Just Another Day

The parade of leather-bedecked S&M fans (including the domineering and the dominated) was just one highlight of a much-needed vacation day that turned into one adventure after another, including driving an amphibious vehicle in McCovey Cove, talking with another cancer survivor on a bench in Union Square and quacking like a duck. Wait – I forgot the Italian potstickers!

The day started with a plan – a trip to North Beach to soak up the atmosphere in the historic City Lights Books, a spot I first visited so long ago that I can’t remember when it was. In any case, the store has three floors of books, with three or four chairs in each room and signs that encourage customers to sit and read. In the Poet’s Room, another sign reads: “We’re sort of a library that sells books.”

Even though I got rid of 46 boxes of books before moving to San Francisco, even though I have (and really like) a Kindle, even though I have vowed not to bring home books, I bought one – Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “San Francisco Poems.” So be it.

Next I went to the Beat Museum (www.thebeatmuseum.org/index.html) to commune with the spirits of the people I used to quote in high school and college and still admire immensely. Owner and curator Jerry Cimino was there, and we compared Baby Boomer backgrounds and the influence the beat poets had on both of us.

Long live the works of Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Kerouac and Corso!

Cimino recommended Calzone’s, just up the street, for lunch – what a great idea. The owner has developed Italian potstickers – steamed wontons filled with Italian sausage, wild mushrooms and spices. Yum! The arugula salad with garbanzo beans, sun-dried tomatoes and Point Reyes blue cheese was good too. Then I popped into a chocolate shop for a free taste of fudge and bought a bear claw – pecans and caramel drizzled with dark chocolate. (It later melted in the sun, alas.)

Next I boarded a bus heading for Union Square, where I planned to catch the Muni train home – but the sun was shining and people were sitting out, basking in it, so I decided to join them. I eavesdropped on an elderly Indian gentleman telling fortunes (he had a line of customers waiting). Then I bought an iced latte and sat down on a bench near a man who turned out to be a classical music reviewer for the Berkshire Review. (See http://berkshirereview.net/) We talked about music, fashion, food and living in San Francisco – and we also compared Baby Boomer backgrounds and the influence the 60s had on both of us.

Then, with little advance planning, I bought a ticket and hopped on a “duck” (http://sanfrancisco.ridetheducks.com/home) because it was a perfect day to be on the water. It was the last trip of the day, and there were just three of us – a Canadian couple originally from South Africa and me. The driver was especially chatty, and we all compared stories. We headed into the water just south of the ballpark – and then the driver let us take turns steering the duck!

That was exciting -- but that was only the beginning.

On the way back to Union Square, Captain Duck Rogers drove us along the Embarcadero. He knows everybody and everybody knows him, so as we cruised (on land by now) in the open-air duck through the popular tourist area, people waved and smiled – but not just the Captain’s friends. He played “We Are Family” and got people on the streets singing, clapping, even dancing along. As we drove through North Beach, he played songs in Italian. In Chinatown, he played “I Will Survive” in Chinese. People at sidewalk cafes, people shopping in the markets, even people at bus stops, heard us first and then joined in. All along the route, Captain Rogers called out, “Happy Friday the 13^th” to one and all. 

It was a rowdy ride, and that felt great!

The N Muni train was crowded – and considerably more sedate -- when I got on at the Powell Street Station. But just past the Church and Duboce stop, those of us looking north saw the S&M parade, which consisted of about 20 people. Maybe this is a regular event on Fridays, or maybe we were just lucky. No one on the N said a word, not even the people who were stretching for a better look. This parade took place just two days before Bay to Breakers (http://zazzlebaytobreakers.com/), a 12k footrace that is the talk of the town. “People run in costume. People run naked. And a lot of the people run drunk,” said Captain Rogers when he filled us in on things to do this weekend.

What a day!

My last Runaway Day was two weekends ago, when I spent much of Saturday driving in West Marin, driving through beach towns (one has a bakery and a Goddess Shop), driving through hilly pastures (wondering if cows ever blow over in the gusty wind), driving to Drake’s Beach on the Point Reyes Peninsula (home of a sand sculpture contest) and driving through redwoods in Samuel P. Taylor State Park (where green equals serene). I only drove 120 miles round trip, and it was a remarkable day, filled with unexpected pleasures -- including turkey vultures that swooped low over the car.

I live here! And believe it or not, I’ve been here almost 11 months!   

