The
house that I was born and raised in is one of hundreds of similar post-war
homes lining the low hills of San Francisco’s Sunset District. Out there near the corner of 45th
and Vicente, we were only three blocks from the Pacific Ocean and even closer
to the Fleischacker Zoo. Actual sunsets though
were a bit of an anomaly as the fog was pervasive along the avenues. My family moved down to the sunnier Peninsula
in 1954 where I was much happier in the heat and the suburban life.
Over
the years, however, I would occasionally find myself in San Francisco and would
drive by the old stucco house. When we
lived there it was painted white with a green trim. Later it was painted a sort of coffee
color. Now it is painted smoky gray like
the dominant coastal weather pattern. I
know this because I happened to stop by for a look about a month ago. I parked
the car right in front of the house and just sat there for several minutes
contemplating my journey from a bouncing baby on the edge of the west coast to
an aging boomer on the western edge of Colorado.
As
I sat there, a young Asian man came out of the house and down the red brick
steps. He was getting into his car when I decided to make my presence
known. So I introduced myself and told
him about my personal history with his house.
He was friendly and a bit astonished and, after a few minutes, asked me
if I’d like to see the inside of the house…and meet his 109-year old
grandmother! Naturally, I said yes.
The
next several minutes were surreal. First
the walk up those red brick steps. Then
into the house itself where the primal memory kicked in. In a rush of emotions, I was introduced to
the aforementioned grandmother (who spoke no English), and to the mother who
owned the house and had lived there for 30 years since emigrating from Taiwan.
Then a quick tour of the house which, unbelievably, was almost exactly as I
remembered it….though smaller now, of course.
The plain, square living room in front with plate glass window
overlooking the avenue. The sunny
kitchen with high ceiling to the right.
Small hallway with skylit bathroom to the left, and two medium sized
bedrooms in the back. The one on the left
was the one I shared with my sister.
An
unexpected rush of emotion overcame me and I found myself choking up. It had
been 58 years since I’d last been inside this house. This is where I had learned to walk and
talk. Learned to read. Watched television for the first time on the
family Philco. And here was this
gracious Taiwanese family allowing a complete stranger to enter their abode and
spend a few minutes catching up on a distant past. I thanked them profusely and then headed back
down those brick steps which had felt my toddler feet, my parents’ young steps,
and the footfalls of so many others.
When
I headed back down the road again, driving along the Great Highway, I knew I
had been given an extraordinary opportunity to connect the dots of time, and to
recapture for just a few moments another piece of my past.
