Celebrating 15 Years in San Francisco

On Sir Paul McCartney’s 83rd birthday (June 18), I will raise a glass to him and also celebrate that I moved to San Francisco that very day 15 years ago! (Celebrating will be easy; I’ll be out to lunch with my friend Denise, kicking off what our mutual friend calls “The Birthday Season.”) 

After donating, selling and otherwise discarding two-thirds of my possessions, I vacated my 1,700-square foot condo in St. Louis County and moved halfway across the country to be with family, who warmly welcomed me and my 16-year-old cat.  

The next day, I found a splendid 725-square-foot apartment with a view of the Golden Gate Strait, and settled there for a comfortable decade. Five years ago in July, I moved into a "junior one-bedroom" unit on the top floor of an independent living building (with TWO splendid elevators!), which I call the Senior Dorm. 

In Puccini's “La Boheme,” Mimi sings this to Rodolfo: “I live alone in a small white room, and I look out over the roofs and into the sky.” Me too — but I also have a view of the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge, which reminds me that I live on the edge of the continent — exactly where I belong.

Four years after I got to town, I was asked to write a guidebook to San Francisco. I went in search of a writer who had been here longer, someone with more street cred than I had accrued, and Eve Batey and I then wrote about at least 250 things (expanding on the publisher's title) to do in this marvelous city. In this post, I’m displaying some of the photos I took for that book, which is out of print.

Working on the book taught me much about my new home, because I spent hours exploring — hopping on and off buses, driving to unexplored neighborhoods and interviewing natives. That’s why I now can recommend bakeries, bookstores, shops, restaurants, theaters, groceries and historical attractions in many a neighborhood. I also know several places to sit and look at great bodies of water, one of my longtime hobbies. 

Another St. Louis native lives in my big apartment building, and a former neighbor also knew that city well, but most often, I’d rather talk about today, not yesterday. And though it’s always tempting to look into the future, someone told me long ago there is no broom large enough to sweep up debris accumulating in the years ahead, so why bother trying?

Do I miss my old stomping grounds? No. Of course I miss some of my dear friends there (and the best damn soaking tub ever), but after living in one place for six decades (I don't count the year I maintained an address just outside an army base in Oklahoma) and writing countless articles for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch for over two decades, I knew I had been everywhere, interviewed everyone and done everything I needed to do there. I was ready for an adventure! 

Today, living with 130 people from many cities and countries in a 13-story building does bring with it some drama. Sometimes, I participate (venting at residents’ meetings or even gossiping in the lobby) but most of the time, I try to step back, see the big picture, and remind myself that what’s going on the world, this country, this state and my adopted city is more important. Sometimes, I shut out all of it and concentrate on what’s good in my life. 

I’m old enough to know that everything changes; it’s inevitable. And I’ve learned that initiating a big change is empowering, brings a jolt of fresh energy, allows you to see with fresh eyes, even if you aren’t sure how to get home from the grocery those first weeks after a big move. It’s a lot of work, a lot of teensy, annoying details and a lot of rethinking, required when you no longer can say, “But I’ve ALWAYS done it this way!”

Looking back, I realize that may be the best part of reinventing yourself somewhere new. (Two former co-workers who also followed their grown children to new cities and an old friend who just moved back to her hometown can speak to the rewards, in case you are in need of encouragement.) 

That’s how it feels today, as I process that somehow, 15 years in San Francisco have zipped by!  

Am I Losing My Fastball?

 Everything started out great — I got in a short line of other kids outside Oracle Park to have my picture taken with Chewbacca before heading to the seats with the family for the Giants game on Star Wars Day. 

I bought a bottle of cold water because our seats were in the sun and it was warm for San Francisco, with no significant wind. I took one big drink and then got distracted by the game — and a Ghirardelli hot fudge sundae. As the first half of the 7th ended, I felt weird — dizzy and disoriented. I left the family, climbed up lots of stairs and lurched into the air-conditioned Club Level. 

Leaning against a wall near a crowded food stand, I spied a single available chair at a small table occupied by a middle-aged woman. When I asked her if I could sit there, she said yes. Gratefully, I removed my hat and took slow, deep breaths in the cold air. Soon after, the woman left the table, leaving behind a glass of lemonade on ice, about a third full. Still woozy, I grabbed the glass, removed the lid and straw and slurped up the liquid.

