couldn't even eat the small slice of bread and a few cold cuts that was to be his lunch.

San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor Moscone had been murdered some eight years earlier.  The sort of permissive decade of the 1970s was over.  I was a teenager living in Pacifica, CA., not 20 miles south of San Francisco.  But it could have been miles and years away from what was happening with such ferocity to people I knew and loved living up in the City.  Uncle Gerry was sick; 'Uncle' Ric was, somehow, not.  Gerry and Ric had met in SF back in '67 while Gerry was still married.  They had quietly begun a relationship.  Eventually, Gerry's marriage broke-up and Ric and Gerry then lived together as an out, gay couple from that point on.  Theirs was a great love that lasted until Gerry's death in '86.  Sadly, Ric drifted away from the family after that.  My cousin and I would occasionally bump into Ric in the Castro (SF's gay quarter) throughout the 90s.  We had asked him why he'd stayed away after Gerry's death.  He said that he couldn't face the family because it hurt too much.  I was always so glad to run into him.  He didn't seem to want to remember and I didn't want to forget.

I know that Dad and my siblings went to the City to have a final visit with Gerry as his time became short.  I don't know where I was or why I wasn't included in the visit.  I wish I could have given him one more hug.  Uncle Gerry died before the year was out.  He opted not to go into hospital and instead stayed in the apartment he and Ric shared on Fulton Street, choosing to die at home with his partner and theirs friends by his side. 

I have a vague memory of, perhaps, returning from having gone out to dinner with Dad.  It was dark out and he'd opted to not turn the kitchen light on once we'd gotten inside the house.  He needed to tell me something.  We stood in the darkened kitchen and he told me that Gerry had died.  Then Dad began to cry.  It was a pinched, pained sobbing that made me feel both startled and sad.  We stood there in the dark for what felt like a long time. 

About five years ago, I happened upon a documentary entitled, 'We Were Here' on BBC 4 chronicling the AIDS epidemic as it hit San Francisco in the early 80s experienced by five people who lived through it.  They were the fighters, lovers, carers, healthcare professionals and friends of those who died.  I'm so very grateful that director David Weissman decided to take on this project.  His interview subjects were a window into what it was like to live through something so devastating.  Their clear, thoughful, and, at times, emotional discussion of local life during the height of the crisis is both illuminating and invaluable to me.  It's been over 30 years since the epidemic began and Uncle Gerry died a painful death due to 'AIDS-related complications'.  The documentary film subjects were there, too, and, thankfully, lived to tell about it.

The brothers--Uncle Gerry, far left.

Orchids and Onions

Lest you think I'm really that clever, I should tell you that the name of this blog was lifted directly from a list appearing in my junior high yearbook. This annual list, Orchids and Onions, chronicled all that had transpired the during the school year, good or bad. 

I have really vague memories about what we teeny-boppers found to be both tolerable and intolerable during my one-year stint at this particular school, but I do remember the format of the page. 

It looked a bit like this: 

Orchids to...
Onions to...
Orchids to...
Onions to...

It was repetitive, but it did the trick. 

So, in true junior high fashion, I'll share what's been going on with me here--

Orchids to...passing my Japanese course with flying colors.

Onions to...regularly recurring body pain from my cleaning job.

For a bit of comic relief, below is a picture of me from that time period. I'm at my best friend Kathy's house. 

Note the blurry pictures of rock-n-rollers in the background taken from the pages of Cream and Circus magazines. We liked to rock. :)

Walk to Land's End

The Golden Gate as seen from Land's End

Even though I've been under the weather for the last two weeks, or so, I felt well enough to meet up with my brother for a short walk at Land's End over the weekend. Strangely enough, I don't recall ever having walked the path along the coast there before. It's literally just up from the Cliff House, a place I have been to many times over the decades, and yet I had never thought to walk just up and over the hill to Land's End. The current incarnation of the Cliff House, I'll note, is nothing like the  one Adolf Sutro had built before the turn of the last century. Not one to forget his German roots, Sutro had the Cliff House built in a style meant to mimic German castles. I don't see that in the old pictures of the place, but I do see that the original Cliff House had an 'Old World' charm about it. Sadly, that first structure was destroyed in a fire over a hundred years ago. The current joint is a boxy blah of a thing. The view from the back of the building overlooking the ocean, however, can't be beat. 

