Recently in Personal Category

Four years ago, when our wedding went off as planned without a hitch — nay, exceeded expections, the Red Sox swept the World Series, and Bush inexplicably got returned to the White House for another term, I tried to be philosophical about it. Still, I was unjustifiably pleased when the Red Sox didn't make it this time, telling my husband that if we had to pick one thing to go wrong, better the Red Sox than our marriage or the election. So by last night, I wasn't just gleeful, I was manic. We drove home from my parents' election night party yelling "WOOOOOOO!" out the window until our sleepy toddler joined in on the fun, even mustering a rousing chant of "USA! USA! USA!" which I have not once wanted to do in eight years, if ever.

This morning, though, I'm sad. My fellow Californians decided to amend the state Constitution to take away people's rights. To enshrine their religious beliefs — and the religious beliefs of people who don't even live here — in our Constitution. Beliefs that many of us, including myself, don't share.

The sad truth is that I didn't do as much as I should have. I tried making calls, but got too anxious, so I tried to buy off my guilt with donations to No on Proposition 8. And it wasn't enough.

I am trying to make myself feel better by telling myself that ultimately, this issue is going to have to be dealt with on a national level. It's crazy for people to have rights in some states that they don't have in others, and marriage is one of the most fundamental rights of all. There will be legal challenges; they will wend their way through the courts up to the Supreme Court. That Court, thanks to Obama, may look very different in a few years.

In the meantime, I just feel very, very sorry and angry.

This too shall pass, and one day we'll look back on this time and marvel that people could be so very stupid about civil rights.

Randomly Googling my Great-Uncle Adrian again, I found this interview:

Ward: Did you ever run across an employer whom you found you liked, personally? He responded, in a way? LG: There were a few employers, some from the smaller warehouses, who v/ere not difficult to deal with. For example, a man I always liked was Adrian Falk. Later on he became quite prominent in the Chamber of Commerce. Adrian Falk was in charge of the S&W warehouse; an interesting duck. I think he came from an old-time San Francisco family, probably among the initial groups who came out here. I never felt that he was fundamentally hostile to the union. I don't think he ever took the attitude that his only purpose in life was to see that we were gotten rid of. I discovered in talks with him that if you could put together something logical you had one listener. The big bulk of employers, it made no difference what you said, they just weren't interested. The only time they finally sat down and dealt was when they had to.

Ooh, and I just struck paydirt, it looks like. An interview with him from 1955!

Very cute.

Click here (make sure you have RealPlayer installed and working) and pay attention at the 2:40 minute mark. (It was a lovely wedding; congratulations you two!)

Mimi has discovered her hands. And her mouth. But getting objects from her hand to her mouth is no easy feat...

Is gorgeous in October. Funny that all the tourists are gone.

We didn't pass a single soul on this trail!

Their loss.

 

By the way, that little grey ribbon there is Highway 1.

First there was this:

FALK, Ralph Alfred - Born in San Francisco, CA on June 12, 1913, Ralph passed away peacefully at age 92 in Burlingame on July 3, 2005. He is survived by Ann, his devoted wife of 63 years; as well as his loving sons, Robert, Ronald, and Richard; by his eight grandchildren; and by his 15 great-grandchildren. He is also survived by his brother, Jerome and by many relatives and loyal friends. All will miss him dearly. Ralph, son of Emile Sampson Falk and Julia Reiss Falk, was a third generation San Franciscan and graduated from Galileo High School. During the Great Depression, Ralph worked for his father in the millinery business in Los Angeles where he met his beautiful future wife, Ann Wexler. Later, he worked in the steel business. He served in the U.S. Army during WWII as a drill sergeant training the troops and became a second lieutenant. After the war, Ralph wanted to expand the steel business to Northern California and found an opportunity with Pacific Steel and Supply in San Leandro. He built the business into one of the largest steel distributors on the West Coast. Ralph retired as the president of the company and continued as a member of the board of directors. He was an original member of Peninsula Temple Beth-El in San Mateo and lived in the communities of Burlingame, San Mateo and Hillsborough. Ralph, always a gentleman, was a devoted family man with a generous heart and winning smile. Family and friends are invited to attend a Memorial Service celebrating his life on July 24, 2005 at 1:30 PM at Peninsula Temple Beth-El, 1700 Alameda de las Pulgas, San Mateo. Memorial donations may be made in the memory of Ralph Falk to the Alzheimer's Association of America, 2065 W El Camino Real, Ste C, Mountain View, CA 94040-2217.
Published in the San Francisco Chronicle from 7/13/2005 - 7/17/2005.

