What is there to say about this lovely place that hasn’t been said by countless numbers of people? The streets are twisty...especially Lombard Street. The trolley cars...cute. The people. The weirdos. The winos.
First, although I have mentioned that I am quite old, we were not in San Francisco because my dad was putting up the Golden Gate bridge...no. But we were there because American Bridge was replacing the original rivets and cables on the Golden Gate bridge. Pretty exciting stuff. I was 13 when we arrived in San Francisco. My parents, sister and brother and I lived in a three bedroom apartment building in a complex on a cliffside. It was pretty spectacular in the Marin County area and our schools were nice, clean and oh yeah, just like in the movies, we were outside a lot....even at school. From our apartment complex, if you had a telescope, you could see the prisoners in the San Quentin yard right across the bay. Things were tumultuous in San Franciso, too. War protests, sit ins, dancing in the streets.
There were great open fields and hills behind the apartment complex. We'd be gone for hours and hours. There were tall, weedy grasses covering the hills and we use to take cardboard and sled down the hills. The grass when bent over was slick as an icy, snow packed sled hill in Minnesota. Kevin and Micki convinced me to climb a "cliff face" behind the complex. I would describe it as huge but I don't have a clear cut idea really of what its dimension might have been, only that I got half way up and panicked. Kevin had to talk me down and I am sure was mortified by my girliness.
Fillmore West. Big time music hall for local and nationally known rock and roll bands. You’ve seen the posters maybe. Usually very, very psychedelic light shows, glo in the dark paint, lots of smoke in the air. Lots. My favorite band was a band from the area, “It’s A Beautiful Day”. I was thrilled not too long ago when I found their entire album on itunes. Couldn’t be happier! My mom, and I still don’t know why, use to let us go to concerts at Filmore West. Kevin, no, but Micki and I were there a lot. I can’t believe it to this day, but I can only think it was because Mom was clueless. That’s the only explanation.
My sister was a scrawny, red haired, freckle faced 15 year old. I still do not know how she did not get picked up hitchhiking by Charles Manson. She was so his “type” and he was in the area, and she hitch-hiked. Oh boy did she hitch hike. We used to get rides to Sausalito and spend all day in that very cool, very pretty, artist town. Its much bigger and commercially now as I understand it, but in 1968, it was awesome. Again, my mom must have been clueless.
I babysat for two families in the apartment complex. The first family was a single mom with a 10 year old boy and 5 year old twin boys. I was 13 mind you. She had me stay in the apartment with them for one whole weekend. I flushed my “feminine product” and stopped up the toilet. Had to call the building maintenance...after calling my mom. What was this woman thinking. I am pretty sure she was as clueless as my own mother. 3 days with three boys? All day? I was 13 for crying out loud. I remember hot dogs and cereal...and terror.
The other family, Hal and Judy Pressman. Two children, very sweet. I babysat for them around the holidays that year. I made popcorn for the kids and had to move the menorah back on the counter while pouring the melted butter on the big bowl of popcorn I had for the three of us. Out to the living room and enjoy the television. Less than 1/2 hour later....smoke. I pushed the candles back too far and the cabinets were in flames. Another call to my mom!
I had a good time in San Francisco. Micki became pretty well...gee, teen-agerish in San Francisco and there were troubled times ahead for my mom and dad and their first girl. It was going to get kinda ugly and I was going to observe, Cindi style.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
So, St. Paul Minnesota
Dang it was cold there. When we arrived in Minnesota, with my brother who was home from Viet Jungle Nam, it was 17 below zero. I was in 8th grade and since we never went outside, I could not tell you much about Minnesota. The boys played hockey. I got some of the cutest shoes I have ever owned at Sears in a big mall in Minneapolis. They had a buckle. I had a really cool sweater and skirt set in kind of a butterscotch tweed..with my cool new shoes, I was too cute. Then one day my period started in the middle of the school day and there was that horrible stain in the back of my butterscotch tweed skirt. I died of mortification. Right there. Died.
Put yourself in my cool shoes for just one minute. Here we go in to third person for a short dream sequence. New girl. Cute in her trendy mini skirt and sweater and to-die-for buckled shoes. Oh, her period has started and now, along with staring at her for her southern accent and new kid-ness, we get to laugh about THAT over lunch. Ugh. That may actually be why I don’t remember much about Minnesota. Selective amnesia.
