Winter Thoughts

Winter in San Francisco is wonderful!

One day, it's sunny and up to the mid-60s or higher; the next day it's barely 50 and sheets of rain are pounding the streets. Yesterday afternoon, the fog was so thick I could barely see the house across the street -- an old fire house, now divided into two posh townhouses. One is for sale: See www.8carmel.com. What a grand neighborhood I live in -- and as Joel pointed out, my view is better than that of the pricey townhouse.

Still, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, and not just in the celebrated Union Square. Lights are up in many neighborhoods, wreaths hang on doors, carols ring out from sound systems at the grocery store, the dry cleaners and the coffee shops.      

Fully aware of the irony, before I moved to San Francisco I hauled five of my six boxes marked "Christmas" to the resale shop run by the National Council of Jewish Women. "People of all faiths shop here," the manager said when I asked if my merchandise was welcome. I left all of it.

Because I have little storage space in the apartment, I asked P&J to keep a box of my remaining Christmas items at their house. When I picked it up the other day, I noticed my ornaments were missing. I called, and we discovered they had been packed in a separate plastic bin, apart from the larger bin that held assorted small trees, candles and gift bags. I stopped by a day later to retrieve the small bin.

Back home, I spread all of the ornaments out on the table. Distant past mingled with more recent past -- ornaments from my childhood (antiques now, right?), ornaments Joel made in elementary school, ornaments crafted by friends, ornaments given to me as gifts long after I had stopped buying Christmas trees.

Some years ago, at the doctor's office for the third Christmas Eve in a row, the doctor mentioned he could not figure out why I kept getting horrid sinus and respiratory infections the same time every year. "I know you don't have a real tree in the house," he said, "because that would really set off your mold allergies."

Of course I had a real tree in the house, a big one, just like every year.

Oops.

For the next five or nine or 13 Christmases, I set out my three groupings of small artificial pine trees, displayed a candle or two and added a cheery moose figurine to the scene, and that was that. While friends took days, even weeks, to decorate, I took about an hour. The years I traveled to San Francisco, I didn't even bother with that.

The day after my ornaments and I were reunited, I found myself examining tiny live trees at the hardware store in Cole Valley. They were, in a tiny way, beautiful -- full, lush, evergreen. They also started at $35 for a tree under 24 inches high. Then I remembered the mold allergies. Plus, what would keep the cat from nibbling on a branch or two and then throwing up on the rug?

I marched into the hardware store and for $15 bought a small fake tree, green, strung with little white lights. This tree is not what anyone would call lush, but nicer than the plastic Charlie Brown trees that Walgreen's sells. "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is my favorite holiday program, and I appreciate what Walgreen's is doing -- sort of. But this is nicer.

I burrowed through my big Christmas box, located a bright red napkin, spread it on the faux burled wood drum table, set up the tree and decorated. At first, I worried because I had neglected to buy ornament hooks, but many of my dear old ornaments had their original hooks attached. They are only a little rusty. Really.    


Under the tree, I placed a few larger ornaments -- some of them Peanuts themed -- and my favorite photo of Joel and Santa when Joel was just two months old. I added the baby Jesus from the manger set that I had as a child. The manger, alas, collapsed with age before I left St. Louis and all the other people are gone.  Most of them were missing a hand or foot -- in one case, a head.

Susan asked about Joseph just the other day. Regular readers may remember that Joseph from my childhood manger set (he cost 19 cents new) was employed for a time to help me sell the condo. At his post, packed in a Ziploc bag and positioned upside down in the big pot that held geraniums on my deck, Joseph collapsed in on himself, done in, no doubt, by icy weather. Sorry, Joseph.


On the top of my tiny tree I placed an angel given to me when I was 5 -- another antique, made by a friend of my parents. When she gave it to me, she made me promise to always put the angel on my Christmas tree, That was so long ago that my memory of it is in black and white.  Still, the promise has been kept this year.

Around the apartment, I set out my mother's small ceramic Christmas bells, "Joy" rendered in stained glass by a friend long gone, three small ceramic snow-covered trees made by an artist in Michigan, a tiny snow globe with a tinier polar bear inside, a scented red candle and a couple of Christmas-themed books.

