More Semantic Antics

I ran into an old friend who suggested we have coffee together.  I really didn’t have time that afternoon, but I love to hear what he has to say.

He’s a great guy and a good person, but he constantly mixes up his words.  It’s an intriguing facet of his personality.  We’ve all tried to help him, and he realizes he has a problem, but it doesn’t stop him.  When we’re together he does all the talking, and I can’t get a word in.

The other day he had a lot to tell me about a cruise he and his wife had taken recently.  He said it was posh, really “a leek”.  Their cabin was situated mid-ships, but their friends were up in the beau.    And the food was truly eloquent.  When I asked what he had liked most, he said, “Everything, especially the chicken coquettes.”

They met a lot of nice people on board the ship and a few characters.  They also had some interesting experiences, but if I was in a hurry, he said he’d save the antidotes for another time.

I looked at my watch and stood. Before I left, I asked how his son was getting along.  He smiled and said, “Fine.  He’s working for one of those upstart inter-net companies down in the Silicone Valley.”

My friend put down his own cup and left some change for the waiter.  “I’d better go, too,” he said.  “I have to stop at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription.  I’m finally getting smart.  I specified a geriatric drug instead of a name brand.  It’ll save me a bundle.”

Tele-marketing--Still a Hang-Up

I just had a telephone call that annoyed me.  It also made me think.    

 My husband is ill, so I treasure a short nap when I can get one.  With my spouse settled in bed, I was heading outside to my favorite chair in a sheltered corner when the phone rang.  It was someone asking to speak either to my husband or me.  I explained that we were both trying to rest, and the young man inquired, politely I admit, if everyone in our community was rude.

I told him that tele-marketing calls were an intrusion and that three or four times a day I had to stop what I was doing to answer the telephone.  After his critical comment about my neighbors, I struggled to speak courteously.

He said, “What about commercials on television?  They are just as much an intrusion.  And don’t forget, I’m only trying to earn a living.”

I thought later that I should have pointed out that the “mute” button easily took care of the commercial problem and also that perhaps he could find employment in another field.

Our conversation ended on a pleasant note when I wished him good luck, but I did ask him to remove our name from his list.

I must admit that on occasion I have played games with solicitors.  One that tickles me is the man who insists on speaking to my husband and asks for him by his given name, as if they’ve been buddies for years.  I ask him if he knows my husband well enough to call him by his first name.  He, of course, says,  “yes,” and that he has some great securities for his old friend. 

Because he has lied to me, I retaliate.  I put on my “old-bag-shrew” voice.  “I handle the business in this house,” I say, “not my husband, and I’m not interested.”  Click.  I smile as I imagine the names that man is calling me.

Another nasty ploy is to reply at length when someone calls and starts the conversation by asking how I am.  So I tell him.   “Well, the doctor gave me a new prescription the other day,” I say, “but I haven’t taken it long enough to know if it helps.  My indigestion is as bad as ever, though.  I’ve tried everything in the pharmacy and nothing relieves it.”  I continue and somewhere in there it becomes obvious that the caller doesn’t really care how I am.

An inexperienced marketer recently called my sister-in-law and asked to speak to her husband. She explained truthfully that her husband could not come to the telephone, because he had died the week before.  The poor guy could only mumble, “Oh, jeez.”

I do feel sorry that so many people have chosen tele-marketing to support themselves.  There has to be a better way to sell goods and services than to annoy people in their homes.  Meanwhile, I shall continue to ask that our names be removed from their lists.  I shall also try to be polite.

Over the River and Through the Woods

My mother, brothers, and I spent the entire summer and every Sunday year-round with Grandmother and the uncles at our Woodside family home.  To say that Grandmother Ella could be difficult is an understatement.  She was the queen of our palace, the C.E.O. of our family.  There were a variety of opinions about Grandmother, not all of them complimentary, but I had one of my own.  I loved her.

Every Sunday morning of the school year we left San Francisco for the thirty-four mile ride to the country, and in those days the Peninsula was considered country. 

