Summertime and the living is easy. Especially when you are 12, with an over active imagination. Anything could happen when school was out, and the sun didn't set until 8:45.
The summer of 1976 we were between homes, 6 of us living in a two bedroom, 1 bath, 800 square foot house on a San Anselmo cul de sac waiting for the Ross house my parents were building, to be finished. Fitting really since I had an in between situation of my own - that awkward preteen age when you felt your world changing, and hanging on to familiar things was pretty comforting.
We had spent the last 5 years in Greenbrae, having outgrown the San Anslemo house I had started life in. It may as well have been the next county for the disconnect I felt to my best friend who was left behind. Even though we went to the same school, when the afternoon bell rang we quite literally went in opposite directions and parents weren't as willing slaves to children back then as they are now. It was a rare afternoon when she and I were together. And so, the pain of having to share a tiny bedroom with my brother and twin sisters was completely offset by the fact that my best friend lived on the hill directly above the cul de sac, and the Ross house didn't look to be finished before summer's end.
By way of a moving in present, my very industrious friend, constructed a fort out of bamboo in our back yard; A real Gilligan's Island style wonder that hid us from mother's prying eyes. This same friend was the source of Laurie Partidge's keyboard of plywood and black marker, and the most fabulous dress up barrel filled with frilly frocks from generations past. Playing pretend games with a best bud who submerged herself in the same fantasy without question is freedom personified.
Summer was a feast for the senses and set our imaginations spinning. Heat dryed wild grasses scented the still air and the high pitched buzzing of cicadas signalled mid day heat. I always assumed that droning ring was what summer sounded like as if summer itself existed as an entity in its own right.
There was a lot of freedom that summer, running barefoot, back and forth between our houses, lost in our make believe world. When we bored of our pretend games, there was always the hike to Redhill and Swenson's Ice Cream Parlor. A blast of cold air brought relief from the stifling heat as we pushed through the glass door. I had my first taste of Bubblegum, Mocha Chocolate Chip and my personal favorite, Cherry Vanilla ice cream sitting beneath the turn of the century photos of San Francisco.
Trudging home across the baseball fields of Memorial Park, we would pass the requisite run down house we were convinced was haunted, or at the very least occupied by a murderous, old, mad woman. We would slow as we approached, trying to get a glimpse inside, daring each other to get right up to the windows. Giggling nervously in case the other would actually do it, we would pull each other away towards home. Once there, shoes tossed aside, and bolstered by the sugar rush, there was a game of tether ball to be played, and played and played. I nearly never won, being a full foot shorter than she.
The Firehouse horn bellowed across the valley signalling 5pm and the sound of summer days was soon replaced by the sound of summer nights...crickets chirping as the air finally started to cool. Still we played on even as night fell.
At last the piercing whistle would come. My friend's father beckoning her home. Even after a full day of childish pleasures I would sometimes sit gazing up at her house on the hill, lights blazing in the windows longing for tomorrow. Those waning days of youth when you could not spend too much time in the company of your friends. There was always another story that could be acted out, another game of tether ball to lose and way more ice cream to eat.
Musings and Memories of Growing up a Marin Kid.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sunday Drives, The Cherry Tree and Occidental
We left Marin for the windy roads of Sonoma every Sunday that I can remember. No questions asked, no protestations allowed. Right after donuts at the 9am Mass, the 6 of us piled into the Buick Station Wagon and headed up 101 into farm country.
And it was ALWAYS north. Never East, West or South. There was a purpose aside from getting 4 fidgety kids from under my mother's feet. Simple pleasures, for it wasn't the chic destination it is today. More orchards and cows back then than grapes. And truthfully, as long as you had a window seat, the drive was far from a tortuous affair, and I am not waxing lyrical 30 years hence. A Nancy Drew in hand, watching the golden hills roll into one another, daylight drawing long shadows from the gnarled Oaks as afternoon waned, making up ghost stories on the way home to entertain my 3 younger siblings. I actually don't understand why it wasn't a tradition I carried on with my own children.
As far as I can remember, we pretty much took the same route: Highway 37 to Sonoma Square where we stopped at the Cheese Factory for Sandwiches in the park, then to Napa and up the valley to Yountville, and finally, back to Sonoma along the Russian River to Occidental where I am sure THIS was the principle purpose. Occidental. Every Italian family from Marin ate supper at Occidental one time or another. It was either Negri's on one side of main street or the Union Hotel directly across the way. And you had to choose. Once you did, you never crossed the road.
