SAN FRANCISCO, SATURDAY, MAY 23, 2010 - Roman P came to the party, old Seattle friend, like a spring-loaded cafeteria plate, first one in, last of the stack to go.
Jesse wore Prada sunglasses. Made margaritas in a jug. He remembered how the old stair obscured the kitchen window, was the first to tell Adrienne and I how good the new stair is. He knew the old way. So he saw more than a deck in the new way.
Sean and Jen Grasso came with tequila, with children hanging from their arms. Sean was comfortable, well-lived, standing there, smiling at things elsewhere, in the way his hair flowed back from his brow. Jen was stately. The garden became an advertisement around her, with Calder trying to pull her down, her long thin arms to the ground.
Others came too, gathered in the back garden. Eating and drinking, talking in twos, in threes and fours. The children ran past, squealing, wanting to be caught, picked up upside-down and shook.
Others stayed home, or were absent without explanation. Daniel Kotzin, for example, stayed in the sunny East Bay, babysitting his two nieces and nephew while his sister chaperoned a prom. Probably the kids and Daniel were dancing ring-around-the-rosie as I stuffed hardwood into the chiminera, getting the ashes stirred up, the fire going, cutting mangos, flipping fresh corn tortillas on the grill.
Roman and I were gabbin. The thing I fear most, I said, is a fire I started going out. It was a confession. Because I was only half-listening, this was early on, watching the fire past him, had just got it going, it still wasn't for sure, the wood was heavy and dense, smoking, the flames just licking. He was laughing. The fear of a fire going out. He remembered a house in the Central District, Seattle, he'd lived there, cut up a Christmas tree with roommates, burned it in the fireplace. They went outside, it was so raging, to see. And the embers were floating from the chimney into the night. So, right, the other fear, that the fire will spread.
It was a long good party. Adrienne and Sistah Margaret and I shopped a fair part of the day for it, assembling it, getting the taco ingredients, the crack meat from La Gallinita, the fresh crumbled cheese from Don Francisco's Quesos Frescos, hydrangeas from the market, peonies at Trader Joe's, other stops, other markets.
Two grills going. Jugs of margaritas. Sistah Margaret in new Boden jacket, feting Josh for his birthday, and Adrienne and I for the partially-completed stair. Bryce, old dear friend of Margaret, Bryce, unreeling hilarity by the minute, tricking things up, with Suzanne, Suzanne with ipad, with black scarf, black coat, narrating extemporaneously. Going until late, but not even that late, maybe 11 o'clock. But late enough, beginning from early evening, that in the end there was just six of us, sitting inside, in the living room, it'd gotten cold again, listening to Bert and I, on the laptop, repeating the funny sounds and odd words of a master bumpkin storyteller, holding up to the light that old phrase, of being in a place so local, so remote, so self-contained, that a stranger come through asking directions, well, now he's stuck, you know, come to think of it, You can't get they'ah from here.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Construction update fotos
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. | Saturday, May 22, 2010 - Construction of the stair progresses. Some days we never leave the back garden. We're out back working when Margaret leaves for the credit union. We are still there when she returns.
We must have eaten a million El Farolito burritos by now. Often we leave for lunch. We get hungry. It's a long narrow place with booths, dark toward the back. But the mariachi music starts up on the jukebox. Blast of carnival, merry.
They have the saying about a person being able to survive all day on one date or fig. Same goes, easily, for an El Farolito burrito.
So here are some construction update pics. And a note on an earlier, controversial pic that showed the awesome diagonal patterning of the lag bolts on the ledger boards: the lag bolts are five inches long, and suck through the new 2x12s into existing double stacked 2x10 dimensional beams (actually two inches thick rather than the nominal's one-and-a-half inch thickness). Super rugged. Could barely crank the bolts home.
Yellow Truck, meanwhile, has developed a crotchety transmission. He doesn't like reverse, first gear or second gear. Amazingly, I can get him going in third when required. But won't last. I've topped off the gear oil and tried a couple other things, but haven't solved yet. Poor Yellow Truck. Sore and stiff now that the adrenalin has subsided.
Rope like steel: Getting the last bit of the balcony's structural frame square to itself and to the brick path. Here we've cranked the ridge beam tight to the house with old lobster rope tricks, so we can hammer against it, fasten in the last couple joists. Maybe excessive, but the deck stayed square, it worked like a charm.
*
*
Here comes the first stringer! A jumbled photo, but there it is, that beautiful thing, looking west, catching the afternoon sun. Each stringer is 14 steps, about 64 freehand cuts with the circular saw. Then those have to match up with the next 128 cuts for the next two stringers. No way around it. Anything worth doing takes a little time.
*
*
Here's the corner detail for the balcony. It's also the cantilever. Note the lack of a post at the corner there by the plum tree. So the two diagonal joists are transferring loads (i.e. the weight of people) from the far corner back to the ledger beam then down the posts. The diagonal joists are also going to serve as our nailers for the decking, so there had to be two, and they had to be as tight as possible, to nail within a few inches of the decking board ends. The smaller joists treeing off the diagonal joists preserve the overall joist spacing of two feet on center.
*
*
Three stringers aloft. I love them best like this, when they're abstract. No treads, no risers. Just the right angles going up.
*
*
Another shot of the trifecta.
*
*
Margaret tests out one of the temporary treads.
*
*
Adrienne, as decking goes in, white siding, green leaves, blue sky
*
*
Here's the view from below, with the decking in, at the mitered corner, leading to stair. Took forever, doing miter vs. straight cuts. But it's the best moment, design-wise so far, and totally completes the gesture of the cantilever. Decking is redwood 2x6s with 1/4 spacing (thickness of two paint stirrers duct-taped together).
