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.