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.

Casinos and Salt Water Taffy

I am not a gambler, though I do enjoy a rare interlude with the slot machines.  My sister-in-law and traveling companion is a different sort.  She loves Blackjack.

On a recent family visit to Maryland we planned a short excursion to Atlantic City.  I hadn’t been there in forty years and had only a vague memory of a sleepy seaside colony.  Things have changed drastically.  Huge gambling casinos dot the boardwalk: Caesar’s, the Trump Plaza, the Hilton, Bali’s, etc.

We visited as many of the astonishing palaces as our limited energy permitted and lost a bit at the slots.  The machines of today were a huge disappointment.  In the past, I remembered plunking in a few dimes, pulling the handle and then seeing those lovely cherries line up to the joyful tinkle of coins landing in the tray.

We found it hard to find a machine with cherries, and in most, one pushed a button rather than pulled a handle.  We dropped no coins in the slot.  Instead we had to use paper bills or vouchers.  It was no longer fun.

I quickly exhausted my self-allotted funds and had no desire to continue pushing buttons anyway.  My sister-in-law hurried off to the gaming tables, while I wandered aimlessly about the cavernous expanse of flashing lights, clanging machines, and loud music.  I wondered how long I would have to stay—-until I made some interesting new friends.

It was late afternoon, and the Baccarat room was still empty. The dealers stood idly expectant behind their tables.  I approached two tuxedo-clad women and explained that I wasn’t going to play and wouldn’t know how if I did.  They offered to teach me, but seemed happy to chat instead.  They said that neither of them knew anything about gambling until they were taught.  Some training was on the job, but they got most of it at gambling school.  The course lasted a month or two, and students had to pay their own tuition.  After the completion of the courses, prospective dealers auditioned for their positions.

As a senior lady and with tongue in cheek, I asked if I could get a job there.  Cheryl, a pretty blonde, said, “Of course.  They’ll take anyone.”  She apologized quickly and said that I was in great shape.  I was somewhat mollified.  They introduced me to their boss who looked like a stockbroker and who did not offer me a job.  Even if I was in great shape.

I asked what had sent them in this vocational direction.  One replied, “The money.  Especially for one without a college degree, the pay is good.”

Neither of these young women gambled.  They believed that, in general, you couldn’t win, that the odds were against you.  They said a few people had occasional luck, but most did not; it was everyone’s privilege to gamble, but too often people came in with their Social Security checks and left it all with the dealers.

When still no customers had arrived, we continued our conversation.  Both of these women had families nearby.  One had an easy commute right in Atlantic City, but the other drove north each day from her home in Cape May.

They said that one of the biggest drawbacks to their job was the smoke.  Although smoking had been banned in most public places, the casinos still permitted it. 

By the time I found my sister-in-law she had won fifty dollars and was delighted, but I think I had a better time.  I decided, however, that when I got home, I’d look up gambling schools on the Internet.  I could learn how to play Blackjack, and I, too, might win fifty dollars.

Nothing to Rent--First Appeared in the Orinda News

In 1948 there were few Orinda apartments or guest cottages to rent, and those few were taken.  As a new Acalanes teacher, fresh out of college, my options were limited.  It was either commute to my San Francisco home or check out the lone billboard listing for an available room.  I took that room and almost immediately regretted it.  The landlady was elderly and pleasant enough, but she had cats who either had to be in or out, I can’t remember which.  The big problem was the bathtub.  It had a ring almost etched into the enamel.  I took one look and began to cry.  For the next two weeks I commuted every day to the city.  Why I didn’t get out the Dutch Cleanser (no Comet in those days), and scrub it clean, I do not know.

Then a miracle happened.  Helen, another new teacher and an acquaintance from college, invited me to share the room she had found.  I leapt at the opportunity of human companionship and a clean bathtub, and the fun began.  Our room was in the home of a fun-loving divorcee, and life there was never dull.  She would sometimes return from a party when we were leaving for school, but she was a good person whom we enjoyed and appreciated.

The following year we moved up in the world and into a one-room guest house in Walnut Creek.  We painted designs on jelly glasses with nail polish and felt sophisticated and worldly as we entertained our friends.  That guest house had no insulation and was fine in warm weather, but when the days grew cold, we froze.  Dangerous as it might have been, we turned on all the burners of the stove and lit the oven as well.  We were still cold, so it was time to move again.