Serendipitous Adventures in San Francisco

Giants' Opening Day: April 8, 2011

At Walgreen’s this afternoon, I overheard the young man behind the counter tell another worker that he is a big Giants’ fan but his favorite baseball player is Albert Pujols.

I get that, so I spoke up.

Regular readers may recall in the November 4 blog post I confessed to committing post-season treason, having come under the spell of the feisty, freaky Giants after moving here. And yet after a 50-year relationship with the Cardinals, I have some tender feelings for them as well.

I told the young man at Walgreen's that a week ago, I bought a ticket on StubHub to the Giants’ home opener, on April 8, against the Cardinals. Okay, I paid about what I used to pay for a winter coat at Marshall’s when I was working full time, but I paid because I really wanted to be at that game. I just couldn't imagine enjoying it on television when all the excitement was taking place only four miles away. 

Yesterday morning, the forecast called for 56 degrees and 15-25 mph winds. The ballpark sits in a cove, right on the water. I put on the following: A black cami, a long-sleeved black t-shirt, a long-sleeved black sweatshirt, my Tim Lincecum t-shirt, my whale-watching long johns, fleece-lined wind-proof leggings, black wool sock liners, fuzzy orange socks, one baseball earring and one Cardinal earring. I topped it all off with a fleece jacket and packed a wool scarf, wool gloves, a fleece headband and a wool hat.

That, dear Cardinals fans, is what it takes to feel comfortable at a ballgame in San Francisco. I felt great – even when I discovered I was in the very last row. Before I made the climb, I thought it might be like dangling from the blimp, but it was just fine. Nice people were on either side of me, no one was in front of me (just the long stairs leading down) and I was directly above home plate. I could see the entire park, the party boats in the cove and seafaring container ships entering and leaving, guided by tugs.

I teared up when the Cards took the field. I teared up when the Giants took the field. I loved it all, right up until the 11th inning, when Tony wouldn't let the Cards pitch to any of the Giants and the Giants’ pitchers (and we saw a lot of them) couldn’t seem to catch a break from the umpire, whose strike zone was all over the place. I know better, but I left the game – and I had a lot of company. On the Muni, we all cheered when a guy on his phone called out that the Giants won in the 12th inning.

You might think eight hours of baseball was enough (I left the apartment at 10:30 a.m. and got home at 7 p.m.), but I watched the last inning on the TIVO recording.

Of course I didn't tell the young man at Walgreen's all that, but we did talk about some highlights -- and there were many. To encourage him to continue to talk to customers, especially old women who usually are ignored in stores, later today I went back to Walgreen's and gave this same young man the 2011 Giants calendar that I received at the ballpark yesterday. He was thrilled.

To backtrack a bit: On that first walk to Walgreen's, I encountered a sidewalk sale. Diane and John were selling books, shelves and some of Diane’s clothing because she recently retired. As it happens, Diane and I have the same taste. She had my favorite brands – Flax, We Be Bop, Blue Fish and a designer I didn’t know but who clearly knows me. There on the corner I removed my fleece jacket and my San Francisco sweatshirt and tried on some of the outfits. No one walking by paid any attention – except the two other short, round women who stopped to try on clothes too.

One more magic moment to report on: Wednesday, I went with my friends Nancy and Betty-Lou to dinner at the home of two of their dearest friends. The company, the food and the conversation all were terrific, plus there was a bonus.

A redwood tree with six thick trunks grows right alongside the wooden deck in the long, narrow backyard. I learned that in the mid-1940s, someone who lived in the house brought home a tiny redwood sprout in a small cup and planted it, probably expecting nothing. What grew was private redwood forest that towers high over the house.

I went out on the deck for a minute to pay homage to the tree -- yet another serendipitous adventure here in my amazing new hometown.

Bravo Baseball, Ballet, Sunshine and Italian Food

Walking the perimeter at AT&T park at a Giants’ pre-season exhibition game, I popped in at Orlando’s Caribbean BBQ. Not for a crab cake or barbecue – I eat burnt hot dogs at ballparks, embracing all three known carcinogens just once a year.

I stopped in because after the ad for the eatery came up on the JumboTron, a vague memory unpacked itself from a box in the dusty attic of my past and presented me with a vision of a large Cardinals button that read, “Bravo, Bravo El Birdo!”

Orlando Cepeda, it seemed to me, had come up with the phase that led to the button.