That's really all I need, now or ever. 

I packed up much of what was left in the bigger Christmas bin and drove it to the owner of my neighborhood salon. Lison loves Christmas, loves "vintage" decorations and loves my salt-and-pepper naturally curly hair, so it was a no-brainer that the stuff should go to her. She was thrilled.

Two weeks ago, I wrapped gifts while listening to the "Glee" version of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." Now that the place is decorated, I guess I need some Christmas music. It's too bad my old Muppets Christmas record with John Denver on it is gone.

I wonder if that's available on CD?   

Raise that Glass!

Listen to Judith Viorst, author of 37 books and an expert on life, loss and love:

“There is a vast difference between youth and age,” says Viorst, 79. “When we are young, we think there are yes/no, black/white, on/off answers to the big questions of life. One way to understand the complexities of life is to understand that for many questions, the answer is all of the above.

“In other words, life is not about seeing the glass half empty or half full. The point is that you have a glass.”

Viorst told me that when I interviewed her last month for the St. Louis Jewish Light prior to her appearance at the St. Louis Jewish Book Festival. I had interviewed her before and would do it again in a heartbeat – she is charming, elegant and smart.

Today is a good day to remember that I do indeed have a glass.

Today is the day after I learned that my company has decided not to keep the promise they made when I retired in 2005 -- come January, they will charge me $580 a month for my health insurance.  

Today is a week after I learned that a friend has inflammatory breast cancer.

Today is a month after I learned that another friend is likely facing heart surgery.

Yes, today is the day to remember that the glass is not half empty or half full. The point, as Viorst says, is that we have a glass.

When I got the news yesterday afternoon about losing the free health insurance – a sword dangling over my head since I left the Post-Dispatch five years ago – I felt as though I had been body slammed by a frozen turkey. Minutes later, G and Amanda (my second son and his wonderful wife) pulled up, visiting from Pennsylvania, and in the back seat was Griffin, their smiling, curly haired 2-year-old.

Seated in my apartment, I said to Griffin, “ You are adorable.” He looked at me for a while and said, “YOU’RE adorable!” And I was. Am. For the rest of the afternoon, Griffin pronounced almost everything adorable – the fire truck I gave him, the server at the pizza place, the sales clerk at the Sports Basement and the slippers Griffin’s parents bought him.

How adorable is that?

Back at home yesterday, after I had waved “bye” to the adorable family, I was on line grousing with other Post-Dispatch retirees about our Thanksgiving “bonus.” Jan, who as a management retiree got cut off two years ago, put everything in perspective: “When faced with a ‘surprise’ such as the loss of paid premiums, I just ask myself if I'm sorry I left in 2005. The answer is always that it would have been nice if I'd left five years earlier.”

On Monday, Shannon Duffy and the Newspaper Guild will spring into action to start the process to try to force Lee Enterprises to give back what they never should have taken. Meanwhile, my insurance agent is looking for options to compare with what Lee is asking me to pay to maintain my insurance through them.

I went to bed mad, mentally clutching tightly to the money I have – about $46 in my wallet and more in savings and investments. I woke up in Fairy Godmother mode. I dressed and kidnapped someone who couldn’t justify spending money on herself to buy something she needed. I drove her to Macy’s and bought the modestly priced item for her.

“This is not about you,” I said when she thanked me. “This is about me. I have learned that clutching money gives way to fear, fear ushers in hysterics and hysterics divert me from bringing in more money. Buying something for you reminds me to have faith in the future.”

We stopped for coffee and guess what? We each had a glass -- and were grateful.

We All Have Tales to Tell

Armistead Maupin lives in Cole Valley, and Danny Glover has a house there. Janis Joplin used to hang out in the Irish pub and what is now a crepe house was once a comedy club where Robin Williams and Dana Carvey performed. Charles Manson and Jim Jones used to live nearby.

I learned all this and more from two men I met at the bus stop, waiting for the 37 to take me back up the hill to my apartment. The Cole Valley business district is two blocks west and six blocks north of my place. Typically, I walk there – it’s all down hill – and take the 37 back up.