This time we rented a small section of an eerie old mansion in Orinda whose owner was out of the country.  We were finally warm but frightened.  The only telephone was out in the dark hallway of the main portion of the house, and when it rang we always went together for protection and to drive away the ghosts.  Worse than that were the bats.  When we heard them scrabbling in the walls, I dragged the mattress off my bed and into Helen’s room.  I was uncomfortable but no longer afraid.  On weekends we each went to our family homes and the bright lights of San Francisco.  One Sunday night we returned to find an old railway lantern, lighted and on our doorstep.  The next day at school Helen stood near the cafeteria line and quickly identified the miscreants by their sheepish demeanors.  We received half-hearted apologies and let it go at that.

We felt we had arrived when we took possession of a real apartment.  We liked it so well that we kept it for another year.  Summer was the problem.  We didn’t like paying rent when we wouldn’t be there, so we sublet for a comparable amount.  Our furniture had to go into storage, and because the movers charged by the hour, the two of us carried everything out to the sidewalk.  We awaited the truck among lamps, chairs, and beds to save precious minutes of charge time. 

We had the energy and enterprise to plan a lot of fun events.  Each year we held a Professional Women’s Breakfast for half a dozen faculty friends.  Breakfast was served at six o’clock, and guests were requested to wear hats and gloves.  We drank tomato juice from silver cocktail glasses and danced the hula before leaving for school.  That apartment was also notable for a most romantic reason.  A friend I was dating wanted Helen to meet a friend of his, so we arranged a little dinner party.  I awoke that morning with a case of bronchitis, so bad I had to see a doctor.  He told me to go to bed and stay there, but I explained the importance of the evening.  He shrugged and gave me medications that included Dexedrine to stay awake.  I felt miserable, but the party was a success as Helen met the man she is still married to fifty-one years later.

Nice places to live became increasingly more available after that, and we lived in a little more luxury.  I had a frightful shock when after our joyful years together, Helen abandoned me to get married.  It all turned out happily, because I was married myself a few months later.  Helen and her husband moved to Lafayette, and my spouse and I bought a home in Orinda, and even though we have our own lives and families, we keep in close touch and still laugh over our shared memories.

Sleep Apnea Reprieve--First Appeared in San Francisco Chronicle

            I sat in the waiting room, nervously thumbing through a magazine from the pile on the table next to me.  After a while a door leading to the examining rooms opened and a man came out.  I stopped him as he hurried toward the exit.

“Did you have the throat procedure for Sleep Apnea?” I asked.

“I had the procedure,” he replied, “but not for Apnea.  I snore so much that my wife banished me to the far side of the house.  This deal should fix the problem.”  He seemed happy about the whole thing and almost skipped out to the corridor.  I was somewhat reassured.

As I walked back to my fate, I wished that I had never mentioned fatigue to my internist.  She was the one who, months before, had ordered a sleep study.  I had to go to one of those places where you arrive in your pajamas and climb into a strange bed where the technician attaches wires to your head, neck, chest, abdomen, one finger, and a leg.  The results of my test showed that I snored and had sleep apnea.  This meant that I frequently stopped breathing, a practice not to be recommended.

The sleep specialists prescribed the nighttime use of a machine that sends forced air through tubes into your nose and opens passages in your throat to maintain respiration.  I tried hard to like the new appliance that traveled with me wherever I went, even off and on airplanes in the forests of Costa Rica.  I truly gave it every chance, but I could not manage it.  If I happened to fall asleep, I would awaken an hour or two later and just lie there.  It dawned on me that I slept far better without the machine, even if I did stop breathing.  My internist said I fell into the thirty percent of patients who could not use it.  It was time to see a throat specialist.

This physician told me about a relatively new treatment that seems to take care of snoring and mild to moderate apnea in eighty percent of patients.  He explained that three small synthetic rods are inserted with a special instrument into the soft palate where it joins the hard palate.  These rods make the tissue rigid and permit the passage of air, similar to the action of a baton in a sail to avoid luffing.  He asked me how old I was, then hid his shock and said politely that age didn’t matter, because I was in good health.

The procedure was not too unpleasant.  The doctor injected novocain into my throat so that I would feel nothing when he shot the little rods into place.  Everything went exactly as he had predicted, including the mild sore throat that would persist for a few days.

My little operation took place ten days ago, but I do not know if I still snore or if I am breathing continuously.  One of my younger friends gave me a nudge and suggested that I have an overnight guest to find out.  I’m not quite sure what she meant, but I reminded her that I am a senior lady and that she should respect her elders.

This is a developing story.