“Sir,” I said to a smiling middle-aged fellow at the barbecue joint, “Wasn’t Orlando Cepeda a Cardinal at one time and didn’t he call his team ‘El Birdos’?“ The man considered my question.

“No,” he said. “He was never a Birdo. You are thinking of Albert Pujols.”

I was not thinking in any way of Albert Pujols, but I thanked the man and continued on my walking tour. (It was okay to be away from the action for a bit – there wasn’t any until the last 10 minutes of this particular game against Oakland.) When I got home, flushed with Giants Fever, I looked up Orlando Cepeda on line.

This Hall of Famer played for the Giants from 1958 to 1966 and then moved to the Cardinals, where he helped the Redbirds win the World Series in 1967 and the pennant the next year. Furthermore, Cepeda did nickname the Cardinals “El Birdos,” and his teammates called him “Cha Cha.” In 1967, Cepeda was elected as the National League MVP, the first unanimous selection for the award ever made.

In 1967 – San Francisco’s (in)famous “Summer of Love” -- I was 19. Bob Gibson was the Cardinal Pitcher Extraordinaire, and the roster also included Tim McCarver (now an erudite broadcaster), Roger Maris, Curt Flood, Lou Brock, Julien Javier, Dal Maxvill and Mike Shannon (the much-loved St. Louis broadcaster).

And somewhere in the apartment is my “Bravo, Bravo El Birdo!” button. Maybe. No disrespect to Albert Pujols, of course.

“Bravo” was on the tip of my tongue in another context this week when I went to see Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre in Berkeley. Founded in 1958, this is a company I have seen four or five times, dating back to the early ‘80s. I think I may even have reviewed a performance or two for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

As always, the performance Tuesday night was glorious, visually compelling and emotionally rewarding. And as always, “Revelations” – first produced in 1960 – brought down the house, with audience members all the way to the back row (where we sat) applauding and begging for more.

Another highlight this week (besides the Southern California weather visiting here in Northern California) was an outstanding plate of spaghetti and meatballs at Osteria, where I was invited to celebrate Susan’s birthday with her lifelong friends. Usually, I have the salmon, but this dish appealed and did not disappoint.

Baseball, ballet, balmy days and meatballs – perfect! 

Delights: Artistic, Culinary, Domestic, and Meteorological

What a week!

First, the artistic experience: Went to the de Young Museum Wednesday with Betty-Lou and Nancy to see Bouquets to Art, some 150 floral arrangements spread throughout the museum, all designed by florists and garden clubs to interpret or complement art in the museum’s collection.

The floral homage to Superman was the funniest. A crowd favorite was a small dog, made completely of plants and flowers, with drooping petals for ears. Some arrangements were inspired, even breathtaking. Some were confusing. Some, I think I could have done myself in a free afternoon. Or maybe not.

Then it was off to Bursa in West Portal for a shrimp kebob, wonderful creamy hummus and a HUGE glass of my beloved Zinfandel. What a great place! More glorious food on Thursday, when Susan called to say she was inviting the family over for corned beef and cabbage for St. Patrick’s Day.

Alas – I was the only one who could make it, but what a wonderful evening! One moment of panic on the bus, where everyone – Asians, African Americans, Caucasians – was wearing green except me. I had on my blue San Francisco sweatshirt and jeans. Oops! On the other hand, I wear my face every day, and it has Irish tendencies, to be sure.

Susan had set the table with a green and white tablecloth and napkins, yellow tulips, a wee flag of Ireland, a shamrock garland and assorted St. Pat’s Day trinkets. The place looked great but the décor was quickly overshadowed by the food. Oh – the food! Mouth-watering corned beef, a colorful mixture of boiled vegetables (pass me another potato, please) and the best Irish soda bread I’ve ever had in or outside of Ireland. 

We swapped stories of our Irish heritage, toasted our native counties, and spoke of our mutual desire to go to Ireland with our children to introduce them to the culture. (Considering I can’t get anybody to go to Disneyland with me, getting to the Emerald Isle may not happen either.) Then I do believe we sang a bit of “Danny Boy.”

All this – and Susan sent me home with plenty of leftovers. In 24 hours, I have devoured my weight in Irish soda bread, toasted and smeared with butter and apricot preserves. I didn’t mean to pig out, yet my waking thought this morning was, “I must have Irish soda bread for breakfast.” It tastes like cake.