*
*
Stringers with treads.
*
*
A jig, or maybe just a stop, to cut the uprights for the rail all to the same length. The tiny roof-shaped wood scrap ended up being perfect to get the wood level with the chop saw platform.
*
*
The uprights. With bottoms trimmed at a 45 degree angle. They'll carry the cabling. We glued and screwed 2x2s to these 2x4 uprights, to beef them up, but keep them more elegant than 4x4s. We already have four of these up. Fotos to come. Looking good. We're closing in on the cabling. Any day now. But first, a garden party. Ten minutes until 5. Must start juicing limes, get the fires going.
Hope all good.
The weekend.
Sunny.
Buoy bell chime in the breeze.
sdl;fajsd;lfkjasdl
We must have eaten a million El Farolito burritos by now. Often we leave for lunch. We get hungry. It's a long narrow place with booths, dark toward the back. But the mariachi music starts up on the jukebox. Blast of carnival, merry.
They have the saying about a person being able to survive all day on one date or fig. Same goes, easily, for an El Farolito burrito.
So here are some construction update pics. And a note on an earlier, controversial pic that showed the awesome diagonal patterning of the lag bolts on the ledger boards: the lag bolts are five inches long, and suck through the new 2x12s into existing double stacked 2x10 dimensional beams (actually two inches thick rather than the nominal's one-and-a-half inch thickness). Super rugged. Could barely crank the bolts home.
Yellow Truck, meanwhile, has developed a crotchety transmission. He doesn't like reverse, first gear or second gear. Amazingly, I can get him going in third when required. But won't last. I've topped off the gear oil and tried a couple other things, but haven't solved yet. Poor Yellow Truck. Sore and stiff now that the adrenalin has subsided.
Rope like steel: Getting the last bit of the balcony's structural frame square to itself and to the brick path. Here we've cranked the ridge beam tight to the house with old lobster rope tricks, so we can hammer against it, fasten in the last couple joists. Maybe excessive, but the deck stayed square, it worked like a charm.
*
*
Here comes the first stringer! A jumbled photo, but there it is, that beautiful thing, looking west, catching the afternoon sun. Each stringer is 14 steps, about 64 freehand cuts with the circular saw. Then those have to match up with the next 128 cuts for the next two stringers. No way around it. Anything worth doing takes a little time.
*
*
Here's the corner detail for the balcony. It's also the cantilever. Note the lack of a post at the corner there by the plum tree. So the two diagonal joists are transferring loads (i.e. the weight of people) from the far corner back to the ledger beam then down the posts. The diagonal joists are also going to serve as our nailers for the decking, so there had to be two, and they had to be as tight as possible, to nail within a few inches of the decking board ends. The smaller joists treeing off the diagonal joists preserve the overall joist spacing of two feet on center.
*
*
Three stringers aloft. I love them best like this, when they're abstract. No treads, no risers. Just the right angles going up.
*
*
Another shot of the trifecta.
*
*
Margaret tests out one of the temporary treads.
*
*
Adrienne, as decking goes in, white siding, green leaves, blue sky
*
*
Here's the view from below, with the decking in, at the mitered corner, leading to stair. Took forever, doing miter vs. straight cuts. But it's the best moment, design-wise so far, and totally completes the gesture of the cantilever. Decking is redwood 2x6s with 1/4 spacing (thickness of two paint stirrers duct-taped together).
*
*
Stringers with treads.
*
*
A jig, or maybe just a stop, to cut the uprights for the rail all to the same length. The tiny roof-shaped wood scrap ended up being perfect to get the wood level with the chop saw platform.
*
*
The uprights. With bottoms trimmed at a 45 degree angle. They'll carry the cabling. We glued and screwed 2x2s to these 2x4 uprights, to beef them up, but keep them more elegant than 4x4s. We already have four of these up. Fotos to come. Looking good. We're closing in on the cabling. Any day now. But first, a garden party. Ten minutes until 5. Must start juicing limes, get the fires going.
Hope all good.
The weekend.
Sunny.
Buoy bell chime in the breeze.
sdl;fajsd;lfkjasdl
Monday, May 17, 2010
fotos here in San Francisco, bonus text
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. - We've been here for a couple weeks now. Three weeks really. Week one: designing. Weeks two and three: construction. We seem to go very slow. You know, talk everything through.
So some highlights, including Mother's Day visit from my Mum. We flew her out. She arrived, demanded that we let her pay us back. We love her. Eventually we gave in. Said yes. Took her out to dinner. Da Flora, in North Beach. Venetian place. Amazing.
Our host in San Francisco, Sister Margaret. Note the hands clasped in an urban prayer: Light, Turn green, for me.
*
*
The beautiful Ramp restaurant. Bloody Marys as appetizers, fried fish for brunch. Into late afternoon soaking up industrial balm.
*
*
The famous Zinnia, daughter of Angie, at the Ramp.
*
*
Yellow Truck at Beronio Lumber, off Cesar Chavez, with several 16-foot 2x12s for the stringers strapped to the roof. I like adding "-onio" to any old word, so this lumber yard was perfect. People on Yelp don't like it however. Many have been embarrassed by the lack of coddling found here. I will have to add my two cents at some point. Note the watch house on the right. A friendly employee checks the contents of your vehicle against your sales slip as you leave. Nice touch.
*
*
Yellow Truck in his SF parking spot, on Hampshire St. In three weeks here, doing errands and all that, going over to East Bay once, still have over half a tank. These are the salad days for Yellow Truck, post-long haul. Rarely out of third gear.
*
*
Some of the impressive lag bolts for fastening the balcony to the house. The balcony then leads to the stair.