Today was a big public transit day for me. Started out heading east on the 37 to see my internist, a follow-up on my recent bout of bronchitis and to find out the results of my annual blood work, which took place a week ago. Great news – every number was completely normal, and all the numbers have dropped in the last year. Thank you Cheerios, Oat Squares and homemade smoothies made with plain yogurt, a banana and frozen fruit!

That good news was so thrilling that I walked six blocks down a big hill, jumped on the M train and went to Stonestown Galleria, a suburban-style mall in the city. At Borders, I did a bit of homework, in preparation for a book I am about to ghostwrite. Had a peppermint mocha latte (decaf with skim milk and no whipped cream, of course). And I decided not to buy Maupin’s new book, “Mary Ann in Autumn,” the latest of his famous tales of the city.

I downloaded in on my Kindle when I got home -- and am zipping through it!

Walking around Borders, looking at the many tables and shelves filled with books, I wondered how they make a go of it anymore when even a book lover like me refuses to buy books. To get home, I took the inbound M train to Van Ness and then had to catch an outbound N train to get to Cole Valley. This sounds confusing, but it wasn’t, and on the ride in I met a lovely young nursing student who was reading a biography of Ida B. Wells, the pioneering journalist, early civil rights activist and feminist. When I saw the book in the young woman’s hand, I wanted to ask if she was studying to be a journalist, but decided to stay silent.

I talk to strangers all the time – and learn marvelous things about my new city – but for some reason, I stayed quiet. “Excuse me,” she said seconds later. “May I ask you something personal?” I said sure, and we had a lively discussion about eyebrows. We both have palest of pale eyebrows and we both draw them on in the morning. She liked how mine looked better than she liked her own, and wondered what product I use. We started there and ended up talking about journalism and then her desire to be a nurse.

In Cole Valley, I poked my head in the open window of the hair salon I go to and said, “I’ll have a cheeseburger with double pickles and a Diet Coke.” That got a laugh from my startled stylist and her client. Apparently no one has ever done that before! Then I popped into the magnificent Cole Valley Hardware and bought three more Christmas presents. Saturday, they had a huge sale -- 20 percent off everything – and I should have made these purchases then, but better late than miss the opportunity altogether. 

Then I headed for the bus stop, where I joined a lively discussion with two men and a woman sitting on the bench. The woman left soon after to board a bus headed in another direction. When the men learned I was new in town, they began to regale me with tales of the neighborhood. What a lovely way to start a new week!

Last week rocked – first, I heard Placido Domingo sing the lead in “Cyrano de Bergerac” at the San Francisco Opera and then spent four days with Gerry and Tom, in town to visit Patricia and Joel. Tom’s brother Mark and his wife, Cheryl, were here too.

One day, Susan (Patricia’s mom and my friend) played hooky from work and met Gerry and me at the de Young Museum, where we saw the second of two exhibits of treasures from the Musee d”Orsay in Paris, which is closed for renovation. Loved staring at these masterpieces, especially Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” One evening, with Martia and Michael (Patricia’s brother and his wife) and the girls along for the fun, we revisited the scene of the rehearsal dinner held last June the night before The Wedding at the excellent Pauline’s Pizza. On Saturday, we drove to the glorious wooden deck overlooking the sea at Fort Funston, which I first wrote about here on January 1. (Read it now if you missed it then.)  

Tomorrow I get my hair cut, Wednesday I have a massage, Thursday my dentist (who is expecting her first child – two of them!) finishes putting in the new crown and Friday I will have coffee with an old friend from St. Louis who moved here years ago. Saturday, I may go to an art show in Crockett, a town about 30-45 minutes away. A man who calls himself The Peace Guy – I met him at an open-air market across from the Ferry Building when Gail was here – lives in Crockett, and I still think I may need to buy one of his sweatshirts.

Those are my tales from the city this week, with a nod of humility to Mr. Maupin!    

Gone to the Dentist -- and the Dogs

“Everyone my age is being diagnosed with a hernia,” said a 92-year-old friend of mine.

I was ready.

“Everyone my age is being told they need crowns on their teeth,” I replied.

I spent two hours at the dentist this morning, getting one tooth roughed up and ready for a crown. Fine. Worse things have been done to me. Besides, this dentist’s chair delivers a light back massage during treatment, so if you can forget that two people have dozens of instruments in your mouth, you can feel your upper back and shoulders relax.