How good is this bread? It’s so good that I have asked Susan to make Irish soda bread for my birthday instead of a cake. I made my legendary tiramisu for her birthday, and for the first time in a long time, it turned out “tiramisoupy,” runny instead of custardy. Susan’s son, Michael, kindly said maybe an atmospheric difference between San Francisco and St. Louis caused it. Then he gamely spooned out a serving. I have no idea, but will give it another go.      

On the Domestic Delights scene, after much research (on line, on the phone and in the form of actual driving expeditions), I decided what cookware to buy to replace mine, which was unsuited for the radiant glass cooktop on my lovely stove, which was delivered just days before I moved into the apartment. The cookware I brought to San Francisco was deemed likely to scratch the cooktop, and the worst-case scenario had it overheating and fusing to the glass.

No, really! I talked to the people who made the stove and the people who made the cookware and I read accounts by people who had experienced just such upsetting events.

Anyway, I headed out in the car Wednesday morning, determined to buy one particular product. When I got to the store I changed my mind -- downsizing the dollars spent but still choosing lovely cookware that will not harm my stove. I left the mall through a back entrance and promptly got lost.

Looking up and down streets to get my bearings, I noticed really enthusiastic waves, waves I knew needed to see up close. My new cookware and I headed west until I reached the Great Highway, with the churning water just beyond. I parked and scrambled up the sand – it was magnificent! I waved to migrating gray whales (I couldn't see them,  but I know they saw me) and headed back to the car.

As though crashing waves weren’t enough excitement, this morning a funnel dropped from a cloud and played splish-splash just off Ocean Beach. I didn’t see it in person, but this video is fun: http://sfist.com/2011/03/18/video_small_cloud_funnel_touches_do.php

Technically, a funnel cloud over water is called a waterspout, known as a “non-supercell tornado over water.” Still, I thought it was super. An hour later, tiny balls of ice pelted my wall of windows – hail! And tonight we had a thunderstorm, with great flashes of lightning and pouring rain. So many meteorological delights!

Of Magic 8 Balls and the Oscars

Remember those Magic 8 Balls -- the Mattel toy that pretended to tell the future? You would ask a yes-or-no question, turn the ball in your hand and peek in the cloudy window to see your answer. Usually, the answer made no sense whatsoever.

Magic 8 Balls were developed in 1950. They are out, over, now merely nostalgic souvenirs, sometimes found in retro shops. I haven't used one in years. Now, late at night,  I sit at the computer and ask Google, “What’s the best way to get to the San Francisco airport?”

(Yes, this is crazy – but not as crazy as when I used to type, “When will the condo sell?” And “Where will I find an apartment I can afford?” And “Will the condo sell soon?)

In its way, Google is no more satisfying than the Magic 8 Ball. Does it tell me whether I should book a taxi, reserve a spot on a shuttle, drive my own car or take BART to the airport? No.

I know from experience that taxis do not always come when called. (See the Sept. 24 post.) On Yelp, I found reviews dissing every airport shuttle service in town, complaining about being stranded completely or, worse, being picked up on time but making so many stops en route to the airport that people missed their flights. Also, apparently no airport shuttle companies in town actually answer their phones.

If I drive myself – and I do trust me to leave home on time, park and make the flight – I am worried that when I get back home a couple days later, there will be no place to park my car. (See the July 21 post.) And I really don’t want to drag my bag and haul my backpack on two buses and BART.  I love riding the Muni when I’m out playing or even going to appointments, but making my way to the airport on public transportation right now sounds like a drag.

Is money an issue? Yes. And no. A taxi one way will be $40-$45. A shuttle will cost $17 plus tip one way. Driving and parking will be about $70 total. Public transportation would cost $10 round trip. I’m careful about my money, especially now that Lee Enterprises (publisher of the Post-Dispatch) helps themselves to half my pension each month as payment for health insurance I was promised would be free for life. (My life, not the life of Lee’s tolerance for unions.) But I also am willing to pay for convenience, especially when traveling.

“You’re over-thinking this,” says my son. Yep. That’s how I survive. I over-think and then make a decision and move on to the next problem to be solved. I’ve been taking good care of myself since I got divorced in 1980, and I don't apologize for my methods.   