From Alsace to Woodside--First Appeared in the Country Almanac

In 1911, twenty-three year old Antoine Zaepffel left Dambach Laville for England to be with friends, but after a short visit, he stowed away on a ship bound for America.  When hunger drove him from his hiding place, he shoveled coal for the remainder of the voyage in return for food.  In New York City, Tony, the name Antoine came to be known by in America, took what work he could find, including the position of waiter at the Four Hundred Club. On a good night he earned $l.50 in tips, and kept forever the one dime thrifty John D. Rockefeller gave him.

Although the west beckoned, once again Tony had no funds for travel.  He made his way to Canada hoping to find work on the railroad.  No jobs were available, but he was allowed to ride the train in exchange for selling candy and snacks as a “peanut butcher.”  After a year in Alaska checking out the end of the gold rush, he finally arrived in San Francisco.

The Alsacian community welcomed Tony, and eventually   friends introduced him to their sister Elise.  Not long in the United States Elise had worked briefly as the French governess to the children of Franklin and Eleanor  Roosevelt.  She found the position difficult and soon left to join her brothers in San Francisco.  Tony and Elise were married, went to Virginia City, where the first of their five children was born, and opened a bakery.  Back in the Bay Area, Tony worked in a pawnshop and again as a waiter.

Tony’s first entrepreneurial attempt came as he opened an ice business in Redwood City.  When a large ice supplier refused to sell to him, he wisely approached a farmers’ co-op in the Santa Clara Valley who made their own ice.  To secure their assistance he borrowed money to install better equipment and soon had 15 delivery trucks from Menlo Park to Burlingame.  After a few years, he sold out his entire business to his large competitor with the exception of the route in Woodside, a town whose beauty reminded him of Alsace Lorraine.

The Zaepffels rented a home in Woodside on Tripp Road and bought property in the vicinity of Whiskey Hill.  An old barn was torn down and a small store moved to a better location.  Tony developed the property and added a gas station and an ice house.

He hired an assistant, and the older children worked after school and on weekends.  Tony drove the ice truck and called on homes all over Woodside, including ours.  No matter how busy his day, he always made time to sit down for a visit.  When Grandmother took out her purse to pay for the ice, Tony made change from a graying sack of coins fastened with a rubber band.  Before he left, he gave us children a sliver of ice to suck and then showed us how he could whistle through his fingers.

When Tony called on neighbor George Whittel, Mr. Whittel would sometimes pour out schnapps for the two of them.  On one occasion the Whittel’s pet lion took a swipe at Tony, but thanks to his protective leather vest, he was unharmed.  The Zaepffels rememberd seeing Mr. Whittel’s Deusenberg parked in front of the Pioneer Saloon, its owner inside the building as the lion waited in the car, tearing out the upholstery.

My mother often bought the wonderful thistle honey Tony obtained in Los Molinos, near Red Bluff.  In order to travel so far and back in one day, Tony had to leave very early, and he took son Alexis with him.  Alexis remembers being frightened to death on one occasion when Peninsula police pulled them over to examine the contents of the truck.  Alexis was quite relieved when his father showed the jars to contain honey and not the Prohibition contraband the police suspected.

Tony took the whole family to Europe in 1929.  He did not find it necessary to inform his wife until a day or two before departure.  Elise had to scramble to get clothes ready for a family of seven.  On the other end, relatives in Alsace Lorraine were equally surprised to find the large family on their doorstep.  Around home, Tony would occasionally take his brood for drives in a big old touring car complete with jump seats and crystal flower containers.  In the mid thirties, Tony once more surprised the family by moving them from their Woodside cottage to a large home in San Carlos.  I remember visiting there as a child and being amazed at the impressive mansion, its beautiful ceilings hand-painted by a European artist.  It also had two full kitchens.

Tony was a clever, hard working businessman who enjoyed his life and his customers.  He could do all manner of mental arithmetic and at a glance could correctly estimate the board feet in a pile of lumber.  His gas station was the first in Woodside, and later he was to install the first computing gas pumps.  He recounted proudly selling gas to President Herbert Hoover.

The time came to slow down, however, and in 1943 he sold the business to the Holts and bought a ranch in Lake County.  Elise refused to give up the San Carlos home, so they traveled back and forth often. 

Through intelligence and endless effort, Antoine Zaepffel came to a new homeland, reared a fine family, and founded a successful business.  He also enjoyed his life as Tony the Iceman.

Belated Motherhood--First Appeared in the San Francisco Examiner

      Gertrude was not my cup of tea, but she was lonely and a fellow writer.

      And adhesive. 

If you’d allow it, she would attach herself and never let go.  I made duty calls as infrequently as possible.

One afternoon, more than a year before she died, she stared at me over the top of her glasses.

“I’ve decided to tell you something.”

I nodded and wondered how soon I could escape.

“I had a child out of wedlock.”