Across from the Cliff House, Sutro had built an observation tower (from which one could observe the Pacific Ocean and the Marin Headlands) and an adjacent viewing deck. A Conservatory, smaller than the one in Golden Gate Park, also stood on the grounds and housed Sutro's exotic plant collection. Also dotting the finely manicured grounds were various imported European statuary meant to, I would guess, give us Wild West types some 'culture'. The only statue remaining on the grounds, now a part of the SF Parks Service, is one of the Goddess Diana. 

My brother.


Sutro Heights ca. 1890 (above); Diana, the last statue standing at Sutro Heights (below)

View from the path at Land's End

My Uncle told me recently that his brother, my favorite Uncle, had his ashes spread at Land's End after he died at the age of 43 back in 1986. I was a teen then & didn't get the memo re: ash spreading, so this was news to me.  Given that the wind is virtually ever present along the coast here, I couldn't help but have a chuckle at the thought of dear Uncle's ashes going every which way when thrown. Sure enough, my Uncle added that the ashes had indeed caught flight, scattering along the nearest hillside. I told my brother this story during our walk. We had a good laugh. 

Newish kid on the block

Moving from California to London and then from London to Switzerland then back to California all in a six year span has reminded me of all the moving around I did as a kid. Between 1978 and 1988, I changed schools at least 7 times. Leaving school also meant leaving behind school friends. These were kids that I played with after school, whose parents were nice to me and let me eat their Oreo cookies and play Atari well into the afternoon until my mom came home from work.

When I was 10 years old, I lived for about six months in a place called Livermore; CA. for about half of my 5th grade school year. We lived in a cul-de-sac filled with families that had children around my age. There was one girl, Chelon, whom I used to play with regularly. Chelon lived close to the opening of the cul-de-sac next to the Mormon family. The Mormon mom used to joke about being a 'bad Mormon' family because they drank Coke and coffee.  Chelon's parents, Geri and Gerry, drove a late model Camero. I want to say that the car was canary yellow. The car had one of the first vanity plates I remember seeing that somehow managed to spell out both of their names. Maybe it was 'GeriGer'. Anyway, Chelon's mom and dad had the same name, shared the same car, and wore their hair in the same style: a jheri curl. I loved going over to Chelon's house because her parents were very friendly, there was always soul music playing on the stereo, and, after Chelon did her chores, we could play undisturbed outside in the cul-de-sac for hours until we were called home for dinner.

Michael Jackson wearing a Jheri curl.

Esther, a girl from my class who lived over in the 'nice part' of town, became chummy with me and would sometimes invite me over to her house after school. Like Esther, I took my shoes off before going inside the house. I can't exactly remember what we did, but I don't think that Esther was all that into Barbie and neither was I, so no playing with dolls. Esther lived in a lovely, ranch-style home with wide hallways and both a rock garden and swimming pool in the backyard. The hallway carpets were thick and plush and felt good under my stocking feet. The house was quiet and always smelled of cooked rice. And, while I would occasionally hear her mother's voice coming from another room, I never really saw either of Esther's parents.

-prime example of a ranch-style home.

My friendships with both Esther and Chelon were really just beginning when I had to move to a new city at the end of the school year. Chelon came for a sleep-over once after I moved. I never talked to Esther again.

Moving back to San Francisco at 45, I was sort of the 'new-old kid'. Making acquaintanceships is a bit more challenging at this stage. It was pretty darn easy to make friends when I was 10.

Mimi

I absolutely love this picture of Mimi. She looks stunning. She's there with her fiance--they had just gotten engaged--celebrating his 23rd birthday at San Francisco's Playboy Club. The 1960s were swinging and they were young and in love. 

Mimi is one of my mother's two long-term friends. She and my mom met working as telephone operators in San Francisco. 

When I was little, I remember mom driving up to the city for regular afternoon visits with Mimi and Sweetpea, her pet cat. Sweetpea, named after Popeye and Olive Oyl's little one, was a very mellow kitty and let me pet her. I 'played' with Sweetpea while mom and Mimi caught up on things.  

At some point in the 80s, Mimi and her hubby relocated to the wine country. Although I no longer saw much of Mimi, she would regularly send me a birthday card & book. I looked forward to the birthday books every year. Mimi steadily sent me books until I reached high school age. After that, she continued to send me cards. I treasured her contact & always made a point to respond with a thank-you note.

