A Child's Memory of Woodside (First Appeared in the Almanac)

Here is a story from my nephew, Albert.  Enjoy!


Ours was a close and traditional family, and one thing we did every Sunday without fail was to go to a place we simply called “Woodside.”  My parents, three siblings and I would drive from Burlingame to our family home in the country on Kings Mountain Road.  It was a property of several acres with large oaks spreading above thick vinca.  At its center was the house where we gathered.  Even though my father and his two brothers labored every weekday at the family business, they met yet again on one of their precious free days to sit and relax together.

As a young boy in the 60’s I couldn’t wait to explore the surrounding countryside or to splash in the nearby creek.  This was allowed only after my morning chore was done.  Before our arrival, our uncles were busy sweeping the driveway loop of the crisp brown oak leaves.  My brothers and I had to pick up the piles with old license plates to transport them to the compost pile in the back.  We had many arguments about who got to push the wheelbarrow and who had to scoop the leaves.  Being the youngest, I was usually burdened with the latter.

After that I was free to take the neighbor’s dog on long walks up into Huddart Park.  There were plenty of trees to climb, creeks to ford, and miles of rocky trails to hike.  It was heaven.

Sometimes there was a horse show at the Woodside Mounted Patrol.  I would sneak in through the bushes to watch a few events and to pet the well-groomed horses.  On occasion, I got a mild case of poison oak as punishment for not taking the road and paying my entrance fee.

Returning before 3:30, I had to wash and change into clean clothes for dinner.  There were always at least ten family members at the table plus a few guests.  Dinner was served promptly at 5:00 to allow everyone to return at a reasonable hour to their homes in San Francisco and other parts of the Bay Area.  Frequently there were guests of great-uncle Will or my grandma May.  I had to greet lady guests with a kiss and shake the hands of older gentlemen.  This ordeal was repeated upon departure.

When I was older I started bringing my own friends.  I had to introduce them to everyone there before we could run off to play.  I felt pride showing off my family to my friends, because I thought my family was nice.  At that time I didn’t know why my friends sometimes seemed uncomfortable with all this.  It was what I did every week.  I was occasionally invited to do something with a friend, but my father decreed that family came first, and I went to Woodside.

I often brought my bike to explore even farther from the house.  I enjoyed pedaling all over and down the country roads through the tunnels of trees.  I sometimes ended up near Searsville Lake.  Then I followed the road along the Stanford Accelerator and liked to imagine what exciting discoveries were being made over the fence.

All too soon, I grew up and started college.  Sundays were my own at last.  In no time I was working at my own job and seldom visited.  Then I married and was blessed with a family of my own.

It wasn’t until years later that I became aware of how special my extended family was.  My friends weren’t uncomfortable; they were amazed to see something unusual.  I had a place to go and more important, a close family with whom to enjoy it.

Every guest was treated like a new best friend.  Anyone who was invited was always hoping to come back.  This was true of my friends who loved being in the country.

I learned important lessons during my childhood:  Work before play, respect one’s elders, and treat your guests like family and your family like guests.

Now that I live away from the Bay Area, I look forward to my few visits a year to Woodside.  Although some of the trees have fallen as have some of the residents, it remains a place of great comfort to me and a joy for my children.  One thing that we don’t speak of much in our family is Love.  We don’t have to, we live it.