Then there was this:

 FALK, Ann Wexler - Born October 3, 1921, in Detroit, Michigan and slipped away peacefully July 22, 2005 in Burlingame at the age of 83. Her devoted and adoring husband, Ralph, left this world nineteen days before her. Their loving devotion to each other was a bond that could not be broken. Ann, daughter of Isadore Wexler and Celia Berzinski Wexler, is survived by her brother Jack; loving sons Robert, Ronald, and Richard; eight grandchildren; and fifteen great-grandchildren. She will be dearly missed by all of her family and wonderful friends. Ann served as a volunteer for the Red Cross, Mills-Peninsula Hospital, and worked at various charities throughout the community. Within her social network, she was the belle of the ball, always perfectly attired. She and her husband traveled extensively throughout the world, many times on cruises where they dined at the Captain's table. Ann will be in our hearts forever, never to be forgotten. She will be remembered for her beauty, her charm, and her gift of kind and generous friendship to all who knew her. The Falk family would like to extend a special gratitude to all their caregivers. Family and friends are invited to attend a Funeral Service at 1:30 PM on July 27, 2005 at the Home of Peace Cemetery, 1299 El Camino Real, Colma. Memorial donations may be made in the memory of Ann Falk to the Alzheimer's Association of America, 2065 W El Camino Real, Ste C, Mountain View, CA 94040-2217.
Published in the San Francisco Chronicle on 7/26/2005.

And finally, this: 

FALK, Jerome B. - Born in San Francisco, CA on October 23, 1909, Jerry passed away peacefully at his home in Los Altos on July 23, 2005 at the age of 95. He is preceded in death by his wife, Mimi Bernbaum Falk, and his brother, Ralph Falk, who passed away at the age of 92 only two weeks earlier. He is survived by his son, Jerome Falk, Jr.; his daughter-in-law, Nancy; his granddaughters Katherine and Susanna Falk; his grandsons-in-law Michael Arick and York Kennedy; and by his great-granddaughter, Pippa Falk Kennedy. Jerry was proud to be a fourth-generation San Franciscan, whose great grandfather arrived in the City in 1850, where he became the sixth member of the local police force. His uncle, Adrien Falk, was the first President of the Bay Area Rapid Transit District, and presided over its creation. Jerry was a successful businessman until his retirement at the age of 75 as Vice President of the largest houseware distributing company west of the Mississippi. Jerry was an intelligent man with a keen interest in public affairs, an avid reader, an intrepid traveler (an interest shared by Mimi) and a loving husband, father and grandfather. He had a cheerful and optimistic view of life and events: a glass was half-full, not half-empty (unless it contained his evening Scotch-on-the-rocks). He was an unapologetic fan of a good pun and the creator of many a "groaner." Nothing made him happier than to spend time with his family, particularly if it was at a good restaurant over a half-dozen oysters and a tasty steak. Services will be private. Memorial contributions may be made to the Jerome B. Falk Scholarship Fund, Haas School of Business, University of California at Berkeley, 2080 Addison Street, Berkeley, California 94720-4200.
Published in the San Francisco Chronicle on 7/27/2005.

Several years ago, my dad gave me a copy of an old letter. It was
from my great-uncle Adrien, sent to my dad's cousin Bob, who was doing
a high-school project on his family tree. I never met Adrien, but
he was a real character with
an offbeat sense of humor. Despite having never finished high school,
he was also an excellent writer (not to mention all the things he did
during his lifetime... but that's another story for another day.)

A few years ago, I met a distant relative online, while we were
both looking for information on Adrian. He was a nephew by marriage,
and had very fond memories of the man, mainly from a visit to San
Francisco to stay with Adrien and his wife during the "Summer of
Love"
in 1967.  I promised this relative that I would dig up the letter
and send him a copy.

Well, I'm not a very good correspondent, and
the distant relative and I are no longer in touch... but I've finally
found the letter again! This time, I'm taking no chances. I'm putting
it online!

May 3, 1962

Dear Bob:

I have your note inquiring about our family's background. Complete information would require more time and research than I can spare. Here are a few highlights that come to my mind:

I'm not much on geanealogy, so I can't get far behind my grandparents to describe our family tree. Besides, it would look like something between a Mexican cactus and a poison oak bush. Personally, I consider the line of ascent much more important than that of descent.

Derivation of the name "Falk": It is only in recent centuries that any but the upper classes were permitted to use family names. When that came about, it was customary to take names from one's occupation, from the neighborhood, from physical characteristics, etc. Falk, a common northern European name, is one of the many corruptions of "falcon", a hawk, and probably was taken from the shape of one's schnozzle.

My father, Jerome Falk, came to California right after the Franco-Prussian war because he didn't want to become a German subject. His mother died in middle age: his father, a distinguished looking man, survived her many years. He was a livestock dealer and trader. Dad left behind his youngest brother and three sisters named Palymere, Valerie and Coralie (their names as French as boulanger); their descendents still live in France and Switzerland. His oldest brother had precded him to California nad a younger one came later. Both engaged in general merchandizing in interior towns; their descendants still live in these parts. Your dad should be able to fill in on these details.

