Coit Tower

I can highly recommend my grief counselor

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‘AKA the Emotional Support Baby’

Well. We finally made it out to see The Child and the SIL and Mr. Baby. We tried to go visit them in Flagstaff a few weeks ago, but they got colds. Then we tried to visit them in San Francisco, and Dude Man caught a cold. (Actually, more like “the crud:” icky snorty sniffy symptoms that stuck around for what felt like forever — especially for The One Who Had to Keep Hearing About It.)

The Little Family in Flagstaff, before colds were caught

And boy, did we need this visit. Dude Man because he hadn’t seen His Babyness since Thanksgiving. And me because I lost my Mom not even a month ago. (Feel free to read my bittersweet little ode to her, “Beautiful Swan,” if you are so inclined — and have access to tissues.)

The Child was diligent with FaceTiming her Gramma. Here is a screenshot from one of their *sniff* last sessions

I have to say, even if this baby were not the most attractive baby ever to be born to any human, this trip would still have distracted us from fits of sadness and/or grief. What with all the activities we packed into three measly days, we were literally too busy to be sad.

Scott and Mr. Baby engage in a charm contest

We walked in Golden Gate Park, we went to Petaluma to play with Uncle Scott and Aunt Susan, we hiked on Mount Tam, we visited the Palace of the Legion of Honor.

Grampa and Mr. Baby resting along the Mt. Tram trail

Why, on Friday alone we spent three hours visiting Alcatraz, then marched from the pier up more than 1000 steps to reach Coit Tower. And after that, we prowled City Lights Bookstore. I’m exhausted just writing this paragraph!

The Child springs Mr. Baby from solitary confinement on Cell Block D. He was in the joint for stealing his Gramma’s heart

We still had lots of time to chill and engage in baby horseplay. These days, the Baby in Question is keen on chewing on his fist(s), grabbing anything orange, yellow or red, wriggling around while kicking mightily, and lighting up when he sees a person he likes. Which is practically everyone. I liked to glance to the rear as we were tooling about, to catch the gobsmacked expressions of the baby-spotters in our wake.

Mr. Baby appreciates a painting. But not nearly as much as the museum goers appreciated him

Grampa Wayne taught him to say “oooohhh” and Uncle Scott taught him the joys of peek-a-boo. And a splendidly good time was had by all.

Mom would have loved it.

Mom and I share a Baby FaceTime on my last visit

New York City. March 2025

The Streets of San Francisco

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‘Where’s Karl Malden when you need him?’

Well, actually I know where Karl is. And I’m thinking it’s not Heaven.

Those of you who follow my blog (thank you!) know that I had rather an unfortunate experience with Karl back in my Ad World days. But, in spite of his rampant sexism and all-around unpleasantness, it would have been comforting to have him — in character as Lt. Mike Stone, that is — out there on San Francisco’s streets last weekend.

Dude Man adorning the streets of SF, specifically the street outside the Pacific Union Club on Nob Hill

See, Dude Man and I were out there in the City by the Bay visiting The Child last weekend. She and her hub, the SIL, have been spending most of their time there because of work. So much time that they have rented an apartment. This new apartment is located near the Panhandle, which they were surprised to hear used to be a pretty dicey area. So dicey that the term “panhandler” comes from there, back when that part of Golden Gate Park was populated with less-than-savory denizens who did a lot of well, panhandling.

Child and Child’s pal admiring views of Golden Gate Park from the tower at the de Young Museum

Their new place is in Haight-Ashbury, which they now call “The Haight.” (I wonder if Her Childness knows hippies used to live there. Actually, I wonder if Her Childness knows what a “hippie” is?)

But this story isn’t about hippies, or even about panhandlers (though close) — it’s about a stalker. A stalker who was stalking us Saturday morning as we strolled (or rolled?) our way down Nob Hill. (Quick note: I do mean roll. Those streets are steep. I guess we can’t plan on retiring there to be near the Kids; no way you could maneuver a walker. Though we did see several scooters chained to lampposts. None in use, however. Just chained. Securely.)

Anyway. About our stalker. Dude Man and I, being on East Coast time, awakened at an ungodly hour and decided to take a walk. Our goal: Coit Tower, where Dude Man wanted to “check out the birds.”

Dr. Dude recording the call of the hummingbirds in the trees around Coit Tower

So, armed with binoculars, we set out, stopping first, tourist-style, to take photos of each other. Dude Man was in the midst of pointing out the building where Kim Novak’s character lives in Vertigo when we noticed a rather seedy-looking character loitering in the entryway.

The touristy photo Dude Man took of me. You can see a slice of Seedy Stalker’s blue windbreaker to the right in the background

Now, being from New York City, where seedy-looking characters are the norm, we weren’t too alarmed. Though we did keep an eye on him, and noticed that yes, he was following us. He kept to the other side of the street, and a block or so back. But when we stopped to look in the window of the Cable Car Museum, we noticed he stopped, too. It was rather amusing, until it was not.

Yes, we reached Coit Tower safely

We decided that he pegged us for well-to-do tourists (taking snapshots: check) who had good stuff to snatch (carrying binoculars: check). We figured he was waiting to catch us in a lonely stretch and demand our valuables. If he didn’t go away, our plan was to wait until there were more people around, then whirl around and confront him. “You’re creeping us out, Fella!” was my planned address while brandishing my phone. “Stop following us or I’m calling Karl Malden (er, 911)!”

There were plenty of people loitering at Coit Tower, but our stalker wasn’t one of them. Maybe it was just too steep a climb

Well, I guess there were too many people around because, by the time we reached Washington Square Park, he had disappeared. By then I was kinda fired up, so I was a little disappointed. Well, maybe not. Oh! Washington Square is in North Beach, which is where we were dining at an Italian restaurant that time The Child had the epic tantrum and had to be carried screaming down the street, a tale I told in “Let Me Go! I Want My Mommy!”

We made it to Coit Tower without further incident, and even managed to secure a table outside an Italian bakery in North Beach on our way back to the PU (the affectionate nickname of the Pacific Union Club). We needed a snack; we had to fuel ourselves for the hike back up.

Though, once we’d earned our steps, we learned our lesson. And Uber’d and Lyfted and Waymo‘d the rest of the visit.

Back home in Amagansett. August 2024

 

I left my heart in San Francisco

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‘And my life between the moon and New York City’

This is a story about how The Child almost didn’t come to be.

I had almost forgotten about her near miss with existence. But, just the other day, my memory was jogged by Her Childness herself when I asked, “Where are you now?”

See, The Child, as you well may know, has taken the concept of working remotely and sort of super-sized it. She and The Beau gave up their apartment, stored their stuff (mainly in my attic), bought an F350 with a BigFoot camper shell, and hit the road.

Trailer Hitch: Child and Beau a few months after the start of their trip — and a few weeks after their engagement

(If you can do it without going all green with pent-up-in-my-darned-house-for-almost-a-year envy you can read about some of their adventures in “Her Personal Truck” and “Deeds of Derring-Don’t.”)

Well. It turns out The Child is in San Francisco. When I heard this, my soul was suddenly filled with longing.

The Traveling Two entering the Golden Gate

I have previously regaled you with the story about how I got myself to New York. (It’s a pretty good yarn called “Take a Letter, Miss Henry.” A rubber chicken is involved.) But I failed to mention in this story that my other very-seriously-considered option was to move to San Francisco.

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