Surprise — the woman came back to the table! 

I apologized and told her I’d thought I might faint, so I had gulped down the last of her drink. “I’m not the fainting kind,” I said, "but I was worried." She said she often passes out, so she understood. Then she left the table again, to buy me a bottle of water at the food stand. She sat with me while I drank it, and she refused to take any money for her kindness. (I will pay this forward, somehow.) 

When the family found me, I was feeling much better, but opted not to go back outside. I watched the rest of the game on a big monitor near my chair. Later that evening, I realized this was the third time I’d done something stupid in the last six months. 

Late last year, as I got out of an Uber one evening, I grabbed my tote bag but left my purse behind, something I realized once I was in the lobby of my apartment. I’d had my keys in my pocket, so I was able to get in, get to my computer and alert Uber. The driver came back with my purse within 30 minutes. (I tipped her lavishly.) 

A month ago, in one of my decluttering modes, I donated four old eyeglass cases — and one of them contained the prescription glasses I wear at the pool when I exercise. They’re gone for good, as I didn’t realize my mistake until two weeks later. 

I have blamed these mistakes on aging. I know older adults can get dehydrated quickly — heck, I've written about that. I know to check the seat before getting out of an Uber. I know I should have opened the eyeglass cases before sending them to Goodwill. 

Whining about my senescence has been helpful; even encouraging, because friends keep telling me these kinds of mistakes are common, and not just among older people. Two friends, both my age, were startled to hear I went to a day game, as they gave that up long ago because of the hot sun. One has quit going to baseball games entirely, because of all the walking and climbing required.  

Three friends pointed out that if people didn’t leave things in Ubers all the time, the website wouldn’t make it so easy to report what you left behind. And one accused me of being too hard on myself and then asked if I were a perfectionist, trying to make other people look bad.  

In my current Calm Down Mode, I remembered that in a recent interview with 80-year-old writer Jane Seskin, she shared with me her sensible approach to aging:

• Acknowledgment
• Accommodation
• Acceptance

Wise words, which I will keep in mind next time (of course there will be a next time) I do something stupid. I just hope I’m not losing my fastball.  

Do You Speak Pilates?

Contrology. Table top. Candlestick. These are words I say to myself when moving through the world, when engaging my core so I can lift both legs to a 90-degree angle and when stretching one or both legs straight up, toes pointed at the ceiling. I also intone, “Sit with intention” every time I correct my sloppy posture.

In other words, I speak Pilates.

Just over a year ago, I enrolled in Pilates Reformer classes at my fitness center. The very idea seemed intimidating at first, but friends who had taken the classes all insisted that Pilates — taught on the machines, not on a mat — got them in great shape, alleviated back or shoulder pain for some and got them moving better. 

Still, at first I thought I may be too old, or maybe it would make my three kinds of arthritis, my scoliosis and my stenosis worse. Informative websites refuted all that, saying Pilates could help. The same websites promised increased relaxation and a reduction in cortisol, the stress hormone. (Some of us have so much of that right now — maybe we could set up a kiosk at the mall and sell the excess?)  

Like yoga, Pilates also demands that the mind and body work together. Low-impact Pilates Reformer classes also can improve core strength, increase flexibility and help with posture, balance and gait. The springs and straps on the Reformer machine — which resembles a low massage table but has a moveable carriage — and assorted pieces of equipment provide a full-body workout, said to be suitable for all fitness levels. 

That said, I had to fill out a “training intake” form for the gym before enrolling. I figured I would be rejected, as my musculo-skeletal issues hinder my mobility, and just recently my body reminded me that I need to refrain from moving furniture. (Ouch.) Surprise — I was accepted, and was invited to try Pilates. 

I’m no jock, but I’ve been doing water aerobics and yoga for almost 50 years, taken classes in Zumba, Qi Gong, Jazzercise and Tai Chi, lifted free weights and worked out on assorted machines at various gyms. Out of necessity, I’ve also had to learn physical therapy exercises for several body parts. (Sigh.)  