Dad came to San Francisco and lived here until his death at the age of 56. He was an expert in fancy imported groceries and a particularly fine judge of wine and liquors. He married my mother, Jennie Lindheimer, and they begot four children -- your grandfather, Emile, the author of this article and Aunts Sadie and Florine. Dad was a sweet, gentle man who had everybody's respect and love. He was a devoted husband and father.

Now the Lindheimers: My maternal grandfather, Meier Lindheimer, was born in Franfort-on-Main in 1829. I only know one thing about his forebears, viz., in the museum at Frankfort there was displayed prior to World War II (it may still be there) the first financial document of record involving the famous House of Rothschild. It was a promissory note, whereby Meyer Rothschild, founder of the famous clan, promised to pay one Meier Lindheimer (my grandfather's grandfather) the sum of one thousand thaler. There is no evidence that note ever was paid; if collectible I would undoubtedly be the richest man in the world (including, of course, compound interest). Long ago I thought of bringing suit, but as the lawyer I consulted required a down payment of $15. I was obliged to abandon the project.

Grandpa Lindheimer was an advenrurer. He ran away from home at the age of 13; shipped as cabin boy on a German sailing ship. He deserted it at Baltimore; found his way to New York and apprenticed to a bootmaker. Later he met my grandmother there (she came over as a child with her parents). Her maiden name was Helena Maier. Her family came from a small town on the Rhine (Kundesblum...probably spelled incorrectly).

Shortly after gold was discovered, my grandparents came to California via the Isthmus of Panama. They shipped from New York to what is now Colon; carried their meager belongings to the Pacific side. It was a long walk, for the straighter, modern Panama Canal is now 50 miles long. They reembarked on another vessel on the Pacific side and came to San Francisco. Grandpa opened a bootmaking shop, making boots for the miners for $75. a pair, gold dust. He did alright but he hated the work -- it was too confining. He wanted action. So he joined the San Francisco police force (he was its 13th man) and served as a peace officer for 45 years, dying at 93.

He was a big, vigorous man with a hasty temper and a heavy hand.. but he did have the biggest heart of any man I ever knew. Money, to him, was just a commodity to be disposed of; he never refused to help anyone in need, even down to his last dollar. He financed meals and  board for more down-an-outers and ex-cons that the National Probation Society does to-day. I believe he had more friends from every walk of life than anyone in San Francisco.

He was a great story teller and would regale his friends with his endless experiences, rarely repeating himself. Like all good tellers of  tales, he drew a long bow; but his actual adventures really were unlimited. Like many early Californians he was a prime whisky drinker, but I have never seen him under the influence. He just could take it.

He had a married sister in San Francisco with a large family. One of his brothers was a successful wholesaler in New York; another even more successful in Chicago. Both had large families.

When grandpa came to judgement, I'm certain his limitless acts of kindess, charity and helpfulness far outweighed his many human failings. He had a good balance to his credit.

My maternal grandmother was a real housefrau. She lived entirely for her family. There were three sons and four daughters; all sons and one daughter died early in life, victims of the many epidemics that swept San Francisco in early days. My mother and the two remaining sisters lived to ripe age; all raised families in San Francisco.

Grandma was scrupously honest; she spent sparingly and abhored the very thought of owing anyone anything. Her single vice was buying lottery tickets in the hope that some day she would hit the jackpot and thus provide the security her husband's extravagances denied. She never cashed in more than $5. She died aged 83.

Grandma had three sisters who lived in San Francisco with their families. One with her husband (they were prosperous) once owned and ran the famous "What Cheer House", a hostelry of Gold Rush days. They acquired it several decades later. Another of the sisters married a rascal. He was treasurer of one of the frontier counties of Nevada, and one day he disappeared with the treasury (reputed $80,000) and beat it for parts unknown. Unfortunately, the lynching party that pursued him was a little late.

My mother was a doll. She was keenly intelligent and had an ever-present sparkling sense of humor. She ran the home and ran it well; loved my father dearly and did her share to outride their many visissitudes. She reared her children carefully -- never harshly but through love and respect. Such virtues as we may possess -- such degrees of sound character, integrity and regard for our fellow are due largely to her teaching and example.

That's the story. No doubt your mother will post you on her fmaily tree and I hope for the sake of color and balance it also discloses an occasional horse thief or the like.

Speaking of horses: my father who loved them taught me to drive almost as soon as I was able to walk. There were no automobiles in those days and horse stealing was a rarity, so we heard much less of juvenile delinquincy. While I drove on every occasion, I could'nt afford to buy or keep a horse until much later in life. But one day I lent my entire savings, $20., to a friend who owned a racehorse who never came in the money. Nevertheless, the horse had to eat and my friend didn't have the wherewithal. When I told my father about my investment, he shook his head doefully and gave to me this sage advice (it was not original) which I pass on to you: "Never lend money on anything that eats".