Fortunately for me, we moved to San Francisco shortly after. We weren’t taking the mobile home. Sold it or something in fact. We would be living in an apartment, in Corte Madera, Marin County. We were going to be groovy by golly. I am sure my mom was freaked out. We had already lived through race riots in Alabama in 1964 in a dirty, run down park in a small town called Demopolis. Heard the news, saw the “whites only” signs, the back of the bus, separate wash room, separate drinking fountain horror that was the United States of America. Lets not forget the hurricane in 1965. But this, well, this was 1968 baby...summer of love had already attacked San Francisco California the previous year.
Launch.
Dang it was cold there. When we arrived in Minnesota, with my brother who was home from Viet Jungle Nam, it was 17 below zero. I was in 8th grade and since we never went outside, I could not tell you much about Minnesota. The boys played hockey. I got some of the cutest shoes I have ever owned at Sears in a big mall in Minneapolis. They had a buckle. I had a really cool sweater and skirt set in kind of a butterscotch tweed..with my cool new shoes, I was too cute. Then one day my period started in the middle of the school day and there was that horrible stain in the back of my butterscotch tweed skirt. I died of mortification. Right there. Died.
Put yourself in my cool shoes for just one minute. Here we go in to third person for a short dream sequence. New girl. Cute in her trendy mini skirt and sweater and to-die-for buckled shoes. Oh, her period has started and now, along with staring at her for her southern accent and new kid-ness, we get to laugh about THAT over lunch. Ugh. That may actually be why I don’t remember much about Minnesota. Selective amnesia.
Fortunately for me, we moved to San Francisco shortly after. We weren’t taking the mobile home. Sold it or something in fact. We would be living in an apartment, in Corte Madera, Marin County. We were going to be groovy by golly. I am sure my mom was freaked out. We had already lived through race riots in Alabama in 1964 in a dirty, run down park in a small town called Demopolis. Heard the news, saw the “whites only” signs, the back of the bus, separate wash room, separate drinking fountain horror that was the United States of America. Lets not forget the hurricane in 1965. But this, well, this was 1968 baby...summer of love had already attacked San Francisco California the previous year.
Launch.
Friday, April 9, 2010
I am going to digress a little here and throw this picture out for you. This is my mom and dad in one of our mobile homes. Isn't my Dad handsome? You can see why my mom fell for him. Why she was willing to leave the town she had known all her life and take to the road like some big adventure. My dad liked her from the minute he laid eyes on her, with her dark auburn hair and clear blue eyes. He called her "Chauncey" in the early days because of her Irish heritage. She didn't know how to make fried chicken or gravy when they met but it became two of her best known treats. This is Christmas, 1956. Micki in the middle and my what a look she wears. Kevin, fat and sweet, with his bright red hair and baby blues...and me, a bit older than my granddaughter is now.
I look at this picture and can remember my mom in those clothes. The pants were lime green. She always wore those little embroidered slippers. I see the family resemblance there as although their coloring is much different, I see so much of my youngest child in her.
Seeing this picture, coming across it today, made my heart sing. I hope we don't stop taking pictures although I fear many families have all but stopped. I'm guilty of it, too. I guess what I really mean is I hope we don't stop printing pictures....this and a cup of coffee took over my morning. It was good.
I look at this picture and can remember my mom in those clothes. The pants were lime green. She always wore those little embroidered slippers. I see the family resemblance there as although their coloring is much different, I see so much of my youngest child in her.
Seeing this picture, coming across it today, made my heart sing. I hope we don't stop taking pictures although I fear many families have all but stopped. I'm guilty of it, too. I guess what I really mean is I hope we don't stop printing pictures....this and a cup of coffee took over my morning. It was good.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Diamonds and pearls
After the job my dad was on in New Orleans was complete (which was actually a bridge in Chalmette, outside of NO. A town totally destroyed by the hurricanes in August 2005) we were on our way to Hendersonville, North Carolina. Now, Hendersonville is not far from Asheville and snuggled between the Smokeys and the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The park we lived in was friendly and there was a subdivision across the street that had many kids our age. My sister Micki had both feet into her teens and was taking them full steam ahead; I was teetering on the rim. Kevin was still a boy, playful and adventurous. In the subdivision across the street, placed there for our sole amusement, were teenage boys.....ooooooohhhhhhh.
