Posted on 12/16/2006 8:17:38 AM PST by Congressman Billybob
In more than twenty years of columns, I’ve never written one specifically for a new publication. But every rule has its exceptions. This is for the San Francisco News, launched just a week ago by my friends from the Canyon News in Los Angeles. And, if any place in the US is nostalgic to me, San Francisco is the place.
I graduated from college and got married in 1964. My intention was to go to law school, and I applied various places. Boalt Hall, at the University of California in Berkeley, gave me a maybe, so I drove to California to meet with the Dean.
He was impressed with my moxie, and said, “If we take anyone from the waiting list, we’ll take you.” On the strength of that statement, I moved to San Francisco. I found out days before the school year began that Boalt Hall was taking no one from its waiting list. So there I was, a resident of San Francisco all dressed up, with nowhere to go.
That turned out to be a good thing, not a bad one. For starters, there was our apartment at 127 Crown Terrace in San Francisco. For those who don’t know the City’s geography, I’ll explain the significance of that. For those who do know the City, bear with me.
That address is part of a complex of apartment buildings which were constructed in the 30s I believe, on the slopes of Twin Peaks, the highest point in the City. Most importantly, that point is above the fog line. So, when “the fog comes on little cat feet” under the Golden Gate Bridge, as Carl Sandburg wrote, we were above the fog line. When that white blanket filled the Bay and washed over Fishermen’s Wharf, Alcatraz and all the rest, it left just the towers of the Golden Gate, and of the Oakland Bridge, and Twin Peaks, above it.
Keep in mind the real estate axiom that value depends on location, location and location. I paid nearly half of my first income (as an insurance agent for Metropolitan Life Insurance Company), to rent that one-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor of an eight story building on Twin Peaks. And it was worth every penny, every month.
The second magnificent thing which happened in San Francisco was the birth of my first daughter, and first child. She was born in the University of California Medical Center, just up the street from the intersection of Haight and Ashbury Streets. It was all so San Francisco. The street outside the hospital had steps cut in it so you could walk up it. And it was there that I learned that curbing your wheels was not just a good idea, but a very expensive fine if you didn’t do that, to prevent your parked car from running away and killing someone.
My first job in an actual office was on Market Street, but I commuted by parking my car down the hill and catching a cable car to work. Years later I worked in urban planning, and I learned the story of the cable cars in San Francisco. The Supervisors, in their blistering ignorance, proposed to get rid of Andrew Hallidie’s cable cars from 1873, because they clogged the streets and interfered with traffic. The citizens rose up on their hind legs and wrote the cable cars into the City Charter, so the Supervisors could not touch them.
And now, those quaint relics are symbols of the town, as Tony Bennett sings, “Where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars....” They are also an efficient means of transportation. I was working in the Planning Department for Baltimore City when I read a study on urban transportation in San Francisco. The fastest way to get around the City was by cable car, averaging 14 miles per hour. The slowest way, just a touch slower than walking, was in a private car. So, both beauty and efficiency were served by the revolt of the citizens against the Supervisors to save the cable cars.
A mere column barely touches the surface of the pleasures of San Francisco, forty years ago. I’ll add just one more delight. The manager of the apartment I lived in was Mrs. McGinnis. She was a lady of a certain age, long divorced from but still good friends with her husband, whom I met one Christmas.
Mr. McGinnis was a part-time employee of the Wells Fargo Bank, who came out to every new branch opening they had. The reason was that he was their last surviving stage coach driver, who used to run the stage from Santa Fe to San Francisco.
Well, I’m now in the grandfather business, not the daughter business. And I live on a mountaintop, far from any blue water. Still, I offer this as a verbal Christmas wreath, not just to the folks in San Francisco, but to all who’ve shared these literary journeys with me. . - 30 -
About the Author: John Armor is a lawyer specializing in constitutional law, who may again be a candidate for Congress in the 11th District of North Carolina. John_Armor@aya.yale.edu
- 30 -
Just a little query.
I was there in '65, and worked on Market, and I don't recall any cable car line going from anywhere near Twin Peaks to Market street. Where the heck did you drive to in order to catch a car downtown, Van Ness and California, or down to the wharf?
The California line went all the way to Van Ness, so you probably just walked there from the lot. Cool trip, past the Fairmont every morning. I was on the other end of Market, but probably on the bus that almost nailed you as you crossed Van Ness.
Small whatever....
I love 'Frisco. I used to live in The Bay Area and would take BART to The City all the time, (I lived in Santa Clara.)
I loved the Presidio, the aquarium, the architecture, the hills, North Beach, Golden Gate park, and places right outside like Henry Coe, Felton, Boulder, Highway 17 and the Marin Headlands.
I used to love reading Herb Caen, Stan Delaplane, Charlie McCabe and Scott Ostler before he got stuck permanently in Sports, I also liked reading Ruthe Stein and the Outdoors guy, Tom Stienstra (sp?.)
It's too bad it is such an evil city, just like Ithica, another of my favorite cities because of the Finger Lakes and Gorges areas, but inhabited by purely evil politicians, (in my opinion.)
Thanks for this Christmas card, Billybob!
Twenty years ago one of the Dominican brothers at St Vincent's in San Rafael showed me the still quite visible ruts made by the old Wells Fargo wagon. I thought that was so cool.
Poignant and wistful...
Merry Christmas, my Friend!
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