More good news: Halloween photos of my Earl, favorite dog – he works at the insurance agency on the corner by my apartment – are now available, showing Earl in both his costumes. In one, he is sporting a skeleton outfit. In the other, Earl wears a Hawaiian shirt with a small lei around his neck.  These costumes suited him well, and besides, he did not want to wear the hat with a big spider sewn on it. He made that clear the day he modeled it for me.

In a Facebook post about Earl some weeks ago, I misstated his lineage. (He has forgiven me.) Earl is a perfect blend of German short hair and Plott hound, which is also known as the “ninja warrior of dogdom.” No, really.

That said, I’m not sure Earl is up for the secretive nature of the ninja. He spends a lot of time smiling and looking out the top half of the door to the insurance agency. He greets people and other dogs as well. When he sees me, Earl wiggles and tries to lick my glasses and extends his paw.

Okay, I have bought his love – with Milkbones. But he seems to enjoy seeing me even when I don’t have treats in my pocket. One day, as I stood waiting across the street for a bus, Earl stretched way up, craning his neck to keep me in sight until I waved and got on the bus. That’s a real friend.

After the Novocain wore off from the dentist, I treated myself to a latte at Starbucks (the coffee shop is located inside my grocery – no way to avoid it!) and a package of dark chocolate-covered graham crackers. “I want these,” I said to the barista. “After all, I’ve been to the dentist.” She agreed a reward was in order. Great graham crackers!

When I got home, I clarified a few points in one newspaper story I turned in yesterday and got organized to submit an invoice for an article that will run in Sunday’s Post-Dispatch. (Look for a travel story about shopping in the Upper and Lower Haight neighborhoods!) I ate my graham crackers. I poured myself a Hansen’s Tangerine/Lime diet soda and punctuated the citrus taste with a slice of lime fresh from a friend’s tree. (Thanks, Sue!)

Now I’m going to lie around in my outstanding shirt that honors Tim Lincecum. (Yes, Cardinal Nation, I have committed post-season treason -- and boy was it fun! What’s not to love about these lively misfits?) And I’m going to read as I wait for another outstanding sunset. Love the photo I took last night looking out my window at the Marin headlands and the open sea! (See below.) If I could paint it, I would.

Life is good.

Simple Pleasures: T-shirts and Salads

“This is the best salad I’ve ever had in my life,” Gail said to the server at Park Chow. It was the first salad she had in San Francisco on Day One of her recent visit, but she was plenty excited about it.

“The best salad you’ve ever had – that’s high praise,” replied the server.

“Okay,” said Gail, “It’s the best salad I’ve ever had that I can remember.”

Fair enough.

I would like to tell you what was in that salad, but I can’t remember. Wait! Yes! Three kinds of fresh beets, some cheese, some pistachios and some greens. It was a fine salad indeed.

Gail spent the first three days of her trip to the San Francisco Bay Area in Livermore with her friend Sue. The two of them drove to San Francisco on Monday, and we all had lunch at the Indian Oven in the Lower Haight (terrific spicy Indian pickles and chicken tikka masala) followed by ice cream at Three Twins. 

After Sue headed back to work, Gail and I trolled the shops in the Upper Haight. She came here to buy t-shirts, and she bought one at the first shop we entered – Positively Haight Street, where owner James Preston sells his masterfully designed tie-dye shirts and pants. After covering both sides of the four-block neighborhood that pays tribute to the Summer of Love, we headed to Park Chow in the Inner Sunset for dinner and then I dropped off Gail at her in-town abode.

Day Two started at the Sports Basement, my favorite store for discount “outdoorsy” wear. Gail found an exact replica there of my fleece vest and bought it because I have refused for three years to give her mine. The vest was on sale – as were some sandals she bought. Next we stopped at the warming hut and shop at Crissy Field, which is practically under the Golden Gate Bridge. Gail bought a t-shirt at the hut, which is part of the Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy. The picnic grounds and hiking trail on the waterfront are part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.