Two of our uncles drove Grandmother from their home, and the third uncle took us.  I don’t know which car was less peaceful, the one with Grandmother giving orders and directions or ours with Mother, four little children, and a large shepherd dog. 

We drove from the city along Nineteenth Avenue which, although narrower then, was much the same as today but only as far as Sloat Boulevard.  No white stucco homes or Stonestown Mall existed in those days.  Fields of cabbages flourished there instead.

We had three routes to choose from: El Camino Real with its curved mission bell markers, or twisting Crystal Springs Road, or that dangerous three-lane speedway, 101 Bypass, which we called the Bayshore.  No mighty Highway 280 spanned the countryside in those days.

The Bayshore was a boring stretch with miles of salt evaporating ponds, enlivened only by the marvelous new terminal at Mills Field complete with wind sock and outside chain-link gates where passengers waited.  We children also liked the view of the roller coaster in the amusement park on the north side of Coyote Point.  We never stopped, nor did anyone else apparently, because it fell to ruins and was eventually torn down. 

One imposing building always caught my eye.  The magnificent Ohio Building had been barged down the bay from the 1915 Panama Pacific International Exposition on San Francisco’s Marina and deposited on a point of land in San Carlos.  Because of its wonderful galleries and rotundas it had been considered worth saving at the end of the fair.  Before being demolished in 1957, it had failed as a yacht club, a nightclub, and a factory.  It was also rumored to have been a site for sub-rosa activities during Prohibition. 

Most scenic was the Skyline-Crystal Springs route. Though by far the most beautiful, it did not sit well with me.  I rather liked the largely agricultural Skyline, but the narrow reservoir section took us over the dam and followed the contours of the lakes.  Far too often, the combination of a curvy road and a big Sunday breakfast brought me great discomfort. 

My favorite route was El Camino, because it was interesting.  It led past the first “auto court” I remember seeing, and a forerunner of today’s motel, on the border of Daly City and Colma.  I thought it would be awful to sleep in one of those little boxes, even though each had an attached garage.  The road bisected Colma where the cemeteries and monument companies looked much as they do today, then snaked south through Millbrae.  My brothers and I watched for the dairy farms where a tunnel under the highway allowed the cows to wander freely from one side of the road to the other.

Today, all the cities along El Camino run into each other and form an almost continuous series of commercial enterprises and homes.  I remember the little towns along the way as well-defined, separate communities, each with its own identity and points of interest.

I particularly admired a beautiful Burlingame gas station with its two large vases set in lighted alcoves.  Buying gasoline there and elsewhere was a pleasant experience.  Neatly uniformed attendants swarmed over the car washing windows and checking tire pressure, and it was not unusual to be given dishes, glasses, or flatware as part of the purchase price.  Maps were for the taking.

Whichever route we traveled, the highlight of the journey was a stop for ice cream cones in Woodside where Mother bought farmers’ honey from Tony the Iceman.  We also stopped at a farmhouse on Kings Mountain Road for fresh country eggs.

Grandmother considered Woodside an outpost of civilization.  At the end of summer when it was time for us children to return to school, Grandmother packed up her own household and moved back to the city.  Mother urged her to stay to enjoy the remaining weeks of fine weather.  Aghast, Grandmother shook her head.  “Not in this lord-forsaken place,” she replied.

Despite what she said, Grandmother enjoyed the Woodside sunshine.  Somewhat sedentary because of arthritic knees, she was determined to remain productive and often sat on the patio paring vegetables for the evening meal.  Although she did not prepare the food herself, she planned the menus and made out the shopping list.  Mother and Helen, her housekeeper, were sometimes permitted to make suggestions.

On special occasions like the Fourth of July, Grandmother made the ice cream herself.  I remember her standing by the stove stirring a rich custard of cream, eggs, sugar, and strawberries.  We children all wanted to turn the crank of the freezer until it became too difficult for us. Then our uncles finished the job.  The best moment of all was opening the top to take out the paddle.  The boys and I stood by, spoons in hand, awaiting a taste of that delicious ice cream.