Perhaps due to a childhood filled with dance and gymnastics lessons and the many hours I spent playing circus and pirate ship with friends on my backyard swing set, I’m also limber and I have strong thighs. (Sometimes, my cousins and I are grateful for our burly "Corrigan Thighs" and sometimes, we wish they were smaller.) A few years ago, after a yoga teacher instructed the class to do legs-up-the-wall, she moved around the room to help her  students. When she got to me, she said, “You have marvelous hamstrings!” I replied that I used to be a can-can dancer, which is a lie.  

After I took three private Pilates Reformer classes at the gym, I signed up for group lessons. I’ve opted to stay in the Pilates Reformer Foundations class, and still have no interest in moving to the next level, as I do not want to stand on the Reformer. Ever. Some days, I confidently stride into the studio and show off my impressive leg circles, with or without straps for support. Other days, I wobble in, crunchy and stiff, and barely make it through the 50-minute class. Either way, I walk out feeling taller and stronger. Pilates works for me.   

The Founder of the Pilates System 

Joseph Pilates (1883-1967), a German-born gymnast, boxer and circus performer, developed the exercise program — he dubbed it “Contrology” — while held captive as an enemy alien in Lancaster, England, during World War I. He incorporated elements of gymnastics, yoga, dance and martial arts (and allegedly even the stretching techniques he had observed in cats), and he patented 26 fitness devices in his lifetime. Here's an interesting blog post from a Pilates instructor. 

Fun Fact: Pilates spent time in a second internment camp on the tiny Isle of Man in the Irish Sea, and classes still are taught there. Here is a Facebook page based there. 

After the war, he returned to Germany. Around 1925, Pilates immigrated to the U.S. On the ship, he met Clara Zeuner, a nurse, and they later married. In New York City, the couple founded the Joseph H. Pilates Universal Gymnasium, where Clara helped refine the exercises and they taught for almost 40 years. 

Several sources claim their students included dancers Ruth St. Denis, Ted Shawn, George Balanchine, Martha Graham, Jerome Robbins and Suzanne Farrell as well as violinist Yehudi Menuhin, opera singer Roberta Peters and actor Lauren Bacall.  

You can learn more from Pilates’ book “Return to Life through Contrology and Your Health” or from the updated version, “Pilates Evolution — The 21st Century” by Joseph Pilates, Judd Robbins and Lin Van Heuit-Robbins. Also, a documentary, “A Movement of Movement,” was released in 2013. 

Pilates as Practiced in the Mississippi River 

Joseph Pilates had a brother — Clemens Fred Pilates — who went by Fred. (1890-1978) A machinist/tool and die maker whose leg was injured in World War I, Fred not only embraced his brother’s devotion to Contrology, but is said to have built the early claw-footed Reformer. In 1953, he opened the first recorded Pilates home studio in St. Louis, Missouri — in his own house. He taught classes there and in some local gyms, and also spent time in public parks, encouraging older adults to exercise more. 

Among his many inventions designed to boost fitness were an “air cycle,” which Fred crafted from bicycle parts mounted on two surf boards. The user propelled the machine through water by pedaling, which strengthens the legs. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch published a feature article on Fred in January 1968, following up on an earlier story in the Star-Times newspaper that ran an amazing photo of Fred using the device in the Mississippi River — the largest working river in the country. 

My Pilates instructor gets credit for telling me about Fred's St. Louis connection and sending me the clips about him. (Thanks!) Just today, I wondered if either Pilates brother had any offspring. Joseph did not, but one article I read mentioned three of Fred’s daughters: Gertrude Pilates, Mary Pilates LeRiche and Frances Pilates Battles.  

As an adult, Mary, born in 1920, taught classes in her uncle’s studio in New York City for a time and then returned to St. Louis to help her father teach and develop additional fitness equipment. The last mention I found online about her indicated that Mary moved to south Florida, where she taught Pilates for decades. I found no obituary for her, so she is 89 now. 

In 2022, the Pilates by the Bay studio in Toms River, New Jersey, posted some wonderful historic pictures of Clara and Mary. Also, I read that in 2020, when Mary accepted a speaking engagement in Jupiter, Florida, she arrived with a box, about 12 inches long and 5 inches wide, that held a miniature replica of the Reformer that her father had made for her. Pilates instructor Bonnie Hubscher reported, “It was complete with leather straps, a moving carriage on tiny wheels, and tiny springs from watches.” 