Skipping merrily off to another topic here, I do apologize for setting aside this evening to watch the 83^rd Academy Awards. Thirty minutes in, shortly after the excellent Morgan Freeman’s part of the show was over, I declared on Facebook that the show sucked. Somehow it got worse as the evening went on. And then even worse.

I played a few Scrabble games on line, tried to keep myself from being drawn in to the hideously depressing world and national news in the New York Times and chatted with a friend. Okay, I also looked up more reviews of airport shuttles.

Fast-forwarding through the Oscars show, I did find myself transfixed a time or two by the statue itself because earlier this week I met two actual Oscar winners. On the mantel in their living room were two Oscars and two Emmys. Ever cool and sophisticated, when I saw the statues, I blurted, “Wow! I’m looking at Oscars and Emmys!”

The occasion, part of an incredibly kind and generous “Introduce Pat to Our Friends” project undertaken by old friend Nancy and new friend Betty-Lou, was a visit to the home of two extraordinary people, gifted filmmakers and bright, fun individuals. We sat in their kitchen, drinking tea and nibbling on outstanding fig bread and cookies, talking for hours about our lives, movies, our kids, theater, our health problems, and books.

We laughed a lot, too, most unexpectedly when I mentioned my cat. Suddenly, the couple’s two dogs raced for the back door, barking and snarling and ready to protect their property from any marauding felines. I once had a dog that knew the words “bye-bye” and “walk,” but these dogs heard “cat” and went wild. When I realized what I had said, I immediately began to refer to the cat as an iguana, an elephant, even an okapi, in hopes of calming the dogs.

Anyway, it was a wonderful afternoon of leisure and delight that nicely leavened a week otherwise full of work -- and wondering how best to get to the airport. It’s just a transportation detail. I’ll get there.

   

A Play Date on Saturday

Saturday morning showed up clear, sunny and warm, so I hopped in the car at 10:30 and didn’t get home until close to 5 p.m. Where did I go? Everywhere – a mountain, a forest and a seaside town. All in a day.

That’s no miracle – here, it’s typical.

I look at Mount Tamalpais every day, as it is north of my wall of windows. Mt. Tam – whose profile is said to resemble a sleeping Indian maiden -- is 34 miles from San Francisco, in Marin County. The highest point is 2,571 feet. You may walk up, bike up or (thank goodness) drive right to the top. I headed for the East Peak Visitors Center, driving up a road that twists and turns for more than 10 miles at a time through redwood groves and oak woodlands.

At the top, I put on my hat, bought some fruit and nuts at a small snack bar and headed off on a paved .07-mile path marked accessible for wheelchairs. It was, but I quickly discovered that I was not entirely comfortable walking where no rail separated me from the steep drop-off. Halfway along, I sat down on a comfortable wooden bench and breathed in the beautiful day. 

Graceful turkey vultures and huge ravens soared below me. I pondered how small, how like a toy, the magnificent city of San Francisco appeared. The island of Alcatraz looked as though it were idling momentarily, and would head out under full steam any minute. On the trail once again, I watched a man teach another man the sport of rock climbing. I eavesdropped as a little boy (maybe 4) told his sister (maybe 6) that he, too, would learn rock climbing when he is bigger and stronger.

Only one spot along the trail was windy, and buena vistas surrounded me: Mount Diablo to the east, the Farallon Islands to the west, my home to the south and more of Marin County to the north. I didn’t know to look for this, but I learned later that sometimes you can see the snow-covered Sierra Nevada mountains, some 150 miles away.

Driving back down the mountain, I saw a sign for Bolinas. I headed west, driving through silent stands of redwoods and along rolling hills decorated randomly with carpets of purple flowers. Bolinas is a seaside town of about 1,500 and the adjacent estuary laps quietly above the San Andreas Fault. The people there are described as “independent,” and they have exercised their independence by removing all signs that tell how to reach the town.

I found it, only because Charlie and I had visited Bolinas a year or more ago. I parked and strolled down the street to the edge of the land, where kids and dogs splashed in the surf and people my age sat on benches staring out to sea, enjoying the day. On the way back to the two-block-long business district, l passed an art gallery, a museum and a shop that sold locally made cotton socks and plenty of items from Thailand and Nepal. 

Hungry, I took an outside table at the Coast Café, across the street from a 100-year-old saloon and hotel established in 1851. In some ways, the café seems lost in time, with stained oilcloth covering the tiny tables. The menu, however, is completely up to date, and emphasizes local produce. I ordered an omelet made with fresh local mushrooms, cheese and scallions. Then I settled in to watch people passing by – lots of people with young kids (one mom was barefoot, which didn’t look comfortable), lots of Serious Bikers in Serious Spandex, a handful of older folks.