During the summers, ten of us stayed in our Woodside house, and in addition, there were usually a couple of houseguests.  We four children were each allowed to invite a San Francisco playmate to spend a week with us.  That meant an incalculable number of sandwiches and glasses of milk.  After a shopping expedition, I remember Mother’s carrying in numerous loaves of bread.  When Grandmother asked why she hadn’t bought more, Mother said, “I would have been ashamed.”

More often Mother called Neuman’s Store and read the  list over the telephone.  An hour or two later, the Neuman’s truck delivered boxes filled with groceries.  I always hoped it would be Jack Neuman who drove through the gate, even though as an elderly sixteen-year old, he could hardly have noticed an eleven-year old girl.

Grandmother was also our social director and made a list of people to entertain during the summer months.  Sometimes she included single women, particularly intelligent, wholesome family friends she thought would be suitable for her sons.  The problem was that our uncles seemed to prefer flashy blonde ladies from Southern California.  Grandmother had to include them occasionally but made her opinion of the situation abundantly clear.

Grandmother held her daughter close, but she was not about to give up her sons. Our Uncle Edward wed only at the time of Grandmother’s death.  As far as we were concerned, we would have preferred one of the wholesome, intelligent ladies Grandmother paraded past him than the one he chose.

Although Grandmother could be extremely difficult, she also had her admirers.  Family and friends esteemed her.  When the daughter of a friend was to be married, Grandmother went downtown to Nathan Dohrmann’s to buy a gift.  After inspecting the china pattern selected by the bride, she chose another instead and had it reregistered.  Far from being annoyed, the young woman approved the change.

Grandmother was a strong-minded lady who directed the lives and activities of her family, but she also cared about each one of us.  It was a long drive to Woodside, but it was worth every mile to be in the country with the lady who greeted us with a hug and a smile.  I treasure her memory.

Downtown Long Ago

It used to be fun to go shopping in downtown San Francisco.  I remember my mother taking me when I was a little girl.  She dressed me in a matching hat and coat, shiny Mary Janes, white gloves, and a tiny leather purse.  We rode downtown in a wonderful old streetcar with a motorman in front, tapping his heel on a bell, and a conductor in back who watched us drop our nickels into the change box.  The conductor also kept an eye on the rear cowcatcher to chase away rowdy boys who tried to steal rides.

As I grew older and became an adult myself, Mother and I continued our forays into the marvelous San Francisco stores and shops.  Few of the original ones now remain, but in those days we could choose among City of Paris, the White House, the Emporium, O’Connor and Moffat, I. Magnin, Ransohoff’s, Joseph Magnin, Livingston’s,  Liebes, Maison Mendesolle, and a number of others.  A shopping expedition was a time to dress up, and we loved it.  We donned dressmaker suits, hats, heels, gloves, and sometimes a scarf of little furry creatures with glassy-eyes.  I don’t know which would have been worse—to wear pants downtown or to forget your white gloves.

Shopping itself was a joy.  In many stores, and not necessarily in designer departments, a saleslady greeted us to ask exactly what we were looking for, then invited us to sit down while she disappeared into the back to seek the desired garments.  We did not have to go through crowded racks ourselves, hoping for someone to help us.  In those halcyon days, the saleslady returned with an armload of dresses, lay each across a settee for our inspection, then carried our selection to a fitting room. 

An hour later, we emerged with a neatly tied dress cartons and moved on to a favorite shop for hats.  Here again the saleslady brought us a fascinating variety, always straw in the spring and felt in the fall, some with veils, some with flowers.

Buying gloves involved a special procedure.  Again the lady behind the counter asked for our preference and quickly found it in the cabinets nearby.  She lifted the desired pair from a tissue-lined box and smoothed them over our fingers as our elbows rested on a satin cushion.  We might try several pairs before deciding.

As for stockings, we had a wide selection of colors and deniers to look over.  Here again the saleslady demonstrated the qualities of each by pulling it over her own beautifully manicured hand.  If stockings were our only purchase that day, we asked for the box to be sent.  No charge, of course.