Next we were off to Sausalito. The sun was shining and the air was warm, so it was a pleasure to stroll through town, popping into interesting shops. We especially liked Out of Hand, which featured craft items by local artists. Elsewhere, Gail bought at least one t-shirt (by then, I had lost track), a sweatshirt and a tote bag. We stopped for coffee, where I sent an email to a friend to say I was thinking of a ferry trip to Sausalito with him back in 1982. “You’re sexting,” Gail shrieked. “No,” I said. “I emailed him.” We had lunch at Piccolo Teatro – a terrific BLT and another great salad, though I can’t remember what was in it.

Tuesday evening, we picked up Susan, my friend and my daughter-in-law’s mom, and the three of us went to Zuni for dinner. Judy Rodgers, a former Kirkwoodian, owns the award-winning restaurant. The room was festive, the food was great (loved the bread salad that came with the roasted chicken) and Susan and I each downed a delicious cocktail made with Prosecco and elderflower syrup. We enjoyed some nostalgic talk about the good old days in journalism, when we all were younger.

On Day Three, Gail and I took the Muni train to the famous Ferry Building. Before we got inside, we browsed the tables and booths set up by various artisans. Gail bought some lovely handmade jewelry. The Ferry Building is filled with shops, many of them food-related, and restaurants. Highlights were pistachio macaroons by Miette (“Macaroons are the new cupcakes,” says Gail), the chance to meet a $26 linen tea towel with a majestic whale design (but who needs a $26 tea towel?) and sitting outside on a bench watching the ferry come and go as we split a fancy cheese sandwich on crusty bread.      

              

Then we caught the F trolley and went to Fisherman’s Wharf. The best part for me there was watching the sea lions jockey for position on a series of docks, growling and barking and shoving one another into the water. Gail found the sweatshirt of her dreams and also bought a purse. I considered assorted Giants t-shirts at the NFL sports shop (yes they carry baseball merchandise too) but rejected them all as too orange or too black.

That experience made me realize that the Giants shirt I really wanted was a gray one I had seen on display at Goodfellas, a head shop in the Upper Haight. The shirt has a picture of pitcher Tim Lincecum and his now-famous fine expletive. I wondered aloud if I am too old for that shirt -- and then remembered I hate wondering if I am too old for anything. Ever.

We settled in for Game One of the World Series with a pizza, beer, diet soda and fancy caramel corn from Miette, which they were pushing as peanuts and upscale crackerjacks. We fell for it, and were not disappointed. No salads were involved, as I recall, though there may have been some ice cream. The Giants won after an odd first inning.

On Thursday – Day Four of Gail’s visit – we hit spots we had missed earlier and backtracked to a few places. We started at Kara’s Cupcakes in the Marina, the breakfast of choice for people who don’t have macaroons at hand. (I liked the Fleur de Sel.) We popped in and out of neighborhood shops, including one where the proprietor spent way too long trying to convince me to sign up for her craft classes, even after I told her I have a button that reads, “I Don’t Do Crafts.”

I don’t, and I am not starting now. To make the woman feel better, Gail had a lengthy chat with her about felting, whatever that is, and bought a felt makeup case with a peace symbol on it. A sign in the window at the Marine Layer store on Chestnut says “Come in and touch our shirts,” so we did. Soft! Lovely fabric, great designs – especially the one with the person lying in a hammock strung between the two towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. But these are pricey shirts, so we left them in the store.

We did a drive-by of the Painted Ladies – a famous row of Victorian houses on Steiner Street in Alamo Square. We popped into The Other Shop, a retro resale place on Divisadero. The store called Life, where I bought my marvelous fog-colored purse, was finally open (this was our third attempt), so Gail browsed there and then I dropped her off at Mickey’s Monkey, another retro resale shop, while I drove around the block, as parking was not available. Then we drove through part of the Mission, but managed not to find Tartine, a bakery Gail had read about.

We had lunch at Zazie’s in Cole Valley, one of my favorite places. We split a sandwich of braised figs, prosciutto and goat cheese on grilled bread and a spinach salad with roasted pears, cheese crumbles and walnuts. Next we doubled back to Goodfellas, where I bought the Lincecum shirt (may I stay forever young – sing it, Joanie) and then went to my apartment to watch Game Two of the World Series. During the near-total rout (the Giants won big), we dined on empanadas. This morning I picked up Gail and drove her to the airport.

