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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: General Interest
- Published: 10/02/2020
2020BV (Approx. 950 wds.)
Buena Vista Memories
Our son Jack and his wife Maria had taken my wife Sally and myself for a weekend in San Francisco. Sally and I had met in San Francisco, married there and lived there for a year before we moved to Sacramento so that, as a State employee, I could get a promotion. In our early years in Sacramento we’d spent many weekends in San Francisco. Now, many years later and living in a retirement community just outside of Sacramento we hadn’t been there for quite some time.
Jack and Maria had found a motel by Fisherman’s Wharf, which was completely changed since the last time we’d been there. We had lunch (seafood, of course) in a restaurant that hadn’t been there before and then walked up to Ghiardelli Square, where I was thankful to sit on a bench while the others browsed the shops. After two years of pain I was scheduled for a hip replacement the next month. We then stopped in at the Buena Vista, a San Francisco landmark that had once been very familiar to me, intending to have a drink, maybe an Irish coffee for which they were famous, only to find the place was so crowded with tourists that we couldn’t find a place to sit. Instead, we walked back along the Wharf and found a nearly empty bar where we had cold drinks, pleasant enough, but not the Buena Vista.
We then returned to our motel and after a while went to dinner at another new restaurant where the food wasn’t, I thought, particularly good but the view was very nice so maybe that justified the high prices. After dinner Jack and Maria were going out to explore the Wharf’s night life while Sally and I were ready for bed. By this time my hip was really hurting and I wondered if I could do any walking the next day. We turned off the lights, got into bed, I kissed Sally, I looked out into the darkness and that’s when the memories came.
I came to San Francisco from New York in the early 1960’s, a time when many young people were going there and it was a nice place to be. I found a job without too much trouble. I found an apartment whose rent I could afford, unlike in New York. I could walk to work, unlike in New York, where I had to take a subway. In New York, like everyone I knew, I’d never had a car. I bought one and learned how to drive. I knew one person in San Francisco, Roy Foster, a UC Berkeley grad I’d met in the Army, and I fell in with what I thought of as the Berkeley crowd and the Buena Vista was one of our hangouts.
On a typical weekend the crowd met after work on Fridays at a downtown bar called the Office (because if someone’s wife called he could say he was at the office). Almost always someone knew of a party to go to that night. On Sunday morning we’d meet at the Buena Vista, or BV, to discuss the last night’s doings, and then go someplace, usually across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sam’s in Tiburon where we could sit in the sun, have Samburgers and beer, and look at The City, which might be shrouded in fog, across the way. It was a nice time to be in San Francisco.
My eyes closed, I could picture the scene at the BV on a typical Sunday morning. We sat around a table, Roy Foster and his girl friend Jane Brewster, George Chapman and his girlfriend Betty Evans; Big John Sullivan and his wild girlfriend Rad; myself, with no girl friend at the time. We were all young and living in San Francisco and the future held endless possibilities. I wondered what had happened to all of them. Roy Foster had gone on to be a noted sports writer and I’d seen an article about his passing in the magazine he wrote for so I knew he was gone. I also knew that Rad had died in a car accident. The others, if they were still around, would, like me, be pretty old.
Then, as in a movie, the scene changed. This time I was in the BV but at night and not with the Berkeley crowd but with my girl friend, Marilyn not Sally. We’d gone out somewhere and had stopped in at the BV for a nightcap. It was crowded but we managed to find a table. The air was smoky; people still smoked way back then as a sign of being adult. Marilyn went to the bar to get our drinks. When she came back she told me that J--- A---, a player on the San Francisco 49ers, was there and he’d tried to hit on her. I liked J--- A--- as a player but I didn’t like him trying to hit on my girl friend. No, I didn’t go to the bar and confront him. I suppose I felt good about Marilyn rebuffing him and coming back to me. Then that scene faded. I’d lost touch with Marilyn and wondered what had happened to her. I wondered about J--- A---. Was he still around? If so, did he have dementia as so many old football players did? After this, I fell asleep.
The next morning, by some miracle, my hip felt okay. We had breakfast in the motel’s coffee shop, after which we packed up and Jack drove us to the Cliff House on the ocean, another place which provoked memories. But that’s another story.
###
Buena Vista Memories(Martin Green)
2020BV (Approx. 950 wds.)
Buena Vista Memories
Our son Jack and his wife Maria had taken my wife Sally and myself for a weekend in San Francisco. Sally and I had met in San Francisco, married there and lived there for a year before we moved to Sacramento so that, as a State employee, I could get a promotion. In our early years in Sacramento we’d spent many weekends in San Francisco. Now, many years later and living in a retirement community just outside of Sacramento we hadn’t been there for quite some time.