When lunchtime arrived, we had a favorite list of restaurants nearby, almost all of them now gone: Normandy Lane, Claridge, Blums, Townsends, El Prado, the St. Francis, the Golden Pheasant, the Poodle Dog, etc.

When it was time to go home and if we had not taken the street car, we walked to Union Square and handed the attendant our ticket.  Then we sat on red leather settees to wait while he retrieved our car from the depths of the earth.

Things are different today.  People no longer dress for downtown San Francisco.  Times have changed, as have the requirements of our lives.  I must admit that I, too, sometimes wear pants as I join the throng of shoppers.

But as I walk along the crowded streets I look about and long for the days when it was an occasion to be there and we dressed for the joy of it.

Children Had a Wonderful Time--First Appeared in the San Francisco Examiner

When we were children, our late mother often told us about that frightening time she referred to simply as “the fire.”  She was 10 years old in 1906.  Many years later, she wrote out her memories:

                         ***

April 18, 1906:  A day I shall never forget.

Sleeping peacefully, I was jolted awake at 5 a.m. by the severe shaking and swaying of our new two-story home.  Mother, Father, the boys and I ran out to the hallway where we stood together, shivering.  When we looked out the window, we saw our neighbors running from their homes as bricks from chimneys and timbers started to crumble.

Soon after, reports reached us of deaths and cave-ins in the more populated area of our once-beautiful city.  Even worse was the terrible, out-of-control fire which, because of lack of water, destroyed entire sections of the city.  People from those burned-out areas came to our home and slept on cots in the basement.

     For days after, we had a series of smaller quakes.  The fires progressed.

     We were compelled to cook in improvised shacks erected in the middle of the streets.  Many people had no water, but our supply came from a well nearby.  Telephone communications were out.  Soldiers patrolled to make sure no one used lights or disobeyed orders.

(Signed) May Poetsch Wagner

                          ***

     When Mother handed me her written account, she said, “I know it was a terrible catastrophe.”  Then she smiled.

“But we children had a wonderful time.”

It's Still Fun to Go Downtown

Downtown San Francisco is always a fascinating place with an undeniable energy and excitement along the streets and in the stores.  New buildings have appeared and the facades of other structures have been transformed, but the whole area is much the same as in my youth.  The Emporium has become the site of Bloomingdales, the City of Paris corner today houses Neiman Marcus, Macy’s has risen from O’Connor and Moffat and I.Magnin, Saks occupies the location of what was once an office building.  Joseph Magnin, Livingston’s, and Liebes are gone and other businesses have moved into their places.  The area may look like what it has always been, but there is a difference.  The people have changed.

Most women now wear pants with a jacket and seldom wear hats.  Gloves appear only on the coldest days.  Some business men, of course, wear the regulation suit and tie, but a large number extend casual Friday to every day of the week.  As for shoes, many women opt for comfort and wear clunky athletic shoes or what we once considered old lady flats.  On all sides, people walk along chatting into cell phones.   

In my youth it was great fun to go downtown, and we dressed for it.  One of my earliest memories was Mother helping me into a little matching hat and coat, shining my Mary Janes with a dab of salad oil, and handing me my white gloves for a shopping trip. 

I loved riding downtown in the lumbering old streetcar.  A motorman stood at the front of the car with a black shade pulled down behind him for privacy.  He frequently tapped a bell with the heel of his shoe to warn someone or something to get out of the way.  In the back, the conductor guarded the coin box and watched as we dropped in our nickels.  He also kept an eye on the rear cowcatcher where rowdy neighborhood boys tried to steal rides.

Sometimes my brothers went along, and when we were shopping for shoes, the first thing we did was to run for the X-ray machine and stick our feet in to look down at our bony toes.  Years later we were to learn that numerous unnecessary X-rays were highly dangerous.

Over the years Mother and I continued our forays into the marvelous San Francisco downtown.  A shopping expedition was a time to dress up and we loved it.  We donned dressmaker suits, hats, heels, gloves, and even scarves of furry creatures with glassy-eyes.  One never saw women in pants, and few went without gloves.  Only tourists wore white shoes after Labor Day.