The Lavaroni family landed squarely with the Union Hotel, an old fashioned family style restaurant with red checkered table cloths, drippy candles and obscene amounts of food, including, the BEST minestrone soup EVER.
Yesterday was Father's Day and it felt like the right thing to do to take a Sunday Drive of my own, the children spending the day with their father and my own Pater, now strangely devoid of the desire to ramble along country roads, even with the enticement of the Union Hotel's warm apple fritters.
I might not have recreated the exact route, but the feeling was the same. Freedom from the cares of the week to come, lost in the beauty of a dwindling afternoon sun on acres of translucent grape leaves. I even spotted an apple orchard holding its own amidst a sea of pinot vines.
The most evocative sight on my nostalgic tour was The Cherry Tree, a ramshackle hut, long boarded up, tucked into a bend on Hwy 12 just as you begin to climb a bluff.
I remember the question, always for naught. "Can we stop? Pleeeaaase?" There was something hard to resist about the rows of ruby liquid filled jugs that lined the fence in the dirt parking area, teasing us as we passed. The answer was always the same. "Maybe on the way back." I don't know why we never caught on. The way back was always through Occidental.
It must have been the hawk that caught my eye, circling languidly above, or the baby ducks at the Sonoma Square pond with which we shared our Cheese Factory sandwiches.
There was so much to capture the imagination on those long ago drives, and the promise of a comfortable table, a Shirley Temple served ice cold (it LOOKED like Cherry juice, after all) and a plate full of creamy raviolis from the Union Hotel at the end of it all.
And it was ALWAYS north. Never East, West or South. There was a purpose aside from getting 4 fidgety kids from under my mother's feet. Simple pleasures, for it wasn't the chic destination it is today. More orchards and cows back then than grapes. And truthfully, as long as you had a window seat, the drive was far from a tortuous affair, and I am not waxing lyrical 30 years hence. A Nancy Drew in hand, watching the golden hills roll into one another, daylight drawing long shadows from the gnarled Oaks as afternoon waned, making up ghost stories on the way home to entertain my 3 younger siblings. I actually don't understand why it wasn't a tradition I carried on with my own children.
As far as I can remember, we pretty much took the same route: Highway 37 to Sonoma Square where we stopped at the Cheese Factory for Sandwiches in the park, then to Napa and up the valley to Yountville, and finally, back to Sonoma along the Russian River to Occidental where I am sure THIS was the principle purpose. Occidental. Every Italian family from Marin ate supper at Occidental one time or another. It was either Negri's on one side of main street or the Union Hotel directly across the way. And you had to choose. Once you did, you never crossed the road.
The Lavaroni family landed squarely with the Union Hotel, an old fashioned family style restaurant with red checkered table cloths, drippy candles and obscene amounts of food, including, the BEST minestrone soup EVER.
Yesterday was Father's Day and it felt like the right thing to do to take a Sunday Drive of my own, the children spending the day with their father and my own Pater, now strangely devoid of the desire to ramble along country roads, even with the enticement of the Union Hotel's warm apple fritters.
I might not have recreated the exact route, but the feeling was the same. Freedom from the cares of the week to come, lost in the beauty of a dwindling afternoon sun on acres of translucent grape leaves. I even spotted an apple orchard holding its own amidst a sea of pinot vines.
The most evocative sight on my nostalgic tour was The Cherry Tree, a ramshackle hut, long boarded up, tucked into a bend on Hwy 12 just as you begin to climb a bluff.
I remember the question, always for naught. "Can we stop? Pleeeaaase?" There was something hard to resist about the rows of ruby liquid filled jugs that lined the fence in the dirt parking area, teasing us as we passed. The answer was always the same. "Maybe on the way back." I don't know why we never caught on. The way back was always through Occidental.
It must have been the hawk that caught my eye, circling languidly above, or the baby ducks at the Sonoma Square pond with which we shared our Cheese Factory sandwiches.
There was so much to capture the imagination on those long ago drives, and the promise of a comfortable table, a Shirley Temple served ice cold (it LOOKED like Cherry juice, after all) and a plate full of creamy raviolis from the Union Hotel at the end of it all.
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