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.