Waiting for lunch, I glanced through the wooden trellis just to the left of my table. The trellis partly obscured a public altar to Yemanja, a goddess of the sea and an old friend of mine. Coins had been left on the altar. Everyone passing by was going along with the “Respect This Space” sign until a young couple plopped their crying baby on the altar and started rummaging through a cloth bag. I was worried that a diaper change was in the offing, but they simply retrieved a bottle and moved on. In some incarnations, Yemanja also is a protector of children, but still…

Walking to the car after my late lunch, I saw this sign: “Open Studio – Welcome.” Tucked back off the street was the door to Emmeline Craig’s one-room abode that serves as her home and her studio. A watercolorist, Craig is from Provence, France. She paints Provence but also Bolinas, where she has lived for 10 years. Her work is beautiful -- check it out at http://www.emmelinewatercolors.com.

Driving home, I passed though tiny Stinson Beach (half the size of Bolinas), waved at The Sand Dollar (where Beth and I had lunch last year), and caught glimpses of the sun sparkling on the sea. Mostly, I kept my eyes on the twisty, winding road, much like the one I took earlier in the day. What a grand Saturday!

 

 

Making Old Friendships New

Cheri is coming to town.

Cheri, who lived behind the house we moved to when I was in sixth grade, Cheri who was my college roommate, Cheri who was my bridesmaid.

In the early years, we walked home from school together (except when it rained and her mom picked us up), went to the park and went to the pool. We considered our options for the future. She wanted to be a humanist-scientist (a term I think she made up), I wanted to be a writer.

We both wore the clunky desert boots that were in fashion – and they seem to be back, as I saw a pair in a shoe store window three days ago – and we wore cranberry skirts and sweaters, the hot color of the moment.

In high school, we walked home from school together (except when it rained and her mom picked us up), went to the park and the pool and played canasta for hours. Days. Weeks, even, in the summer. And we continued to consider our options for the future.

In college, we roomed together in a dorm for my junior year and her senior year. I remember discussing boys, getting drunk together on her 21^st birthday and discussing boys, some of whom wanted to be options for our future.

I remember something else. These were the dear, ancient days when girls’ dorms had random “bed checks,” to make sure all the girls were in by curfew. Seniors could check out keys and come in late. The rest of us talked friends into propping open a back door so we could sneak in after curfew.

One night, Cheri was out for the evening – most likely for the night – without a key. As I said, the bed checks were random, and should someone in authority ask where a particular girl might be, a friend could always fib and say she was on a different floor studying or sobbing in the stairwell over a lost love or in one of the “fancy” gang showers that had a tub in a private room.

But when bed checks were held, everyone was expected to be in the dorm.

One night, the Resident Adviser – a friend -- whispered to me that bed check was on the schedule that evening and I should figure out how to get Cheri back to the dorm in time. I knew where Cheri’s boyfriend lived, but I didn’t have a car. I didn’t know his phone number or even the name of his roommate, who likely had the phone listed in his name.

I did not panic. I ordered a pizza sent to Cheri’s boyfriend’s apartment, with “CALL PAT” spelled out in sausage. The pizza got delivered, the phone call came and Cheri made it back in time for bed check.

After Cheri walked down the aisle in my wedding, I moved to Oklahoma while she went on to earn her master’s degree in microbiology. She married and moved to Delaware with her husband, Tom. In some order that I do not recall, I had a child and she had four. I do remember that one of her daughters is named for Jenny Lake in Grand Teton National Park.

At some point maybe 25-plus years ago, I traveled to the East Coast and spent some time with Cheri and Tom and then headed for New York City. I honestly can’t recall if we have seen each other since, though we have exchanged greetings and pertinent news at the holidays. Also, Cheri was kind enough to post a glowing review of one of my books on amazon.com.

Over time, her children married and moved to different parts of the country. My son moved to San Francisco and married in 2009. As regular readers know, I moved here seven months ago. I learned last week that Cheri and Tom’s son and his family also live in San Francisco, so 50 years after we met, Cheri is coming to town.

We have a past in common. Our futures took us in different directions. Now we have a chance to share some present time with both our families. What a gift!