*
*
My mum has arrived from Maine for Mother's Day, with photos from when she and my dad first were married, back in 1961, living in Italy. He was doing his military time, as a young doctor. She came with. They were in Brindisi. Also on the table, articles from the Portland Press Herald, news from home, brought by mum, architectural for me, beach news and socialism for Margaret.
*
*
Adrienne and Margaret getting Frittata No. 2 underway. I made coffee and am helping too. Mum is somewhere off camera.
*
*
The four inhabitants eating toast. Mum's eyes closed, savoring our excellent company.
*
*
Ocean Beach.
*
*
Cliff House, Mother's Day. Sister Margaret is conjuring. Mum is also conjuring. Deep focus required. And results! Gray whales within five minutes. They were headed north, spouting from their blowholes, oily black beasts half-emerging from the sea, just beyond the rocks. Everyone rushed from their tables to the windows. No urbanity. A lot of shouting. Everyone thrilled.
*
*
Sister Margaret is irresistible, and pleased with the feral whale count.
*
*
Just north of Cliff House, Sutro Baths, what is left of them. People used to take a nickel train from the downtown out here to the sea, to a carnivalesque beachside encampment. Sutro Baths was all cast-iron and glass, like a conservatory, echos and leisure, cold ocean water channeled through, people swimming, diving, standing and watching.
*
*
Adrienne liked this one, so I put it in. Something funny and good about it.
*
*
My dear Mum, Phyllis, looking out to sea.
*
*
Ledger board, posts and joists. Plum tree in foreground. Stair to come.
*
*
Triangulating toward square. Yellow tapes to get posts and stair square to brick path. Juxtaposed against the easy curve of the extension cord. Cord, by the way, is the hefty 10-gauge, hard to find, good for the tools. Super duty, like Yellow Truck.
*
*
this is a surrogate foto. the light on the sign "House of Brakes" was amazing one early evening, around 7:30 pm. This one, however, was taken at about 7:45 pm, several days later, and the beauty light had departed. But anyway, I love the name, House of Brakes. There are Houses of Pancakes, Houses of Ill Repute. But House of Brakes? It seemed ominous, or to promise profundity, and instead maybe it is delivering a slightly humorous confusion. Anyway, this foto is a placeholder. Wait until I get another take, my big break. It will be amazing.
*
*
Looking south from intersection of 24th and Folsom, outer Mission. I love the green hills of San Francisco. More than the green hills of the California country side. I always have. They are so far away, so peaceful, always awaiting you, if you could ever leave city life for a minute, on a weekend afternoon. They are not here by happenstance. Some urban plan has left them, allowed them. Adrienne has listened patiently to my rants about them. She summed it up perfectly after mulling it a day or two: prospect and refuge. That's what they are. Prospect and Refuge.
*
*
Night cycles. 24th Street again. This time just after sundown. Outside Pop's. Nighthawks at the diner. Edward Hopper. Only the mood is movement, imminence, rather than paralysis.
*
*
soon to come, an installment on the toyotas of San Francisco County.
hope all good.
soon we home to Seattle
soon soon
lsdkjfsldkfjsl;dkj
So some highlights, including Mother's Day visit from my Mum. We flew her out. She arrived, demanded that we let her pay us back. We love her. Eventually we gave in. Said yes. Took her out to dinner. Da Flora, in North Beach. Venetian place. Amazing.
Our host in San Francisco, Sister Margaret. Note the hands clasped in an urban prayer: Light, Turn green, for me.
*
*
The beautiful Ramp restaurant. Bloody Marys as appetizers, fried fish for brunch. Into late afternoon soaking up industrial balm.
*
*
The famous Zinnia, daughter of Angie, at the Ramp.
*
*
Yellow Truck at Beronio Lumber, off Cesar Chavez, with several 16-foot 2x12s for the stringers strapped to the roof. I like adding "-onio" to any old word, so this lumber yard was perfect. People on Yelp don't like it however. Many have been embarrassed by the lack of coddling found here. I will have to add my two cents at some point. Note the watch house on the right. A friendly employee checks the contents of your vehicle against your sales slip as you leave. Nice touch.
*
*
Yellow Truck in his SF parking spot, on Hampshire St. In three weeks here, doing errands and all that, going over to East Bay once, still have over half a tank. These are the salad days for Yellow Truck, post-long haul. Rarely out of third gear.
*
*
Some of the impressive lag bolts for fastening the balcony to the house. The balcony then leads to the stair.
*
*
My mum has arrived from Maine for Mother's Day, with photos from when she and my dad first were married, back in 1961, living in Italy. He was doing his military time, as a young doctor. She came with. They were in Brindisi. Also on the table, articles from the Portland Press Herald, news from home, brought by mum, architectural for me, beach news and socialism for Margaret.
*
*
Adrienne and Margaret getting Frittata No. 2 underway. I made coffee and am helping too. Mum is somewhere off camera.
*
*
The four inhabitants eating toast. Mum's eyes closed, savoring our excellent company.
*
*
Ocean Beach.
*
*
Cliff House, Mother's Day. Sister Margaret is conjuring. Mum is also conjuring. Deep focus required. And results! Gray whales within five minutes. They were headed north, spouting from their blowholes, oily black beasts half-emerging from the sea, just beyond the rocks. Everyone rushed from their tables to the windows. No urbanity. A lot of shouting. Everyone thrilled.
*
*
Sister Margaret is irresistible, and pleased with the feral whale count.
*
*
Just north of Cliff House, Sutro Baths, what is left of them. People used to take a nickel train from the downtown out here to the sea, to a carnivalesque beachside encampment. Sutro Baths was all cast-iron and glass, like a conservatory, echos and leisure, cold ocean water channeled through, people swimming, diving, standing and watching.