Shopping itself was a joy.  We didn’t have to sift through crowded racks and hope for someone to help us.  In many stores, and not necessarily in designer departments, a saleslady greeted us and asked exactly what we were looking for, then invited us to sit down while she disappeared into the back to gather the desired garments.  In those halcyon days the saleslady returned with an armload of dresses, lay each across a settee for our inspection, then carried our selection to a fitting room.

A new dress or suit called for a new hat.  Here again and perhaps in a different store, a salesperson brought us a fascinating variety to choose among, always straw in the spring and felt in the fall; some with veils, some with flowers.

The purchase of gloves involved a special procedure.  Again the lady behind the counter asked our preferences and quickly found them in nearby cabinets.  She lifted a pair from a tissue lined box and smoothed them over our waiting fingers as our elbows rested on a satin cushion.  We might try several pairs before deciding.

Buying hosiery involved an elaborate ritual, which we began by requesting either seamed or seamless.  Because there was no such thing as panty hose in those days, stockings would be held up by garters attached to panty-girdles.  The saleslady brought boxes of stockings and inserted a beautifully manicured hand in one of each pair to show the color and denier.  Even if this was our only purchase of the day we had the package sent.  No charge, of course.

If we had driven downtown that day we would wend our weary way to the garage and rest comfortably on leather banquettes while the attendant went deep into the earth to find our car and bring it up.

Things are different today.  People no longer dress for downtown San Francisco.  Times have changed, as have the requirements of our lives.  I must admit that I, too, occasionally wear pants as I join the throng of shoppers.

But as I walk along the crowded streets I look about and long for the days when it was an occasion to be there, and we dressed for the joy of it.

Fun Car Travel with the Kids

     Families all over America are thinking about summer vacations.  Most plans involve driving, whether it’s one long day to grandma’s or an ambitious two-week tour of national parks.

Every trip should be a time to revel in a cocoon of family closeness--a time for growth, learning and joy in shared experiences.  Our destination is less important than the trip itself.  What we like most is getting there, not being there.

The first mention of vacation, often months ahead, marks the beginning of the journey.  One of us brings home new maps from the automobile association, as well as colorful brochures of places to visit, and the fun begins.  The children watch as we spread the maps on the table and discuss travel routes.  None of this interests baby, but he won’t be left behind.  The younger he begins, the better traveler he will become.  We tape the maps to the wall over the breakfast table where they remain until after the trip.  A child old enough to read looks through travel magazines for pictures of what he will see along the way and adds them to the growing kitchen collection.

     A week or two prior to the trip, each member of the family begins adding luggage to the “staging” area.  We limit what we take, but we never omit anything that will add to baby’s comfort (hence our own).  Too bad about Daddy’s telescope.

     The car is lubricated and the tires checked.  We have been known to carry along a spare fan belt, gas filter, water hose, and gas pump when the journey is to a remote area.  On occasion, we have needed them.

     The eve of departure every able body helps pack the car, because we leave at dawn.  Blankets and pillows are handy for the sleepy-heads.  We present the small children with their woven car bags filled with new crayons, blunt scissors, a fresh color book, cellophane tape, and a few surprises.  These bags are used only on family trips and are something they associate with the fun of travel.  Each child also receives a blank scrapbook for storing ticket stubs, folders, postcards, and all assorted treasure collected along the way.

     On that first morning we lay down the ground rules which will hold for the entire trip, and it is seldom necessary to repeat them.  We have flexible times for rest, for quiet, for games, and for conversation.  When a rumble of warfare rises in the rear, we move one child to the front between us.  We set the permanently mounted stop- watch, and time is in.  Those in the rear must await their turns, aware that additional nudging will make them lose out on that round, and the original argument is quickly forgotten.  Occasionally, if the children show signs of crankiness, we set the watch for a fifteen-minute rest.  Usually everyone welcomes the respite.

     Parents’attitudes toward each other and toward the journey itself is prime in determining how the youngsters feel about this trip and traveling in general.  When we show enthusiastic anticipation and maintain an agreeable manner between us, it rubs off on the children.  Parents create the climate inside the automobile.  If we are tense, bored, or angry, the kids will be, too.

