Yesterday’s News & Weekend
The romance of coffee and a day-old newspaper can make you nostalgic for yesterday’s news and all the other yesterday's too (even the ones which were never yours). The Odd Fellows building in San Francisco being listed for sale was substantial news on May 13th. The building is considered iconic and the building manager’s name is Peter Sellars (you cannot make this up). The article reiterated points of cities, San Francisco in particular, aging in different directions and how this building was built after the 1906 earthquake. It ends talking about the displayed Odd Fellow memorabilia throughout the building, “Hats, masks, photographs, paintings, documents and even skeletons – which represent mortality, a key concept in the Odd Fellows, and are used in secret initiation ceremonies.” The final line in the article is a quote from Sellars, “Everytime we lose an original property, it’s tough. It’s a familiar place. As organizations like this diminish, it’s sad.” Change and endings are never easy, even if you are an Odd Fellow and have skeletons to remind you about impermanence. What goes up, falls down, and sometimes can go up again.
My paternal Grandfather, I grew up always hearing referred to as Grandpa George, is the reason for my brother Nick’s middle name. He is also the reason for a lot of things–really good big important kinds of things, like how he raised my Dad. It is funny to feel connected to someone who left the party before you got a chance to say hello. “You just missed him!” Being a couple hundred miles North from my Dad, I feel increasingly closer to his (this guy I have not met–yet). Grandpa George (who’s real name is Jorge, but an immigration will do certain things to you I suppose) went to Berkeley, became an engineer, and declared San Francisco to be the most elegant city in the world.
Since I moved to San Francisco, and due to circumstances excruciatingly out of my, your’s, and our control, my parents have not been able to visit. My oldest brother moved me last June. Marley visited in October, and Charlie has been here twice. Which really just means neither of my parents in almost 11 months have been able to venture North. It is funny to catch up on the phone and talk about going to the grocery store and knowing they have no idea what day is trash day on my street. Except, one May Saturday my Dad was able to break the 11 month San Francisco hiatus and it felt gilded.
On Saturday May 4th, 2024 my Dad finally saw my apartment, we went in a driverless car to North Beach for Italian, and the sun did not set till almost eight o’clock. My Dad and I waited for our table at the bar of this tiny little Italian spot in North Beach (classic), he sipped a Pinot Noir and I a Negroni (I am my Mother’s daughter after all). It felt funny, being an adult child for the first time. Reservations were made after I read some articles. I ordered the car and now we were side by side talking and sipping, and my Dad tried to take a photo of a wine bottle to send to my brother-in-law, he managed to take a photo of us to relay that we miss everyone at home. He seemed so young and giddy, making the gray hair look like black socks with brown shoes.
My Dad took care of his Dad when Grandpa George was dying from Cancer. From what I know of my Grandfather, he was an intellectual man who was impossibly polished and valued a dinner. The kind around a table with great company and thoughtful discussions that end with a coffee service. The closer he got to death, the more he celebrated with dinner. One last toast and punctuation to life. So, for some reason eating dinner at a restaurant fitted with a maitre’d and a separate menu for wine (called a wine list) with my Dad, I felt closer to his.
As we sat and sipped at the bar and the bartender told us his name was Esteban, but we could call him Stephen (little did he know my Father’s name is Carlos and my Grandfather is Jorge), my Dad told me what I should write about: Cities and how they used to be and finding the ways in which they still are in the past (think Elegant San Francisco NOT tent city). I think in some ways I have found the elegant San Francisco my Grandpa George remembered. Something about uniform architecture plus hills plus a bay plus bridges and islands all make for a pretty picture–an elegant one at that. Place matters because it is what is under those feet of yours and thinking about those people who we share blood with as we walk streets they maybe did is special. Especially, when there has been a soundtrack of Herb Alpert causing me to think of how when my Grandfather was here Market street required a suit and tie.
My Dad has a certain knack for being able to retell stories with conviction. Most of them have made me only imagine my Dad in Southern California, but a chunk of time he was living in San Jose. During his collegiate years, he had a job delivering summons or subpoenas in San Francisco. He would drive to Ocean Beach. Surf. Then ride his bike all across town handing people paper back and forth. He had been here before me at more or less the same age I am now. Although, once we were seated for dinner and Chloe joined us, he told a story about a job I never knew he had. He would repossess items. Imagine 1970 something San Franicso and Oakland and my Dad knocks on your door to take your couch away. He did not really like this job, but it paid well and he was living out of his VW.
We stayed for tiramisu and a second round of drinks, and my Dad still giddy looked at Chloe and I asking, “Well what is next?”
Next stop was Kilowatt and on the way he asked Chloe about her “guy”–Peter. My Dad told Chloe he himself was too busy running marathons and hanging out with his friends to settle down for a girl in his twenties. But when he was 30 that changed after he got to do what it is that he wanted to do. He was lifeguarding and noticed my Mother on the beach, my Dad knew really fast that she was the one. He told Chloe, that “when you know, you just know.” The cliché words that are reiterated, but maybe in some capacities they are true, because of true love or something else along those lines. My Dad advised when it becomes time to jump the broom, that you should think about how that person will act when all hell breaks loose. Do you want a man who hears a noise in the middle of the night and investigates with a baseball bat or one under the covers with you? He told us the story of when he picked my mom up for their first date. I have heard this story so many times, but this time cruising through Civic Center, my Dad said he was actually nervous. My Dad, the guy who has rowed a boat (multiple times) from Catalina Island to San Pedro, the man who catches spiders/moths/lizards with his bare hands, a guy who ran too many marathons, was nervous for a first date. Love will make you do certain things I guess.
It was sweet to see something new altogether. When my Dad was bidding farewell from the evening’s festivities it was funny or rather life is funny. I finally know what it feels like to start having your own life and inviting a person who made you possible into it. If you feel like you need to pause, pick up old news, read about how there were three structure fires in San Francisco (which remind you of something you have heard before), and about how “A second rabbit expert was summoned from Oakland, and she organized as many as 15 rabbit wranglers to chase three of the rabbits” it helps with all the change. Change is inevitable and constant and now cars drive by themselves, but you can listen to jazz at the same time, remembering all the other yesterdays.