*
*
Adrienne liked this one, so I put it in. Something funny and good about it.
*
*
My dear Mum, Phyllis, looking out to sea.
*
*
Ledger board, posts and joists. Plum tree in foreground. Stair to come.
*
*
Triangulating toward square. Yellow tapes to get posts and stair square to brick path. Juxtaposed against the easy curve of the extension cord. Cord, by the way, is the hefty 10-gauge, hard to find, good for the tools. Super duty, like Yellow Truck.
*
*
this is a surrogate foto. the light on the sign "House of Brakes" was amazing one early evening, around 7:30 pm. This one, however, was taken at about 7:45 pm, several days later, and the beauty light had departed. But anyway, I love the name, House of Brakes. There are Houses of Pancakes, Houses of Ill Repute. But House of Brakes? It seemed ominous, or to promise profundity, and instead maybe it is delivering a slightly humorous confusion. Anyway, this foto is a placeholder. Wait until I get another take, my big break. It will be amazing.
*
*
Looking south from intersection of 24th and Folsom, outer Mission. I love the green hills of San Francisco. More than the green hills of the California country side. I always have. They are so far away, so peaceful, always awaiting you, if you could ever leave city life for a minute, on a weekend afternoon. They are not here by happenstance. Some urban plan has left them, allowed them. Adrienne has listened patiently to my rants about them. She summed it up perfectly after mulling it a day or two: prospect and refuge. That's what they are. Prospect and Refuge.
*
*
Night cycles. 24th Street again. This time just after sundown. Outside Pop's. Nighthawks at the diner. Edward Hopper. Only the mood is movement, imminence, rather than paralysis.
*
*
soon to come, an installment on the toyotas of San Francisco County.
hope all good.
soon we home to Seattle
soon soon
lsdkjfsldkfjsl;dkj
Rain day
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. | Monday, May 17, 2010
Rain day today. The two jays have the garden to themselves, wet plum tree, black oiled sunflower seeds from the feeder. Inside on the couch, Adrienne and I spy on them, watching their oddness, the way they hop, flit, looking up from our laptops.
Ordered cable and hardware for balcony and stair.
Should be here in two days. Coming from LA.
A rain day.
Wet plum tree.
Like years ago, when the wind blew, and we let the lobsters go another day.
Maybe a week left. Maybe by next Monday we are done.
Rain day today. The two jays have the garden to themselves, wet plum tree, black oiled sunflower seeds from the feeder. Inside on the couch, Adrienne and I spy on them, watching their oddness, the way they hop, flit, looking up from our laptops.
Ordered cable and hardware for balcony and stair.
Should be here in two days. Coming from LA.
A rain day.
Wet plum tree.
Like years ago, when the wind blew, and we let the lobsters go another day.
Maybe a week left. Maybe by next Monday we are done.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Homesick, Bicyclists, Garden stair
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. | SATURDAY, MAY 15, 2010 - We long for home now. Even though we are here and our host is so patient, generous, Sister Margaret is, and we love her, we want to be home.
San Francisco is an amazing city. The bicyclists, in many ways, are way more urban here, than in Seattle. Here they ride in street clothes, most of them, they ride leisurely. It isn't strange to see a woman riding in cowboy boots. Many people are riding without helmets. It is more a style of riding, closer to European, where people feel safe among the cars. There must be bike commuters here, but you don't see many of them. Maybe it is just the Mission, or the Mish, as some people apparently say now. But some mornings I'm up early, running through the downtown, down Market Street over wet, freshly cleaned sidewalks, past homeless people walking up, and there aren't many commuters, few if any of the lime fluorescent jackets of Seattle.
In Seattle, of course there are plenty of hip bike riders. Probably there are more fixies and probably too there are more bikes that are amazing objects of craftsmanship and love. Here, in San Francisco, the typical bicycle is an old 10-speed beater. It just goes, cruises, with a few updates. In Seattle, the main bike is newer, faster, sleeker. The rider is encased in candywrappers or super bright rain gear. There are a few beards and flannels, true. But in Seattle the people driving cars are more aggressive, and it seems, the bicyclists are more aggressive, maybe in response. Maybe things are entrenched. The cars and the bikes have not learned to share space as well as they do here.
But I haven't been on a bike here. Just been a pedestrian or in Yellow Truck. I haven't seen my bicycle in months. It is rusting in the cellar no doubt. And Seattle bike culture, for all its athleticism, all its fluorescence, is healthy, is good, and I want to return.
Both of us. If we were still counting the days, now we would be counting the days left until home. Before, the days pushed forward, into the unknown. Now they add up, they persist. Yellow Truck takes us to Beronio's for lumber, to Disco Hardware for the smaller things, the fasteners and the unremembered one last thing. The street grid is dense. The driving is easy on Yellow. We are rarely up over 30 mph. We integrate lunch with getting parts. The burritos are giant and delicious. The Mission at times, going down Mission Street in particular, so crowded, so bustling, all the double-parked delivery trucks, cars, all the Spanish being spoken, the thick English, the palm trees, the mothers and daughters tightly, casually arm-in-arm, feels like a foreign country.
The stairs. The reason we are still here. Finally yesterday, we cut the first stringer, 14 steps from balcony to garden. All this time we have been building the balcony that wraps the addition, instead of as before, when the stair descended directly down from the upstairs kitchen, stifling Sister Margaret's chi, blocking her view from her own kitchen sink window to the back garden.