Four days of fun sightseeing, t-shirts, sweatshirts, too many sweets and more than one world-class salad. I’m exhausted!             

  

Boosts for the Body and for the Mind

Today I sat reading work-related emails, the kind that disappoint, emails that indicated material I need will not necessarily arrive when I need it. Annoyed, I ran out the door on a whim to catch two buses to see “The Social Network,” a fictionialized tale about the founder(s) of Facebook.

Why not? I’m on Facebook. More importantly, Aaron Sorkin wrote the movie, and I am eternally loyal to the man who brought us “The West Wing” and “Sports Night.” Even “Studio 60,” for a while.

True story: Aaron Sorkin once sent me a blue paper clip through an intermediary, probably because though the window of opportunity was long past, he learned I was still whining that he had never licensed “West Wing” bobbleheads. That was one of the finest ideas I’ve ever had – imagine a bobblehead Leo, a Toby, a C.J. Imagine a bobblehead Josh! (And yes, I am a fan of “The Good Guys,” though I hear there are not many of us.)

Anyway, the movie was vintage Sorkin in style and quite a story, besides. I was surprised to discover that he also is in the movie. When you go, watch for his cameo role. 

The movie was fun, and here is what I learned on the bus: “Pick your battles. You will never win if you fight every fight.” No actual battle was taking place at the time. The bus driver was simply was sharing his wisdom with a passenger who was agreeing completely. I also enjoyed watching a one-year-old display his entire repertory of adorable facial expressions. Those of us seated across from him were all mimicking the baby’s expressions. Soon, half the people on the bus were laughing – either with us or at us.

Getting away today also took my mind off fretting about impending dental care (and the high cost for that) and the dreaded annual mammogram, which is coming up soon. Last year, that test did not go well. I have no reason to believe that this year will be anything but fine. But I am more on edge than usual about it. How on edge? Yesterday, the checker at the grocery asked if I wanted to make a contribution to breast cancer. I replied, “I have already donated my left breast.” Together, we packed my grocery bags in silence.

Thank goodness some good things have happened, as well. On Monday I went to the eye doctor for that annual exam. After the various tests, the doctor announced, “Your vision has improved.” I was shocked. A body part that chose to improve? Get better, all on its own with no huffing and puffing at the gym or restricting chocolate required on my part? I questioned the test results, but she insisted. “You are less near-sighted than you were at your last exam and even the one before that,” said the doctor.

Another boost, this one for the mind, arrived in an email not long ago. The note was from a woman who had “shadowed” me at work in the newsroom one day when she was in high school.  Here is part of what she wrote: “I have to say that day changed my life, in more than one way. Driving to see you was the very first time I'd ever drove downtown, I'd never been inside of an office building and was just in awe of the whole thing. And there you were, animated as all get out, confidently churning out story after story, calling people and writing everything up like it was magic and you were the master magician.”

She continues, “I realized that I had met someone amazing and had seen an alternate glimpse of what my life could look like.” In college, the young woman found herself changing. “I remembered you being so bold and how it didn't even occur to you not to do something you wanted to. I wanted to be like that too. I evolved.” The young woman then described some of the paths she has taken. 

Today, she makes a point of telling people that she is awesome. “I do think that's true, and I really think a lot of it is because from that small bit of time I spent with you back in St. Louis,” she writes. “Thank you for being an inspiration to me.”

Wow!

I wrote back to say that she is awesome, and that she had more to do with it than I did. Still, how lovely that she took time to write. Hearing “thanks” is always appreciated, right?

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

The last time Rick Ankiel, Edgar Renteria and I spent time together, we were all part of Cardinal Nation. They wore the Redbirds’ uniform; I was dressed in one of several Cardinal tee shirts, my traditional summer wardrobe for decades.

Tonight, we were together again at Game 2 of the National League Western Division playoffs, when the Braves beat the Giants 5-4 in the 11^th inning. Renteria is now a Giant. Ankiel plays for the Braves. I live in San Francisco, and my Cardinals tee shirts are on a shelf in the closet.