When Mimi's husband died five years ago, my mom called to share the sad news. I sent Mimi a condolence card. After moving back from Switzerland in 2015, I was living in a suburb where, incidentally, Mimi's sister-in-law lives. Mimi often came down to stay with her in-law, and during one of those visits we were able to meet up for a coffee. I hadn't seen Mimi in about thirty years. It was wonderful to see her, but strange as well. As a child, I had literally always looked up to her. This time, I was looking down at her. -such a strange shift in perspective. I felt I could scoop her up in my arms if need be. The things you don't forget about someone were still there: same voice, same stunning blue eyes, same humor. We chatted for over three hours. I guess that's just about one hour for every decade gone by. It was a tremendous visit. 

When we moved to our current place two years ago, I invited Mimi to our housewarming. Long-term friends and family had been invited as well as a cast of newer acquaintances. Unfortunately, Mimi had fallen ill at the last minute and couldn't make it. I sent her a get-well card and filled her in on who all had been here and what folk were up to these days. Last year, I had another soiree at the house and again invited Mimi. She again fell ill and couldn't make it. I sent her another get-well card. 

I had lunch with my mom a couple of weeks ago. She told me that Mimi had just gotten over a bout of pnenumonia. I sent Mimi a greeting card letting her know that I was thinking of her and glad she was on the mend.

My mother rang me today to let me know that Mimi had died in her sleep last night. I certainly wish I could have seen her one last time, but I am glad that she did not suffer. And I will very much miss our correspondence.

Small world

View from our first gig of the day down the peninsula. 

Yesterday's second client, a charming elderly woman, was located a short drive from San Carlos. We met her in the master bedroom where it would appear she spends a majority of her time contentedly watching TV, taking phone calls, and doing the crossword. I noticed that she moved around her bedroom with only minimal fuss. However, it did not look like she had anything much to do with the rest of her house. The tidy living room was charmingly decorated & looked like it was last sat in about 30 years ago. The dining room, however, was covered in a pile of old boxes---online ordering gone mad?---no where to sit or stand. The kitchen had a bit of life in it, but I suspect that that has more to do with the woman who looked to be the client's granddaughter living in the two rooms that were off-limits to us.

My colleague arrived first on scene & was met at the door by the younger woman who told him which rooms we would not be entering. Those two rooms had their doors closed. That was enough to signal 'do not enter' to me, to be honest. Just in case, a post-it note reading 'no windows' was affixed to each of the doors. Got it. 

Given the sounds emanating from the back of the house, I had assumed that the client and her probable granddaughter were spending time together watching TV. My cleaning buddy and I passed the time as we normally would when no one was within ear shot by talking about his rocky personal life. At some point during our chat, the younger woman popped out of one of the 'no windows' rooms and said, 'Uh, yeah, I don't wanna hear that. I'm on the phone.' I apologized for speaking too loudly & she disappeared back into her lair. I wondered if the other room was being used as some sort of storage unit for all the items that came from the discarded boxes piled up in the dining room. 

In a hushed tone, my colleague continued talking while I alternated between whispering replies and talking in a very low voice. That wasn't going to do either as whatshername came back out & told my buddy (I actually neither saw nor heard her this time) she, again, didn't want to hear it & that she had 'her own problems'. Oopsie. 

When cleaning windows, the order of operations is this: upstairs to downstairs, inside to outside. As this was a ranch-style home, we worked from one end of the house to the other. Just prior to my cleaning the windows of the master bedroom, granddaughter left her room to speak with the client for a few minutes. The one-sided convo went as follows: something about betting at the horse track, something about Las Vegas, something about the Kardashians, something about social media. I heard a few affirmative responses from the client, but not much else. 

As I approached the master bedroom, I heard the younger woman sign off with something like: Well, that's it from me! 

Not wanting to bump into the charmless younger woman in the hallway, I waited until she'd gone back into her room before I made my way back to the client's room. I introduced myself & asked her if I could get started. We chatted while I worked & I found out that she had grown up in San Francisco. 'I'm from San Francisco when it was still a small city'. 

I asked her what high school she'd attended. I hadn't heard of it. 'It's a convalescent hospital now'. 