We redesigned the thing so the garden will open up to her, even when she's washing dishes, not just when she's sitting in the living room. It will be beautiful, already is looking good. And is solid. And is creating more space than we could tell on the laptops. And on the downside, we are constantly reminded of tools we didn't bring, the thing we need still from the store. We squabble. Then we save one another, with some last thought about level or plumb, a sixteenth of an inch, and how will this minute cut of house siding in the end relate to the cantilever of the balcony. Construction is so numbingly exact, so undeniably physical, so invisible, and also whole. The wood is. The screws are. We cut them, fasten them. They stay where they are. You have to get them just so. This is not even going into the resolving of the juncture of old meeting new. Nothing level or square in the old addition. Connecting to it, but not being misled by the descending beams. They descend in two directions. So on. And so on. But then, Nailed it! Occasionally we get to say that. And then too, something my Cousin Mike said years ago now, that is still with me, that you can always fix your mistakes. As tangible and immoveable as the wood and metal is, it can always be finessed, fixed, reanimated. Almost always.
So we live here now, in the back garden, building this stair. The garden faces west. The stair will descend into it. The light in the afternoon is the luminous haziness, a suggestion of the thick clouds that pack in against the hills west of us, below Bernal Heights, and the Bernal Heights radio tower, which is like Seattle's Space Needle, only with less materiality and situated in a foreign country.
San Francisco is an amazing city. The bicyclists, in many ways, are way more urban here, than in Seattle. Here they ride in street clothes, most of them, they ride leisurely. It isn't strange to see a woman riding in cowboy boots. Many people are riding without helmets. It is more a style of riding, closer to European, where people feel safe among the cars. There must be bike commuters here, but you don't see many of them. Maybe it is just the Mission, or the Mish, as some people apparently say now. But some mornings I'm up early, running through the downtown, down Market Street over wet, freshly cleaned sidewalks, past homeless people walking up, and there aren't many commuters, few if any of the lime fluorescent jackets of Seattle.
In Seattle, of course there are plenty of hip bike riders. Probably there are more fixies and probably too there are more bikes that are amazing objects of craftsmanship and love. Here, in San Francisco, the typical bicycle is an old 10-speed beater. It just goes, cruises, with a few updates. In Seattle, the main bike is newer, faster, sleeker. The rider is encased in candywrappers or super bright rain gear. There are a few beards and flannels, true. But in Seattle the people driving cars are more aggressive, and it seems, the bicyclists are more aggressive, maybe in response. Maybe things are entrenched. The cars and the bikes have not learned to share space as well as they do here.
But I haven't been on a bike here. Just been a pedestrian or in Yellow Truck. I haven't seen my bicycle in months. It is rusting in the cellar no doubt. And Seattle bike culture, for all its athleticism, all its fluorescence, is healthy, is good, and I want to return.
Both of us. If we were still counting the days, now we would be counting the days left until home. Before, the days pushed forward, into the unknown. Now they add up, they persist. Yellow Truck takes us to Beronio's for lumber, to Disco Hardware for the smaller things, the fasteners and the unremembered one last thing. The street grid is dense. The driving is easy on Yellow. We are rarely up over 30 mph. We integrate lunch with getting parts. The burritos are giant and delicious. The Mission at times, going down Mission Street in particular, so crowded, so bustling, all the double-parked delivery trucks, cars, all the Spanish being spoken, the thick English, the palm trees, the mothers and daughters tightly, casually arm-in-arm, feels like a foreign country.
The stairs. The reason we are still here. Finally yesterday, we cut the first stringer, 14 steps from balcony to garden. All this time we have been building the balcony that wraps the addition, instead of as before, when the stair descended directly down from the upstairs kitchen, stifling Sister Margaret's chi, blocking her view from her own kitchen sink window to the back garden.
We redesigned the thing so the garden will open up to her, even when she's washing dishes, not just when she's sitting in the living room. It will be beautiful, already is looking good. And is solid. And is creating more space than we could tell on the laptops. And on the downside, we are constantly reminded of tools we didn't bring, the thing we need still from the store. We squabble. Then we save one another, with some last thought about level or plumb, a sixteenth of an inch, and how will this minute cut of house siding in the end relate to the cantilever of the balcony. Construction is so numbingly exact, so undeniably physical, so invisible, and also whole. The wood is. The screws are. We cut them, fasten them. They stay where they are. You have to get them just so. This is not even going into the resolving of the juncture of old meeting new. Nothing level or square in the old addition. Connecting to it, but not being misled by the descending beams. They descend in two directions. So on. And so on. But then, Nailed it! Occasionally we get to say that. And then too, something my Cousin Mike said years ago now, that is still with me, that you can always fix your mistakes. As tangible and immoveable as the wood and metal is, it can always be finessed, fixed, reanimated. Almost always.
So we live here now, in the back garden, building this stair. The garden faces west. The stair will descend into it. The light in the afternoon is the luminous haziness, a suggestion of the thick clouds that pack in against the hills west of us, below Bernal Heights, and the Bernal Heights radio tower, which is like Seattle's Space Needle, only with less materiality and situated in a foreign country.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Last Picture Show, Days 43 thru 48, Bonus text
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF. | Tuesday, May 4, 2010 | Hampshire St.
I do owe some last fotos. From the days after Bryce Canyon to arrival in San Francisco. Post epilogue, stretching things. But anyway, we are not yet quite home. We still have 900 odd miles to go.
And we are "here" finally, have achieved a minor landing of sorts. We've been here at Sister Margaret's just over a week at this point. Doing the stairs, building them, having a project to hold us, has allowed us some peace of stasis. Not that there ever is any peace. Not for too long anyway. And then there is, comes back, settles.
The odyssey, already evaporated. Something other, gone. The non-here-ness, the ongoing glide, no longer. Maybe it was a blog of four. The fourth pulling us three, me and Adrienne and Yellow, inexorably along each day, above friction, without drag. The fourth wheel. Now three again.