Attention must be paid while on a Pilates Reformer, but should my mind wonder at all, I have so much to think about! 

March Memories from Years Gone By

March Memories/2020 

Five years ago today, San Francisco Mayor London Breed and the mayors of five other Bay Area counties ordered residents to shelter in place, starting March 17. Three days later, California Governor Gavin Newsom announced that policy would extend to include the entire state. 

I know this because I just read my blog entries for 2020. I wrote that I’d been staying in even before March 16, because a week earlier Newsom had recommended that people 60 and older stay home because of the rapdily spreading COVID-19 epidemic. So I did.

In a blog post, I admitted I’d driven to the edge of the continent once, defying the shelter-in-place order, “to make sure the Pacific Ocean was still there.” It was — but the next day the governor closed all the parking lots at the beach. 

Phew. Remember when we were told the shelter-in-place order probably would last about four weeks, and then everything would go back to normal? Yeah — it didn’t, and in some ways, it still has not. 

Remember how scared we were before a vaccine was available, and then how desperate we were to get one? Later this week, I’ll pop in at the Kaiser clinic for my ninth COVID shot. My doc recommends I get boosted every six months, and I appreciate the extra protection, so I’ll go.

I giggled when I read my post from 2020 that defined my “Essential Self” at that time. My “Must-Haves” included clean sweatpants, t-shirts and tie-dye socks; a Zoom Costume for my upper half, complete with dangly earrings; my favorite music; plenty of good food; a charged phone and Kindle; and enjoyable freelance writing and editing assignments. 

Five years later, I can’t argue with any of that, but am so relieved that we’re all out and about again.   

I hope we’ve learned not to take that for granted!

March Memories/1994 

“What’s doing in the Maldives?” 

That was just one of the quirky questions that would open our Sunday afternoon ritual for almost a decade, as Ross Winter and I paged through an atlas to look for an island to move to in retirement. Each week, we’d research a possibility or two. 

One Sunday, I was certain I’d found a perfect spot — the Dry Tortugas, islands 70 miles west of Key West, Florida. As we talked about the location, Ross not-so-innocently asked, “Did you check out why they’re called “dry?” I had not. Turns out there is no fresh water there. Oops. 

When Ross took a vacation in Greece, he sent me a postcard from the island of Symi, also spelled “Simi.” He praised the place, suggested we consider it a possibility— and signed off with “We could be Simians!” I still have the card.

After perusing the atlas each Sunday, we’d work the crossword in the New York Times — he used a pencil, and I opted for a purple felt-tipped pen, which always annoyed him. Next, I’d serve as prep cook, slicing and dicing and assembling whatever ingredients we needed, and then Ross would cook dinner. 

At the time, Ross, a native Australian, was co-founder and artistic director of a regional modern dance company. When he was approaching 50, he decided to choreograph a full-length parody of “The Nutcracker” for his company, and he spoke often of his plans for his show "The Madcracker" during our Sunday dinners. 

At some point, I insisted that he include a tap number in the second act. In response, he challenged me to perform it. Though I have more nerve then talent, I’d danced as a kid, so I quickly rounded up some talented teachers to prepare me for the role. 

For the next eight years, I left my job as a newspaper reporter for two weeks and toured the Midwest with the show, dancing (well, sort of) in gazillions of red sequins and flapping fringe. 

Yep, I used to be fun! I’ve always believed you have to collect wild and crazy experiences when you’re young so you have something to talk about later when you’re hanging out in the lounge at your senior residence. And I do!

Bonus: All those years, because it was a paid gig, on my income taxes I got to list “tap dancer” along with “reporter” as my profession.

In March of 1994, my career in show business and those idyllic Sundays came to an abrupt end. While I was off watching gray whales in San Ignacio Lagoon in Baja California, Mexico, Ross was in a car accident. He died a week later. Though he's been gone 31 years, I miss him still. 

And I still have no idea what’s doing in the Maldives.  

Conversational Twists

 Say what? I didn’t see THAT coming! 

Three times this week, conversations have taken wildly different turns, gone in directions that I could not have predicted. Laughing is good — enjoy! 