     Every good trip has disappointments to deal with, downgrade, or transform.  When the motel does not have our reservation, we find a campground.  If car trouble forces a layover, we find a laundromat.

     Most parents know that children under ten prefer an early dinner in a light, bright coffee shop.  For all of us, the novelty of eating out wanes quickly, and we break it with a daily picnic-party.  The town park is often a good choice and sometimes has an attractive playground.  If we’re out on the road, a scenic spot by a stream beats a drive-in hands down.  The children need frequent stops and a chance to run and stretch their legs.  Even though lunch may be only crackers and peanut butter washed down with instant lemonade, we always say that the trunk of our car opens into a fabulous dining room.  Snacks in the car help everyone wait a little longer for the next official meal.

     Although we take along special tapes and individual Wakmans for young passengers, we try to direct interest to the world around us.  Roadside historical markers add to the interest and children like to read them to each other. Guide books point us to the best sightseeing, and we read aloud their descriptions on the way.  After the tour, each child tells what he liked best.

     Although stops for sightseeing, resting, and eating break into long days on the road, what we enjoy most is being together in the car.  It is our finest opportunity to converse with each other.  We talk about everything and anything.  We sing songs and play games, and the miles pass by unnoticed.  We count out-of-state license plates, and then see who is the first to discover twenty trailered boats.  We all like guessing games.

     Original stories concocted on the spot become favorites for the rest of the year.  On a trip to Yellowstone the small children never tire of hearing all about Greta.  She’s the geyser who moves to a city apartment and annoys her neighbors by spouting forth every morning at exactly 10:45.  Grand Canyon becomes even more astounding when the children remember how the giant put too much pepper on his sandwiches and sneezed, and sneezed, until he blew a huge hole in the ground.  The more ridiculous the story, the better the children seem to like it.

     The older ones spend pleasurable hours absorbed in a pocket calculator and map.  Their father explains how to do problems of D=RXT.  We try to arrive at a certain point exactly when our son predicts we will.

     Kids can calculate all manner of interesting problems.  One year our son figured that his parents together had not smoked fifteen miles of cigarettes in the years since we had given them up.  An altimeter and compass add to everyone’s interest.

     As children mature there is less need to entertain and instruct.  Almost before we can believe it one of them is old enough to drive and eager to do it.  It is an immeasurable help and means more naps for us.

     Each vacation is incomplete without the purchase of at least one special family memento.  It can be anything from a small canoe from the Pacific Northwest to a furry bear spied in Glacier National Park gift shop.  It must be representative of that particular trip and also small enough to hang on our Yule tree every Christmas to come.  At tree trimming time the children open the ornament boxes and exclaim over their selections of past years.  Invariably it leads to a discussion of that particular vacation and the memories it evokes.

     On any drive longer than two days it is essential to start early and stop early.  It is far better to rise an hour or two earlier and nap in the car than to arrive at a destination late in the day.  A disastrous combination is a carful of tired travelers and nothing but “No Vacancy” signs.  No matter how exciting the day, it is always a relief to arrive at a new campground or motel.  We are glad to shed the responsibilities of the road, and the children are relieved to have the freedom of space.

     Again ritual steps in.  Children old enough help   carry in gear.  If camping is involved, with or without a recreational vehicle, each child has an assigned chore for setting up.  Again, the simplest foods and least fuss are the rule.  Afterwards, the older children are free to run, look, and explore.  Here as well as at a motel little ones never go anywhere alone.

     Whatever age a child may be, the most important thing a parent can do is to encourage him to talk and then to listen to what he has to say.  The little capsule of family conversation moving along the highway is the most rewarding place for intimacy and mutual appreciation.  Invariably we notice growth and positive development in our children after a period of car travel.

     To generate and maintain enthusiasm across the miles and the years, start early with small children, precondition the family well in advance of each trip, be flexible, be happy, and, most of all, enjoy one another.  If, when you are nearly home after a two-thousand-mile journey, your child says, “Take the long way home,” you know you’ve done it right.