I then asked where in the city she had grown up. Her parents had purchased a then new house on the block where I now live. I told her my house number and asked her half-jokingly if I lived in her house. It turns out I don't, but I can see her childhood home from my front window. 

Here it is--

She told me that she loved that her house had a separate bathroom & WC. I told her that our place still has that same configuration & that I really like it, too. She also mentioned that she loved the size of the bathtub. Apparently, she used to take baths while talking on the phone. Our house still has the original built-in phone stand along the wall just across from the bathroom, so I could totally see having a soak with the phone dragged in from the hallway.

She reminisced about some of the businesses along the adjacent main road. Most seem to have gone the way of the dodo, but I did recognize the name of one of the bars. It permanently closed just a few years back.

Roofers' hangout back in the 40s & 50s.

She asked if I remembered the old Fox Theatre on Market Street. She drew out the 'a' in a 'long a' sound like my mom does. I don't know the phonetic alphabet, but I'd write what I heard like this: thee-A-ter. I told her I did, but in name only. 'It was a shame when they tore it down'. Having heard what a gem of a cinema the place was, I could only agree. 

Opened in '29. Closed in '63. 

Eight wheels good.

Back in the 80s, when roller rinks were still en vogue, my friends and I skated away our weekend nights. We'd show up to the rink in our teenie-bopper uniform: tight tops and jeans, hair feathered to the max, eyelids marked with pink and grey eye shadow, and a dab of Jovan musk behind the ear.

The music of the day was rock. We skated to the likes of Journey, REO Speedwagon, Ozzy, Judas Priest, etc. I think Ozzy was actually reserved for ladies' fast skate where we girls would skate like mad around the rink either until the song was over or we rolled off the floor.

I recall once my middle school hosted a skate party at our local rink, Valle Vista, in Hayward, CA. A friend and I were photographed that year for the school year book. My feathered hair was a little bit droopy that day, but I was rocking a lavender London Fog jacket and a jersey with an image of a unicorn on the front, so I was feeling pretty cool. Alas, Valle Vista closed in 2003 & a fire gutted the building in 2008. The year book from '82 is also gone, so there is no photographic evidence to back my assertion of how fly I looked. Instead, I offer you the 2017 version of that girl still skate crazy, if however, a little less suave on wheels.

Already looking rather forlorn...

Me, lacing up for a quick skate around Old Oakland

Remains of Valle Vista

I bought the skates in the photo in Bayswater, London at a joint called London Skate Centre about four years ago. There was a local skating event at a bar (yes, alcohol & skates were a bad combo, thanks for asking) that I had wanted to attend, so with the help of Yelp I found the skate shop. Since 2013, I've worn these skates a total of five times. The last two skate outings took place in Golden Gate Park.

The Church of 8 Wheels, a local skate organization offering roller boogie nights at a church here in town, also puts on a wee spread Sundays in the park. A gaggle of us joined in a few weeks back. I was thrilled to be skating again & in such nice surroundings as the park. There was a sound system playing funky tunes, a host of costumed participants, and those of us in 'civilian' gear. Both inline and quad skaters were welcome. It was a joyous scene, to be sure.

Valle Vista, skate rink extraordinaire of yore, used to host skating competitions. This clip shows the beauty of quad skating. Of course, then as now, I could barely do a fourth of what this young girl was capable of. I'm lucky if I can still skate backwards in a straight line, but darn it, I'm going to keep at it!

Windows and visitors

This sweet kitty was keeping me company while I washed windows. She was especially keen to hang around when I opened the windows in order to clean the sills. I had one arm blocking her hasty escape attempts & the other arm stuck out the window in order to clean the muck off. The novelty wore thin fairly quickly.

We cleaned the one-room guest house which I saw was reserved for the, I'm assuming, 'revolving door' au pair who lives there. The children had their own individualized welcome mats at their back bedroom doors. Even the pet had a mat. But the au pair? Nah. Too many must come through.

We have had house guests here from London for the past week. -an old uni friend, her wife & their son. It was great to have them. I even managed to find a box of Tetley tea at a somewhat local market to give them a taste of home. PG Tips are easy to come by, but they don't fancy that brand. Fair enough, I prefer Tetley as well.

