For awhile, I lived longer in San Francisco than in Hollister where I was born and raised. I moved away at 19 years old to study at San Francisco State University. A couple of times, I moved back to Hollister for a few months. The  first time I couldn’t handle being on my own, and the second time it was because I took the concept of being a good daughter too seriously. When I realized my parents were essentially okay about me having a Mary Tyler Moore single girl life in the big city, off to San Francisco I scrambled to live and work thereabouts for another 24 years. During those 30 years, I moved 13 times. In San Francisco, I had 11 different addresses, all rentals: 28th Avenue in the Outer Sunset district Clement Street in the Outer Richmond Theresa Street in Mission Terrace, right across from a freeway. This is where I learned to pretend that freeway traffic sounded like ocean waves. Byxbee Street in Merced Heights, a couple blocks from college Balboa Street, near Ocean Beach, in th

I’m participating in a new meme (for me, that is) called Friday Writings , which is hosted by Poets and Storytellers United . Fragment #1 “Come on, Honey. Let’s take you home now,” said the kindly man in blue holding out his hand to the grey-haired, naturally tanned woman sitting pertly on a stone bench in front of the Veteran’s Memorial Building. Six feet away, among tiles commemorating military veterans, was her dad’s, the only connection visible to her past.  The short stout woman with knees far younger than her walked steadily beside the middle-aged escort who reminded her of the son she did not have.   The sun was halfway to the horizon. Be home by sunset, her parents had told her so very long ago.  (to be continued…maybe) To read creative poetry and prose from other bloggers, head over to  Friday Writings .

Please tell me the story again, Charlie. So, he did. First, let me set up the story. The time: Fifth grade, the year President Kennedy was assassinated. The scene: Outside on a school blacktop. Lunch time is over. We, fifth graders, are dragging and carrying the green wooden lunch benches back to their rest place, about 30 feet or so. The quicker we finish, the more time we have to play before the bell rang. Said Charlie (I’m paraphrasing, of course): Usually a friend and me take one end of a bench, but this day I thought I could carry it alone. I did! All the way. No dropping, no stopping. I was happy, so proud of myself. I turned around to get another bench. What did I see? You, heading over with one bench under each arm. hahahahahah. Charlie first told me this story at our 10 year high school reunion. I love it! I have no memory of carrying two benches, moving benches, yes. I’ve no doubt that I could’ve carried one bench. I was strong for a girl, thanks to Daddy having no problem of