When I called a local business for answers to some pressing questions I’d asked a few days ago, the woman I spoke to said she had the information, but haven’t gotten back to me “because I had to drive two hours there and then back to pick up a mule.” 

A mule!

She then regaled me with a great story about a rescue mule she was adopting. “He’s a handsome fellow, and stands 17 hands high,” she said. “He let me ride him with no problem.” 

I’m from Missouri, so I am marginally informed about the animals, which are the offspring of a male donkey and female horse. Mules were first introduced in Missouri in the 1820s, and have served as the official state animal since 1995. 

The website tended by the Missouri Secretary of State boasts: “Missouri mules pulled pioneer wagons, plowed fields during the 19th century and played a crucial role in moving troops and supplies in World War I and II. For decades, the Show-Me-State was the nation's premier mule producer.” And that’s everything I know about mules.

I know a tad more about donkeys, because my friend Amy gave me a copy of "Running With Sherman: The Donkey With the Heart of a Hero" by Christopher McDougall. The book is funny, compelling and ultimately, heart-warming. 

Here’s the official blurb on McDougall’s story: “Burro racing, a unique type of competition in which humans and donkeys run side by side over mountains and through streams, would be exactly the challenge Sherman and Chris needed. In the course of Sherman’s training, Chris would enlist Amish running clubs, high-spirited goats, the service animal community, and two Sarah Palin–loving long-distance female truckers.”

Of course I told the proud new mule owner about Sherman’s story. Then she answered my original questions, and we wished each other well.   

The Hunt for Miniature Mandarins

I wasn’t looking for answers on Instacart, the online delivery service that brings my groceries to my door — I was searching for Kishu mandarins. These tiny little packages of Vitamins A and C are sweet, juicy and really easy to peel. 

Fruit Factoids, from AI: “Kishu mandarins may have originated in Southern China in the 8th century. They became a favorite in Japan and were introduced to California in the 1990s.” For weeks, I’ve been ordering and eating them, and though the season is coming to an end, I’m not ready to move on to a different variety just yet. 

Instacart’s site indicated the store where I bought my last two orders was all out of Kishus. I called the store to ask whether a new shipment might be expected, and the clerk’s answer was a big surprise.  

“We have Kishus right now,” she said. “I’m looking at them.” She invited me to come to the store and grab what was available, as the season is almost over. When I explained that wasn’t possible just now, the clerk suggested I order a different variety on Instacart but add a note indicating what I really wanted. That seemed iffy to me. 

“Let me talk to the manager about why the website shows Kishus as out of stock,” the clerk said. Back on the phone, she told me the manager said the store never sells these particular mandarins on the Instacart website, because the store never knows when shipments will arrive or how big they may be. 

That would be interesting if it were true, but it is not. I told her that in the past month, I’ve already gobbled up three pounds of Kishus ordered from her store through Instacart.

Next, the manager got on the phone, apologized for the confusion and kindly offered me a private delivery at a reduced rate. I said I’d call back if I wanted to set that up. Back on Instacart, I found Kishus in stock at a different store, and an hour later I had a new supply. 

Up On the Roof 

(Go on, sing a few bars as an homage to The Drifters.)

On Wednesday night, I missed the monthly meeting held by my building’s management company. A neighbor who provided some highlights later mentioned that some residents have been smoking on the roof of our 13-story apartment tower, home to about 130 adults 62 and older. 

"What an insurance nightmare that could be for management at a senior building where smoking is not permitted," I said. From now on, my neighbor told me, management has decreed that the door to the roof will be locked. A few hours later, when I repeated this news to another neighbor who had missed the meeting, she said she was sad to hear that. 

The roof, she said, was a great place to watch fireworks on July 4 and New Year’s Eve, and “now a few smokers have spoiled that for everyone.” I had not known about these fireworks-watching parties— but I do know that this particular brave friend is legally blind.

Considering the Price of Eggs   

Pondering this plethora of odd conversations brought another twisty one to mind, the story Woody Allen tells in his movie “Annie Hall” about his brother. I found it on the Internet, of course:  

“It reminds me of that old joke — you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist's office and says, hey doc, my brother's crazy! He thinks he's a chicken. Then the doc says, why don't you turn him in? 

"Then the guy says, I would, but I need the eggs.”