Jack and Maria had found a motel by Fisherman’s Wharf, which was completely changed since the last time we’d been there. We had lunch (seafood, of course) in a restaurant that hadn’t been there before and then walked up to Ghiardelli Square, where I was thankful to sit on a bench while the others browsed the shops. After two years of pain I was scheduled for a hip replacement the next month. We then stopped in at the Buena Vista, a San Francisco landmark that had once been very familiar to me, intending to have a drink, maybe an Irish coffee for which they were famous, only to find the place was so crowded with tourists that we couldn’t find a place to sit. Instead, we walked back along the Wharf and found a nearly empty bar where we had cold drinks, pleasant enough, but not the Buena Vista.
We then returned to our motel and after a while went to dinner at another new restaurant where the food wasn’t, I thought, particularly good but the view was very nice so maybe that justified the high prices. After dinner Jack and Maria were going out to explore the Wharf’s night life while Sally and I were ready for bed. By this time my hip was really hurting and I wondered if I could do any walking the next day. We turned off the lights, got into bed, I kissed Sally, I looked out into the darkness and that’s when the memories came.
I came to San Francisco from New York in the early 1960’s, a time when many young people were going there and it was a nice place to be. I found a job without too much trouble. I found an apartment whose rent I could afford, unlike in New York. I could walk to work, unlike in New York, where I had to take a subway. In New York, like everyone I knew, I’d never had a car. I bought one and learned how to drive. I knew one person in San Francisco, Roy Foster, a UC Berkeley grad I’d met in the Army, and I fell in with what I thought of as the Berkeley crowd and the Buena Vista was one of our hangouts.
On a typical weekend the crowd met after work on Fridays at a downtown bar called the Office (because if someone’s wife called he could say he was at the office). Almost always someone knew of a party to go to that night. On Sunday morning we’d meet at the Buena Vista, or BV, to discuss the last night’s doings, and then go someplace, usually across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sam’s in Tiburon where we could sit in the sun, have Samburgers and beer, and look at The City, which might be shrouded in fog, across the way. It was a nice time to be in San Francisco.
My eyes closed, I could picture the scene at the BV on a typical Sunday morning. We sat around a table, Roy Foster and his girl friend Jane Brewster, George Chapman and his girlfriend Betty Evans; Big John Sullivan and his wild girlfriend Rad; myself, with no girl friend at the time. We were all young and living in San Francisco and the future held endless possibilities. I wondered what had happened to all of them. Roy Foster had gone on to be a noted sports writer and I’d seen an article about his passing in the magazine he wrote for so I knew he was gone. I also knew that Rad had died in a car accident. The others, if they were still around, would, like me, be pretty old.
Then, as in a movie, the scene changed. This time I was in the BV but at night and not with the Berkeley crowd but with my girl friend, Marilyn not Sally. We’d gone out somewhere and had stopped in at the BV for a nightcap. It was crowded but we managed to find a table. The air was smoky; people still smoked way back then as a sign of being adult. Marilyn went to the bar to get our drinks. When she came back she told me that J--- A---, a player on the San Francisco 49ers, was there and he’d tried to hit on her. I liked J--- A--- as a player but I didn’t like him trying to hit on my girl friend. No, I didn’t go to the bar and confront him. I suppose I felt good about Marilyn rebuffing him and coming back to me. Then that scene faded. I’d lost touch with Marilyn and wondered what had happened to her. I wondered about J--- A---. Was he still around? If so, did he have dementia as so many old football players did? After this, I fell asleep.
The next morning, by some miracle, my hip felt okay. We had breakfast in the motel’s coffee shop, after which we packed up and Jack drove us to the Cliff House on the ocean, another place which provoked memories. But that’s another story.
###
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Martin Green
10/05/2020Finally getting around to this, Gail. Wrote this after hearing song Those Were the Days. Those days were definitely better than today's days. Still smoky here but should be getting better unless more fires break out. Virus situation in CA seems better, also. Trump's shd be a lesson to us---wear those masks. Best wishes. Martin
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Kevin Hughes
10/02/2020Martin,
Memory lane makes up the Highway I spend the most time on now. And funnily enough, old girlfriends ( a total of one besides my Kathy ) also come to mind. As do people I haven't seen since my college or Army days. And like you...I like them.
Wonderful. Smiles, Kevin
COMMENTS (2)