I ferried the Londoners up to Twin Peaks for the grand view of SF. I don't think they realized how great the view was going to be. I sort of had to convince my friend to go, her wife was keen for whatever. They all seemed duly impressed once we were up atop the peaks.

Partial view from atop Twin Peaks

The wide boulevard bisecting downtown and beyond is Market St. At its base is the Ferry Building(2). One can sort of make out a sliver of it way off in the background. Market extends up toward Twin Peaks, but the main portion of the commercial bit ends at Eureka Valley aka The Castro. 

Other points of possible interest are: the San Francisco Mint(1), the western span of the Bay Bridge(3), and the somewhat obscured Transamerica building(4).

The mint no longer produces coins for general circulation, but instead focuses on producing commemorative sets. -wonder if they were also responsible for producing this monstrosity? 

Philly Mint coins

The image of the Transamerica Pyramid, or as I called it when I was a child, the 'upside-down ice-cream cone', was used by beloved local writer, Herb Caen, in his column header. Herb's header would look a wee bit different today what with all the massive skyscrapers now being built downtown. The Transamerica probably wouldn't even rate, sadly. 

-had a laugh at the column snippet below. Keane's paintings, whatever one thinks of them, were painted by the wife, as we now know. 

Lambchop

We were met by the most charming dog, George, at a job yesterday in Hillsborough. He stood at the gate to greet us, but didn't seem to really care about us so much as what we had extending from our feet: shadows. Head bent forward, he would move toward any bit of activity along the pavement. George had the softest coat & he would immediately collapse onto his side for maximum petting potential almost every time any of us would give him a scratch. Here he is after a cuddle from me--

Aside from the odd cuddle & chasing shadows, George really likes to nap. He makes a sweet picture, but I was really struck by his little sleeping partner. Do any of you recognize the lamb? Maybe I should say Lambchop?

I hadn't seen Lambchop for years and there she was sans Shari in a doggie bed! My brother tells me that Lambchop is now sold at pet stores. I guess she could be considered a chew-toy. Who woulda thunk it? From beloved side kick of Shari Lewis from the golden age of American television (and, for me, the golden age of re-runs some 15 to 20 years later) to hanging out with the family dog. -not a bad gig if one could hang out with a pooch as sweet as George.

Shari and Lambchop

'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.

Kathy

Kathy on the left, a girl called Carolyn in the middle, and me on the right. 

It's only fitting that I listen to Ozzy while writing this post.

*cues Mr Crowley*

Our hero, Randy Rhoads & his polka dot Flying V

I first met Kathy around the time that the top picture was taken.  Kathy's friend, Carolyn, is sitting in between us. We were taking Polaroids with somebody's camera during lunch period & this blurry snap was one of the results.

Kathy and I became fast friends in 7th grade. I don't know if we had had a class together or friends in common. What I do know is that when we met we clicked. Kathy and I spent most of our free time together. Most weekends involved going to the mall, the video arcade, and the midnight movies. If we weren't hanging out, then we were glued to the telephone talking to each other for hours on end. My Mom got sick of my always being on the phone and instituted measures. Setting the kitchen timer and placing it by the phone she'd say, 'You have 45 minutes and that's it!' The timer buzzing rudely meant I had to hang up. When it was time for Kathy to get off the phone, her Mom would go out to the garage where Kathy stood talking into the phone receiver and yell at her.

Our second home for a time

We were in sync the way most young girls seem to be at the onset of puberty. We wore matching clothes; polka dots, leopard print, and checker board motifs ruled the day. Kathy, using a toothpick, developed a technique that resulted in being able to paint our nails in excellent checker board and polka dot patterns. And, as it was the early 80s, we shared a love of wearing tons of pink and grey eye-shadow and pitch black eyeliner. We also went through lots and lots of Aqua Net. Those feathers weren't going to hold themselves up!

Kathy, Xmas 1982/3

Kathy married in 1994, and, eventually, moved to Las Vegas to start a family. I continued living in the Bay Area, and, until my 40th year, stayed mostly single. Kathy and I kept in contact via telephone and social media, save for the very occasional visit. Ours was the sort of friendship that even if we hadn't talked for a while we could pick up where we left off.

Kathy, gettin' hitched

Kathy was smart, funny, driven, and loved her family deeply. Her absence leaves a hole that can't be filled.

-miss you always, buddy. x

Me and Kathy in SF, 2009