Yellow Truck packed full with the old rotted broken-down pieces of the stairs. Demolition done. Today to an eco-minded dump, we hope, but little solid wood left for re-use. Mostly for the chipper if that. Some of the posts, the pieces holding up the stair, were little more than paint-encased soil. They smelled of earth, moved with slugs, when we brought them down. Nineteen pound sledge. Both of us sore from swinging that thing, the saws-all, pry-bar and hammer.
Back, to this, a long time ago, less than two weeks: Stopped for a drink of oil just west of the Tintic Mining District, Utah, on Route 50, about 80 miles south of Salt Lake City. Sometimes, as here, I took a good spot that presented itself to stop check the oil. Other times, more like a fatalist, as we closed in on another 200 miles - the interval I adopted after awhile to check the oil - I would build expectations, hoping the spot would reveal itself by chance, not even seeable until the last few hundred yards, when the 200 miles were up, and it was time to see how thirsty Yellow Truck was. That all the coordinates would suddenly line up, or would converge, and something magical would rise up at the side of the road.
*
*
The Bonneville Salt Flats: we came here for the curvature of the earth. Adrienne knew about this. Northwestern Utah. I'd heard of the racing, the land-speed records. At one point, we had decided it was too far, but in the end, we did a bunch of alternative google maps, and it meant adding about 200 more miles to our trip. So we made it. The night before it rained. So most of the flats were underwater, even before we knew it, as we passed by the Morton salts icon, girl and umbrella and rain, framed by a night-time factory of low hard lights. Apparently the flats are underwater most of winter and spring. The dark line in the foto is US 80. We had to suck it up and drive a bit of 80 to get here too, along with the miles. There is nothing around here, no human habitation hardly, between Salt Lake City and Wendover, Nevada. Supposedly this stretch of salt-encrusted ancient lake bed slowed the Donner Reed Party on their trip west, led to some compromises of their own.
*
*
Two salts on salt, Bonneville Salt Flats. Gothic pitchfork replaced with camera bag, barn replaced with salt. Aesthetic concept by A Wicks. Bungled and worded up by JLib.
*
*
Carlin, Nevada, all in shades of dust. Old duffer with big cowboy hat and mud flaps. Click for larger image.
*
*
Horses, interrupted. Carlin, NV. We're lost, looking for two-lane thread of Rt 278, south out of town, after our short stint on the wide loud lanes of Rt 80.
*
*
Mountain flank, corner of sky, off 278.
*
*
With two red cows grazing. The tiny darker dots, middle right center and lower right.
*
*
Cold cellar, 278
*
*
Eureka, Nevada. Along Rt. 50. Someone in town came up with the moniker, The Friendliest Town on the Loneliest Highway.
*
*
An oil truck headed down a dirt road to a farmstead. So many towns around here are noted on blue signs, that right below the town name, say No Services. The land dwarfs everything. Is limitless tautology. Is all there is.
*
*
A piece of the Toiyabes, along Rt. 376. We'd called Adrienne's mum, hoping Rt. 376 might be the Extraterrestrial Highway, but it turned out that highway is Rt. 375, we were too far north. No-one up here lately to be clever about things, naming things, opening spaceship cafes, pouring lunar lattes. Just land and sky.
*
*
Maybe we've whined enough about coffee in these pages, but when we eclipsed 7,000 miles for our journey, we decided to have a cup. We'd waited all morning, having forgotten to get some in Eureka, and there was still no town to expect for miles. Several earlier candidates noted on the map had ended up being just intersections, nothing more, just a place to pull over for an eighteen wheeler. So we made some delicious coffee at the back of the truck, under the Toiyabes. Happy 7,000 Team!
*
*
Coming into Tonopah, Nevada. Once was a silver mining town. Eastern money. Back in early 1900s. Most profit exported back east. Now a ghost of itself, hanging on. More than a third of its houses empty, boarded up for years. Elko, Nevada is where all the mines are now.
*
*
Tonopah's Main Street. A Little Bit of Heaven, on the right, is one of the many signs that lead to abandoned businesses and locked doors. The Mizpah Hotel has also been empty for years. The hotel I once stayed in here while working as a newspaper reporter, the Silver Queen, has been torn down. The sign, further up the road, is still there.
*
*
A dog. Adrienne fotoed this dog. Not sure why we didn't foto more, like the ones with their heads out the window of a car. This one has a nice loneliness.
*
*
Cold. Coming into the White Mountains, Nevada-California border, along Rt. 6.
*
*
Bluffs. Closing in on Yosemite. Hadn't yet found out that our route, 120, was still closed for winter.
*
*
Up again into snow. Another mountain pass.
*
*
Snow threatening, dropping big swirling flakes. Smooth headland, Mono Lake. We've just talked to a California Highway patrolman. Found out Rt. 120 will be closed for weeks more. We're tired again, badmouthing the camera function - sometimes it locks up. We're looking for the town we'll be bedding down in, hoping the storm stays elsewhere while we refigure our route.
*
*
Bridgeport, Calif. Morning at Redwood Inn. Just a light snow overnight after all. Bucking horse with cow patterning. See earlier blogs for giant details on this trout-deer hunting capital of the West.
*
*
Running along the eastern side of the Sierra Nevadas, N 395, headed toward Rt. 88, our path over the top. Note a white treeless circle in the land above the road.
*
*
Rt. 88 thru the Sierras, another attic to sky.
*
*
Our friend the mack truck fumphin green hay over the mountains. Eventually he passed us, but it took him awhile. When we passed him on the downslope, after he was pulled over, the driver was outside already, looking after something, and he waved, big smile behind sunglasses, just a t-shirt in the alpine breeze, we waved back, smiles behind sunglasses also, gliding and braking down into the foothills.