What a game! Sandoval and Posey collided, Cox got thrown out for protesting an ump's call too vociferously, a batter got plonked and a pitcher dropped to the ground in pain. All 11 innings provided some excitement. In contrast, Thursday night’s game was all about Lincecum, the tough young pitcher who looks like a Goth skateboarder. The Giants won that one. 1-0, in a fast, business-like game.

“That’s the problem with post-season games,” I remarked at the small party I attended. “You pit the best against the best and everyone is so good that not much happens and the score stays low.” On the other hand, post-season play is full of passion, and occasionally there are exciting bench-clearing brawls. Also, the winning team tends to hop a lot after the last strike is called, and that’s always fun to watch.

I grew up listening to baseball -- not watching it. My dad and my grandpa were longtime Cardinal fans. On Sundays, my grandparents would come to our house for dinner. In summer, Daddy did the barbecuing while my grandpa worked in his vegetable garden in our big yard. The transistor radio was always tuned to the game. My job was to deliver beer to the two of them, and I often pulled up a lawn chair and listened to the games.

Those were the days when Bob Gibson pitched both games in a double header and thought nothing of it. Watching Lincecum pitch all nine innings Thursday night, I wondered if he knows that. (Bet he does.) Those were also the days when Daddy would crank up the grill on the Weber kettle as high as it would go, so the chicken was far from the fire.

“Joe,” my mom would call out from the kitchen door, “how’s that chicken coming along?”

“We’re only in the fifth inning, Bonnie,” he’d call back. “This chicken has a ways to go.”

I rooted for the Cardinals all through high school and college. When I married and had a child, the Redbirds and I drifted apart. Years later, when I was working as the restaurant critic at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, an editor sent me to the ballpark one night to taste the “new” food available there – quesadillas and turkey legs. In order to make my deadline, I could only stay for half the game, but I had a great seat, down in front.

In the batter’s box was a fellow named Mark McGwire, well-muscled poetry in motion. I sat there, a turkey leg and quesadilla growing cold, and watched the game. “I know baseball,” I thought. “I remember loving this game.”

Memories of my dad and my grandpa swept through me. I leaped to my feet and screamed right along with the crowd. From that night on, I was a born-again Cardinal fan. I even collected books on baseball, guided by Post scribe Bernie Miklasz. (My favorite   is “The Glory of Their Times” by Lawrence Ritter. I’m also a big fan of Roger Angell’s writing.)

For a decade or so, I watched or listened to all the games (with Debbie and Bill or both Gails and also on my own), went to the stadium whenever anyone offered tickets and bought a new Cardinals shirt every season. More recently, I spent baseball season writing books, earning money to supplement my tiny pension. Once again, I lost track of the rhythm of the games.

This year, the Cardinals got little attention from me. I sold the condo at the end of April and moved in June. Oh, I saw a couple of games on television and tuned in on the radio from time to time. I even exchanged a few emails about whether Tony had actually smiled in the course of a game. But I was not engaged.

Moving, unpacking and settling in here all took time over the summer. A glorious rush of freelance work also rolled in, so leisure was at a premium. At last, I had finished all my assigned work and found myself waiting on new work. On Sunday, I watched the Giants beat the Padres, make it to the playoffs. Suddenly, I was hooked.

I’ve been to just one Giants game, several years ago here in San Francisco, when they played the Cardinals. We sat on the third-base line, where I did my best to singlehandedly cheer on Scott Rolen. I was wearing red, lots of red, in a sea of people clad in orange and black. They couldn’t see my red, because over it I had on a sweatshirt and a windbreaker.

At one point I turned to the man next to me, a man I had never met, and I said, “This is not how we do baseball in St. Louis. In St. Louis, we wear shorts and tee shirts and wrap bandanas around our heads and necks for sweat rags and we broil in the heat.”

“You think this is cold?” he asked, his words muffled by his orange and black scarf. “You should have been at games at Candlestick Park. Now, that was cold.” When Barry Bonds hit a home run, I stood up and applauded. The man next to me was impressed. “Hey,” I said, “we Cardinals’ fans know excellence when we see it.”

Now the excellent San Francisco Giants are battling to go the distance in post-season. I’m not ready to wear orange and black -- I had enough of that color combination at Webster Groves High School. But I am going along for the ride.