7 X 7 + 7

         An old Swedish bromide acknowledges that too soon we grow old, and too late we grow smart.  Swedes are heavy into all kinds of lamenting like that.  It's a national sport.  Take it from one who's participated countless times, especially when it comes to life and times sixty-five years ago in The City by the Bay.  Its charm, sophistication and diversity were, shall we say, "vastly under-appreciated" by a certain ten-year old of that era.  San Francisco is 7 miles in length, 7 miles in breadth, and has 7 hills in its topography.  Big deal.

         The ever-present, never-pleasant fog.  Carl Sandburg wrote of the stuff as "creeping in on cats' feet".  As a pre-adolescent, I could never buy that lyrical malarky.  West of Twin Peaks, fog drapes whole neighborhoods under a smothering blanket.  On too many days, the puritanical sun never shone until almost noon.  In mid-April of this year, it still doesn't.

         Avenue after avenue and row after row of houses, bunched so closely that a laser beam couldn't find a shaft of separation between them.  At the age of ten, I saw "I Remember Mama" at a neighborhood theatre.  It was supposed to be a movie about a mother's (Irene Dunne) selfless devotion to her family.  What I saw was a black & white essay of immigrants to S.F. coping with life in a bleak, congested Scandanavian neighborhood.  This was cinema verite.  It was obvious to me that the screen play's writer saw my town the way I did; realistically.  In 1947, pre-adolescent Swedes, Danes, and Norwegians consigned to life in the city found it hard...at least, that's one minority's assessment.
             Diversion then, apart from stamp collecting and Tom Mix on the radio, were those times when Fr. O'Day of St. Cecilia's parish would involve the local under-age, green-space challenged in a game of softball..  But where was it invariably played?  On the asphalt parking lot adjoining the church!  Particularly disappointing to this writer was that our cleric/hurler pitched for both sides, so that really pasting one of his cream puff lobs beyond the left fielder's outstreched glove hardly drew any notice or satisfaction.

            Twin Peaks to the Pacific Ocean is a vicinty where Shel Silverstein would be put to the test because here, the sidewalk never ends.  Conversely, the dirt trail never begins.  Want to climb a tree, or capture a crawdad in a creek?  Forget it! The West Portal terrain is where no self-respecting garter snake or bullfrog would ever venture.  Try Marin, or head south to Santa Clara county, where the sun always shines, and they have heated outdoor swimming pools...and lots of dirt, and trees, and creepy crawlers!

           But that sentiment was for then, before I put away my childish things.  Now, several scores of years later, I see through the glass much differently.  The City that I couldn't wait to leave is now the one to which I constantly long to return.  My birthplace is as all-knowing as many a mother who tolerantly admonishes, "You couldn't fully appreciate me during your childhood, but there will come a day when you will."  That day came to pass in the autumn of the years.
           Now, well into life's winter, 27,315 days and counting, what slipped under spring's radar can be more fully recognized.  Lizards, unpaved paths, and rushing water can be found in a multitude of places where sidewalks end.  But in other, more important considerations, the town where I breathed my first is non-pareil, a one-and-only.  No matter how many times this writer leaves then returns, The City welcomes the prodigal son back with her own unique fragrance, her unique beauty, her unique embrace.
            One of many causal, but friendly S.F. acquaintances asked during our most recent return if things had changed much over the years.  Thankfully, very little of the important stuff has.  And many of the places that were either overlooked or ignored in my callow youth are still around, and have endearingly remained as they were, way back when.

            It's mandatory.  On the first morning of the first day of each reunion, first item on the agenda has to be breakfast at "It's Tops"...where time stops.  Built in 1935, and found on the corner of Octavia and Market Streets, it remains virtually unaffected by the years.  You'll be greeted by the affable and attentive Miss Sheila, garbed in a pink smock.  It's very reminiscent of 40's-'50's attire, which complements the diner's decor.  Wurlitzer selection boxes in all eight booths, twirling fountain stools, period photos and ads adorning the tongue-and-groove all add to the touch.  But the menu....ah the menu..especially items from the griddle!  The bacon waffles and french toast are magnifique.  There is a cozy booth for two just inside the door and up one step that's our favorite.  Why should a delightful tete-a-tet be the sole province of dinner?

              In Golden Gate Park,  and sandwiched between the new DeYoung Art Museum and Steinhart Aquarium (which the city fathers now insist on calling the "California Academy of Sciences") is an architectural wonder that frequently escapes notice, the band shell.  Strangely, no docent nor staff employee seems to know when it was built, but it's a lead-pipe cinch that it at least pre-dates the 1939 Treasure Island World's Fair.  Many was the Sunday when my father would chauffeur his family to hear military bands play march after march of John Phillip Sousa.  These performances weren't particularly awe-inspiring to the young and the restless, but the enticement of an ice cream cone after every finale was undeniable.  Looking at it now from a "seasoned" perspective there is an appeal about the place that couldn't be recognized when parents would have been most pleased.  Timing is everything.

              Gazing off to the north from the Embarcadero and across the bay, one cannot avoid the sight of  The City's signature monument, and regrettably something that has become a bit of a cliche.  Anybody who has ever visited our town has at least one photo of the Golden Gate Bridge, right?  So what's the significance now?  It's that the prescient engineers and architects put it all together just in time to commemorate the arrival of the high school class of '55!!  However, all those born in 1937 should feel honored.

             Finally, it is common knowledge that artisans of all stripes autograph their finished works, but nowhere else in all the cosmos has this writer found a chamber pot which bears, on the bowl itself, not only the name of its designer, but also the craftsman who installed it! This is the penultimate in the a-commode-dation of nature's needs.  The only superior creation would be an original from the studios of Thomas Crapper and Company, London.  This particular piece can be found, and appreciated, in room 774 of the Whitcomb Hotel (vintage 1916) on Market Street.  It is mounted on a raised, marble platform, giving it a genuine, regal feel.

             In all respects, from its objects d'art to its neighborhoods steeped in history to the friendliest of populations, San Francisco remains "The City that knows how".  Move over, Tony Bennett.  You aren't the only one who left his heart there!