*
*
Green Hills of California. Paul Bunyon type. In the lowland, Yellow Truck is breathing easier again.
*
*
Actuary storefront, Ione, California. Sign says, On Vacation. Will return May 7th.
*
*
Cooling towers and vineyard. Along Rt. 104, the smallest road we could find on the map, shooting through farmland south of Sacramento.
*
*
More awesome powerlines, above us again, for a split second. With wire fence, as always, running along beside us, giving form to legal coordinates. Rt. 104.
*
*
Listing cultural center, Isleton, California. Elevated roadway, which also acts as a levee, is behind the building. Beyond that, the Sacramento River. Isleton, like a lot of towns we stopped at - pulled off the road to see, to drive down Main St., feel the place's strangeness, its stillness, the speed of stasis - Isleton wasn't on the map.
*
*
Catching wind. Along Rt. 12. Closing in on Bay Area.
*
*
The Last Motel. For Leg Two anyway. Motel 6, San Rafael, bordering on Marin. The bleakness. The unlevel floor. But good coffee in the morning.
*
*
Karma Factory, Berkeley Calif. The deliciousness, juiciness of pure recycled vegetable oil, served up by hot lesbians in monkey suits. $3.84 a gallon. A relativist's bargain! Just wipe any spills off the car. It's still a solvent. Eats paint.
*
*
Beautiful in grey, downtown San Francisco from Bay Bridge. Saturday afternoon traffic, a moving platform of people sitting ensconced in wifi-d metal.
*
*
"Dave Horne!" I shouted. But it wasn't him. No answer. Just his car. Zipping past crazily. But without the dents.
*
*
We land. Iglesia Roca De Salvacion provides the safe harbor. Outer Mission, less than two blocks from Sister Margaret's house.
*
*
Sister Margaret's kitchen table. Super orange. Note framed map on wall, of Casco Bay, Maine coast, from Richmond to Seguin islands. The maps we take with us.
*
*
Imminent frittata in garden, chef Margaret and us helping.
*
*
Post-frittata. Reclined on picnic table looking up.
*
*
Later, still full, but now thirsty, grumpy white folks. About to lighten up with a gin fizzy of some kind. Note stairs in the background, soon to come down.
*
*
*
Testing out the seats at a pier near Embarcadero.
*
*
The plum tree and stair at 932 Hampshire St. Endpoint. Beginning. Our first paid job. Here. Latitude: N37 degrees. Longitude: W122 degrees.
*
*
I do owe some last fotos. From the days after Bryce Canyon to arrival in San Francisco. Post epilogue, stretching things. But anyway, we are not yet quite home. We still have 900 odd miles to go.
And we are "here" finally, have achieved a minor landing of sorts. We've been here at Sister Margaret's just over a week at this point. Doing the stairs, building them, having a project to hold us, has allowed us some peace of stasis. Not that there ever is any peace. Not for too long anyway. And then there is, comes back, settles.
The odyssey, already evaporated. Something other, gone. The non-here-ness, the ongoing glide, no longer. Maybe it was a blog of four. The fourth pulling us three, me and Adrienne and Yellow, inexorably along each day, above friction, without drag. The fourth wheel. Now three again.
Yellow Truck packed full with the old rotted broken-down pieces of the stairs. Demolition done. Today to an eco-minded dump, we hope, but little solid wood left for re-use. Mostly for the chipper if that. Some of the posts, the pieces holding up the stair, were little more than paint-encased soil. They smelled of earth, moved with slugs, when we brought them down. Nineteen pound sledge. Both of us sore from swinging that thing, the saws-all, pry-bar and hammer.
Back, to this, a long time ago, less than two weeks: Stopped for a drink of oil just west of the Tintic Mining District, Utah, on Route 50, about 80 miles south of Salt Lake City. Sometimes, as here, I took a good spot that presented itself to stop check the oil. Other times, more like a fatalist, as we closed in on another 200 miles - the interval I adopted after awhile to check the oil - I would build expectations, hoping the spot would reveal itself by chance, not even seeable until the last few hundred yards, when the 200 miles were up, and it was time to see how thirsty Yellow Truck was. That all the coordinates would suddenly line up, or would converge, and something magical would rise up at the side of the road.
*
*
The Bonneville Salt Flats: we came here for the curvature of the earth. Adrienne knew about this. Northwestern Utah. I'd heard of the racing, the land-speed records. At one point, we had decided it was too far, but in the end, we did a bunch of alternative google maps, and it meant adding about 200 more miles to our trip. So we made it. The night before it rained. So most of the flats were underwater, even before we knew it, as we passed by the Morton salts icon, girl and umbrella and rain, framed by a night-time factory of low hard lights. Apparently the flats are underwater most of winter and spring. The dark line in the foto is US 80. We had to suck it up and drive a bit of 80 to get here too, along with the miles. There is nothing around here, no human habitation hardly, between Salt Lake City and Wendover, Nevada. Supposedly this stretch of salt-encrusted ancient lake bed slowed the Donner Reed Party on their trip west, led to some compromises of their own.
*
*
Two salts on salt, Bonneville Salt Flats. Gothic pitchfork replaced with camera bag, barn replaced with salt. Aesthetic concept by A Wicks. Bungled and worded up by JLib.
*
*
Carlin, Nevada, all in shades of dust. Old duffer with big cowboy hat and mud flaps. Click for larger image.
*
*
Horses, interrupted. Carlin, NV. We're lost, looking for two-lane thread of Rt 278, south out of town, after our short stint on the wide loud lanes of Rt 80.
*
*
Mountain flank, corner of sky, off 278.
*
*
With two red cows grazing. The tiny darker dots, middle right center and lower right.