We spent a lot of time on the road that ran between the park and the subdivision. Skateboards were still very popular and this road was a steep incline. We used to get at the top and skateboard down. There was a particular group of boys that hung out there at the top of the incline - they were daring and fun.
One boy had a brother with disabilities which I now recognize as being Cerebral Palsy...or CP. One evening as we were climbing back up the hill to go home we approached the boys walking towards us. For some reason I put my hands up, and the boy with CP took my hands and in typical boy behavior, started to turn them downward and to the side, twisting them. He was as stunned as I was when he heard my fingers snap. Letting go of my hands, we all stared at my now twisted fingers. He ran, I screamed, my sister punched his brother and Kevin...well, I’m sure he thought that was the coolest thing ever, to see my fingers laying this way and that. We walked home, me crying my eyes out and holding my mangled right hand in my mangled left, staring at the mess.
My mom was not pleased, my dad less so. This meant a trip to the emergency room and I had no business out there with those boys anyhow. We got to the hospital, Xrays were taken, fingers were straightened and splints applied, my left hand was not as bad as the right, the fingers having just dislocated, with the fingers moved back into place in the ER. The right hand had some breaks, and required splinting. Then the worse news. The doctor advised the perfect physical therapy in three weeks would be to do the nightly dishes. I don’t remember seeing the boy after that very much. It did a number on me though and I developed a fear for a while of people with disabilities, which I am happy to report was short-lived.
East Flat Rock Junior High, what a fun year we had there. Soon we were off to St. Paul, Minnesota. My brother, Darrell, was home on leave from the army and made the drive with us in January, 1967. I remember the Blue Ridge Parkway, which is always a beautiful route, and the views are spectacular. If you have ever been on that highway, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, GO. The trees that crisp January day were covered in ice and snow, the sun was sparkling ~ like being in a forest of diamonds and pearls.
After the job my dad was on in New Orleans was complete (which was actually a bridge in Chalmette, outside of NO. A town totally destroyed by the hurricanes in August 2005) we were on our way to Hendersonville, North Carolina. Now, Hendersonville is not far from Asheville and snuggled between the Smokeys and the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The park we lived in was friendly and there was a subdivision across the street that had many kids our age. My sister Micki had both feet into her teens and was taking them full steam ahead; I was teetering on the rim. Kevin was still a boy, playful and adventurous. In the subdivision across the street, placed there for our sole amusement, were teenage boys.....ooooooohhhhhhh.
We spent a lot of time on the road that ran between the park and the subdivision. Skateboards were still very popular and this road was a steep incline. We used to get at the top and skateboard down. There was a particular group of boys that hung out there at the top of the incline - they were daring and fun.
One boy had a brother with disabilities which I now recognize as being Cerebral Palsy...or CP. One evening as we were climbing back up the hill to go home we approached the boys walking towards us. For some reason I put my hands up, and the boy with CP took my hands and in typical boy behavior, started to turn them downward and to the side, twisting them. He was as stunned as I was when he heard my fingers snap. Letting go of my hands, we all stared at my now twisted fingers. He ran, I screamed, my sister punched his brother and Kevin...well, I’m sure he thought that was the coolest thing ever, to see my fingers laying this way and that. We walked home, me crying my eyes out and holding my mangled right hand in my mangled left, staring at the mess.
My mom was not pleased, my dad less so. This meant a trip to the emergency room and I had no business out there with those boys anyhow. We got to the hospital, Xrays were taken, fingers were straightened and splints applied, my left hand was not as bad as the right, the fingers having just dislocated, with the fingers moved back into place in the ER. The right hand had some breaks, and required splinting. Then the worse news. The doctor advised the perfect physical therapy in three weeks would be to do the nightly dishes. I don’t remember seeing the boy after that very much. It did a number on me though and I developed a fear for a while of people with disabilities, which I am happy to report was short-lived.
East Flat Rock Junior High, what a fun year we had there. Soon we were off to St. Paul, Minnesota. My brother, Darrell, was home on leave from the army and made the drive with us in January, 1967. I remember the Blue Ridge Parkway, which is always a beautiful route, and the views are spectacular. If you have ever been on that highway, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, GO. The trees that crisp January day were covered in ice and snow, the sun was sparkling ~ like being in a forest of diamonds and pearls.
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