I hope this will help with your essay. If not, I'll dig further in the archives and endeavor to produce some more exciting characters.

Best wishes.

Uncle Adrien

Also attached to the letter was this very silly little note from 1947,
when Bob was born.

January twenty-third
1 9 4 7

Dear Ann and Ralph:

We received the official notice of the arrival and naming of Ronald Allan Falk. It sounds euphoneous and aristocratic, and I hope he will grow up to all its implications.

You appear to have gone in for quite a series of alliteration, viz., Ralph Alfred Falk, Robert Adrien Falk, and Ronald Allan Falk.

No doubt you will want to perpetuate the custom and, as it must be quite a strain to whip a name with such limitations into shape in a moment of crisis, I offer the following for future use:

    Royal Airforce Falk
    Royal Academician Falk
    Rollo Acheela Falk
    Rosher Aguinaldo Falk
    Rutzer Aqueduct Falk
    Raoul Aschleck Falk

As a further thought, if a new arrival should run to overweight and give indication of either histrionic or sexual impulses, you might name him Roscoe Arbuckle Falk. I haven't mentioned girls because you seem to lean in the opposite direction. However, there is always a chance that a girl may appear on the scene, and in such an emergency I offer:

    Rosie Apple Falk
    Rifka Apoopa Falk

This ought to keep you  busy for awhile, so with best wishes for the health and happiness of your entire family, I am

As ever,

Uncle Adrien

"Rutzer Aqueduct" has got a nice ring to it, no? 

Michael woke me up at two in the morning last night saying, "Is the heater on?" It was, and it had heated the house to a warm 73 degrees.

We never set the thermostat that high. At most, we turn it up to 66-68 on a really cold night, and usually prefer to sleep with it down around 61. And it certainly never got that cold yesterday.

So we got up, and turned it off.

Nothing. It kept going. Now it was 75 degrees. And getting warmer by the minute.

Michael took the batteries out of it, waited until the control panel screen went blank, and put them back in.  The heater shut off.

"Now can we go back to bed?" he asked. "It's turned off now."

I went into the bathroom. While I was there, I heard the familiar sound of the furnace humming, as it was getting ready to turn the vents back on.

"It's about to turn back on!" I yelled.

"What?"

"The furnace is on again. It's going to start blowing hot air again in a minute!"

And so it did. Now it was approaching the high 70s.

Michael suggested I find the owner's manuals, and I did. They provided a complicated-looking set of instructions for how to turn off the furnace. There's a gas connection to shut off, a switch to flip, and a door to remove. The diagrams (there were two of them) showed arrows pointing every which way.

I found a flashlight and went to investigate the bowels of our house. We don't have a basement, just a crawlspace with a dirt floor. The heater is on the far side of the space, requiring the visitor to wriggle across the dirt on hands and knees. Oh, and there are spiderwebs, of course.

I got about halfway and panicked. I couldn't figure out where the switch was or how to turn off the gas without turning it off to the whole house (bye-bye cooking or showering). I'm not good at opening doors on things like this. I tried looking at the circuit breakers in the front of the house and none of them said "heater". Not surprising, since the heater had been installed since I moved in.

At 2:30 in the morning, we decided to make phone calls.

First, Michael tried the service number listed on the inside of the control panel.

He got an answering machine.

Then I decided it was time to share our pain with our friends.

I got two answering machines. I left panicky messages on both of them. Two minutes later, Lesley called me back, sounding (understandably) sleepy. "Steve's on his way over." 

The temperature in the house was now 81 degrees.

Steve showed up and I escorted him to the side of the house. He wriggled into the crawlspace, then made his way across to the heater.

The door would not come off.

He asked for the manuals. Apparently screwdrivers were needed.

He came back towards the front, reached up...

...and flicked a switch. The furnace immediately shut down.

"Well, that was the switch. The furnace cuts off the gas automatically when it loses power," he said.

Michael came running out. "Something happened! The heater stopped!" We enthusiastically thanked Steve, and are going to have to do something really nice for him to make up for the lost sleep.

We went back in and sat around for half an hour until the temperature dropped to the mid-70s, and then were able to go back to sleep. 

So it appears that our heater is possessed. Or perhaps our house is. Is it something we said? Did we hurt its feelings because we're moving?

Does anyone have an old priest and a young priest we could borrow? 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KIMBERLY!

 

...or, "Small child 7, Sitter 0"


Wouldn't you do a victory dance if you'd succeeded in cramming three hats onto your sitter's head? Well, wouldn't you? Huh?