*
*
Cold cellar, 278
*
*
Eureka, Nevada. Along Rt. 50. Someone in town came up with the moniker, The Friendliest Town on the Loneliest Highway.
*
*
An oil truck headed down a dirt road to a farmstead. So many towns around here are noted on blue signs, that right below the town name, say No Services. The land dwarfs everything. Is limitless tautology. Is all there is.
*
*
A piece of the Toiyabes, along Rt. 376. We'd called Adrienne's mum, hoping Rt. 376 might be the Extraterrestrial Highway, but it turned out that highway is Rt. 375, we were too far north. No-one up here lately to be clever about things, naming things, opening spaceship cafes, pouring lunar lattes. Just land and sky.
*
*
Maybe we've whined enough about coffee in these pages, but when we eclipsed 7,000 miles for our journey, we decided to have a cup. We'd waited all morning, having forgotten to get some in Eureka, and there was still no town to expect for miles. Several earlier candidates noted on the map had ended up being just intersections, nothing more, just a place to pull over for an eighteen wheeler. So we made some delicious coffee at the back of the truck, under the Toiyabes. Happy 7,000 Team!
*
*
Coming into Tonopah, Nevada. Once was a silver mining town. Eastern money. Back in early 1900s. Most profit exported back east. Now a ghost of itself, hanging on. More than a third of its houses empty, boarded up for years. Elko, Nevada is where all the mines are now.
*
*
Tonopah's Main Street. A Little Bit of Heaven, on the right, is one of the many signs that lead to abandoned businesses and locked doors. The Mizpah Hotel has also been empty for years. The hotel I once stayed in here while working as a newspaper reporter, the Silver Queen, has been torn down. The sign, further up the road, is still there.
*
*
A dog. Adrienne fotoed this dog. Not sure why we didn't foto more, like the ones with their heads out the window of a car. This one has a nice loneliness.
*
*
Cold. Coming into the White Mountains, Nevada-California border, along Rt. 6.
*
*
Bluffs. Closing in on Yosemite. Hadn't yet found out that our route, 120, was still closed for winter.
*
*
Up again into snow. Another mountain pass.
*
*
Snow threatening, dropping big swirling flakes. Smooth headland, Mono Lake. We've just talked to a California Highway patrolman. Found out Rt. 120 will be closed for weeks more. We're tired again, badmouthing the camera function - sometimes it locks up. We're looking for the town we'll be bedding down in, hoping the storm stays elsewhere while we refigure our route.
*
*
Bridgeport, Calif. Morning at Redwood Inn. Just a light snow overnight after all. Bucking horse with cow patterning. See earlier blogs for giant details on this trout-deer hunting capital of the West.
*
*
Running along the eastern side of the Sierra Nevadas, N 395, headed toward Rt. 88, our path over the top. Note a white treeless circle in the land above the road.
*
*
Rt. 88 thru the Sierras, another attic to sky.
*
*
Our friend the mack truck fumphin green hay over the mountains. Eventually he passed us, but it took him awhile. When we passed him on the downslope, after he was pulled over, the driver was outside already, looking after something, and he waved, big smile behind sunglasses, just a t-shirt in the alpine breeze, we waved back, smiles behind sunglasses also, gliding and braking down into the foothills.
*
*
Green Hills of California. Paul Bunyon type. In the lowland, Yellow Truck is breathing easier again.
*
*
Actuary storefront, Ione, California. Sign says, On Vacation. Will return May 7th.
*
*
Cooling towers and vineyard. Along Rt. 104, the smallest road we could find on the map, shooting through farmland south of Sacramento.
*
*
More awesome powerlines, above us again, for a split second. With wire fence, as always, running along beside us, giving form to legal coordinates. Rt. 104.
*
*
Listing cultural center, Isleton, California. Elevated roadway, which also acts as a levee, is behind the building. Beyond that, the Sacramento River. Isleton, like a lot of towns we stopped at - pulled off the road to see, to drive down Main St., feel the place's strangeness, its stillness, the speed of stasis - Isleton wasn't on the map.
*
*
Catching wind. Along Rt. 12. Closing in on Bay Area.
*
*
The Last Motel. For Leg Two anyway. Motel 6, San Rafael, bordering on Marin. The bleakness. The unlevel floor. But good coffee in the morning.
*
*
Karma Factory, Berkeley Calif. The deliciousness, juiciness of pure recycled vegetable oil, served up by hot lesbians in monkey suits. $3.84 a gallon. A relativist's bargain! Just wipe any spills off the car. It's still a solvent. Eats paint.
*
*
Beautiful in grey, downtown San Francisco from Bay Bridge. Saturday afternoon traffic, a moving platform of people sitting ensconced in wifi-d metal.
*
*
"Dave Horne!" I shouted. But it wasn't him. No answer. Just his car. Zipping past crazily. But without the dents.
*
*
We land. Iglesia Roca De Salvacion provides the safe harbor. Outer Mission, less than two blocks from Sister Margaret's house.
*
*
Sister Margaret's kitchen table. Super orange. Note framed map on wall, of Casco Bay, Maine coast, from Richmond to Seguin islands. The maps we take with us.
*
*
Imminent frittata in garden, chef Margaret and us helping.
*
*
Post-frittata. Reclined on picnic table looking up.
*
*
Later, still full, but now thirsty, grumpy white folks. About to lighten up with a gin fizzy of some kind. Note stairs in the background, soon to come down.
*
*
*
Testing out the seats at a pier near Embarcadero.
*
*
The plum tree and stair at 932 Hampshire St. Endpoint. Beginning. Our first paid job. Here. Latitude: N37 degrees. Longitude: W122 degrees.
*
*
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