I hid my surprise as she told the story -- although I couldn’t imagine why she would want to at this late date.

“I was 16 years old, living at home.  And because I was overweight, no one seemed to notice the change in my waistline.  My mother kept making me larger clothes but said nothing.

“I was in my room one evening when the baby was born. My parents came in and Father asked if I wanted to marry Tom.

“I said no, and that very night my daughter went to a childless couple in our community.  My (younger) sister never even knew about it.”

I was flabbergasted.

“Did you see your daughter again?”

“We moved to Florida soon after, but I had a good friend who kept tabs on her for me,” the old woman said.  “A couple of months ago she wrote that both adoptive parents were dead.  I felt that I could now make contact.  I got up my courage and made the call.

“My daughter answered the telephone.  I asked if she was aware of her adoption, and she said ‘yes.’  I told her that I was in a position to put her in touch with her mother should she wish it.

“There was along pause. Then she asked in a quiet voice, ‘Are you my mother?’

“I swallowed hard, trying not to cry, and said ‘yes.’”

The daughter was by now 63 years old.

“What took you so long?” she asked, and I could hear the tears in her voice.”

As the months went by, the saga continued.  It made visiting Gert a lot more interesting.  Mother and daughter –- one 80 years old, the other 64 -– began telephoning each other and became friends of sorts.

Gertrude had been a teacher of creative writing.  Oddly, so had her daughter.

After a year of calls and letters, the daughter asked if she might travel west to see her.

I happened to drop by that afternoon and found Gert in a quandary.

I asked, “Don’t you want to meet her?”

“Of course,” she said. “But then I’ll have to tell my son about her.”

She eventually told her son.  The daughter finally arrived.

The visit was not a success.  She supposed her daughter was nice enough, But Gert wasn’t jumping up and down. 

Gert at long last told her younger sister about the existence of the daughter.  The sister, who had two unmarried children living with partners, was furious.  She said that Gert had done a terrible thing six decades ago to their parents.

But Gert said that what really miffed her sister was being left out of the secret all those years.

On the other hand, Gert’s son and his new sister hit it off.

After she returned to her life in the Midwest, the daughter would call her elderly birth mother occasionally, but Gert suspected that her daughter and her son were talking more often.

She was jealous.

Costumes for Everyone--Even Bears

     Costumes are fun, especially at Halloween.  When we were children, I remember lengthy discussions about what we were going to be that year.  I don’t know why we bothered.  In our house, we were always clowns.  Because there were four of us, Mother kept recycling the same costumes.

     I have always liked to dress up---at any time. I recall suggesting to my own little family that we acquire bear costumes for our summer trips to the Sierras.  Other motorists might have enjoyed seeing a car move down the highway with Daddy and Mama Bear in the front seat, their cubs in the back.

     We have a friend, George, who has never gotten over the pleasure of make-believe.  For any occasion, and especially for Halloween, he dons costumes to amuse the children in his family.  Over the years he has been many things—Miss Piggy, a bee, a lion, a striking viking, Energizer Bunny, a turkey.  Even a broken building after that terrible earthquake.  His favorite is a gorilla suit which he once wore crossing the Bay Bridge.  The toll-taker feigned boredom.

     George recently visited friends at Tahoe who were still gasping over an uninvited visitor who had just left.  The host said that he had looked across the table at his two small grandchildren and saw their eyes open wide.  He followed the direction of their gaze.  There in the kitchen was a bear, standing on his hind legs and dipping into the bowl of fruit which the family was to have for dessert.

     His heart almost stopped, but a moment later he remembered.  George was due to arrive at about that time and had undoubtedly decided to give the children a pre-Halloween surprise.  But then the bear dropped to all fours and turned in his direction.  It was not George.

     As calmly as he could, he whispered to the children to go upstairs and stay there.  For once, they obeyed.

     He quietly approached the bear and motioned to it to leave.  The bear obliged and retraced its steps down the hallway and out the front door.  When the host slammed the door, the bear must have realized it had been hoodwinked.  With delicious odors wafting from the kitchen, it banged and pounded on the door, then tore off the outside screen.  It walked around the house, hitting windows, but it fortunately was unable to operate the sliding glass doors.  After pacing back and forth on the porch, it sat on a chaise to wait the human inhabitants out.

     Everyone was shaken by the experience.  The forest rangers came and baited a trap for what they considered to be a friendly bear, the most dangerous of all.

     If our friend George had chosen that day to amuse the children, I wonder what that bear would have thought to enter a house and see a gorilla or Miss Piggy sitting at the table.  I also wonder what George will be this Halloween.