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Thursday, September 9, 2021

Stopping At Fifty

Stopping At Fifty

On a recent trip to the Bend house (pictured to the right), my wife and I got into a discussion of moving, and specifically “moves” we’ve done both individually and

together. Although we were not “Army brats” with moves dictated by the whims of a branch of the government, it seems we moved quite a bit. The discussion delved further into the pain or pleasure aspect of moving. It’s nothing that either of us likes to do at this point in our lives, but for the most part over the years, I’ve greeted moving with a positive attitude, vs. something I dreaded. Sure, you’re always going to leave friends behind, and you’ll miss the ‘hood, but I enjoyed moving to new places and meeting new people. Friends and readers of the food blog know that most of my youth was spent in the community of Daly City, just south of San Francisco. I’ve also spent many years in and around Pacifica, seven years in Chico, a few in Gilroy, and most recently of course, several years in beautiful Bend, Oregon.


But I got to thinking about all the places I’ve lived, even ever-so-briefly in some cases, and thought I’d get them down in one place. And as the title suggests, I’m hoping that I don’t have to do too many more.


Taraval St. apartment, San Francisco. I was born at St. Mary’s Hospital in San Francisco, and this is the first place I called home. My parents had a small apartment in the Sunset District for a couple of years. My dad worked for a bank, and my mom worked for City of Paris department store, which is unfortunately no longer in business. I remember absolutely nothing about this place!


Parkmerced, 40 Rivas St. We moved to a little apartment in Parkmerced which I remember vividly. Parquet wood floors and stainless-steel counters, two floors, white doors, sort of a garden setting in front where neighbors would congregate. My grandfather (Gene, my dad’s dad) would visit often in the afternoons, as he was a guard somewhere in the big complex at that time. Most memorable day there was when I was about 3 ½, and I decided to take my little girlfriend Diane (who was 3) on streetcars all over San Francisco. We were gone for several hours, saw lots of sites in the City. I managed to get us home in one piece, and my parents were not amused. What they didn’t know at the time was that I could read at 3 ½, and I’m sure I simply read the signs on the streetcars and managed to transfer to the right ones. Don’t all 3 ½ year olds have this capability?


San Mateo House. My parents’ first home purchase was a little corner home in the Shoreview district of San Mateo. Best part of this place was its proximity to my grandparents’ house, which was about two blocks away on South Norfolk. I spent afternoons at my grandparents’, helping in the yard where they grew what seemed like every vegetable in the world in a few rows of an immaculately laid out suburban yard. Fresh everything, commonly plucked right from the yard. This must have something to do with why I shop every day for what I want to prepare that night!


141 Park Plaza Apt #6 in Daly City was the first of two apartments we’d occupy over several years. My mom kept having babies, so we pretty much were forced to move into roomier places. It was I and my younger sister Lynda when we moved in to this two-bedroom one bath apartment. As with the Parkmerced apartment, this one had parquet floors and stainless-steel counters. Must have been the fashion, I can only imagine. Danish modern furniture was also popular at the time, and I recall my mom buying “squarish” couches, chairs, and occasional tables in some wild colors. Blue upholstery and black lacquer tables if my memory serves correctly. The Park Plaza apartments were fun. We were directly across the street from the Westlake Shopping Center, which we would watch grow from the Town and Country Market and a few department stores to a giant mall with dozens of stores in a single locale. One of the first such malls in the nation, and very successful in its day. I’m told that this bright little boy used to take himself to the dentist, get haircuts, and go shopping alone. I was about 5. Kindergarten was a half mile away at Westlake School, and I’d make the walk every weekday.

About this time, my grandparents moved from San Mateo to Bonnie Doon, which is up the Empire Grade, outside of Santa Cruz. This lasted a couple of years, and they moved into the little house on Lazywoods Road, in Felton. I would spend virtually every holiday period and every summer vacation there and have major fond memories of the times. I’ll bore you with that write up, later.


Salinas apartment. My dad was working in sales for a canning company out of Oakland and was offered a “golden opportunity” to manage his own territory. Unfortunately, it would require moving the family from our beloved Daly City, to what surely was the armpit of California at that time … Salinas. Although the area has expanded into lots of fruits and vegetables (and even vineyards) in the last couple decades, at the time we lived there it was all lettuce fields, and the population was 100% Latino. I’m of course not putting a value judgment on that fact, but we were quite literally the only English-speaking Caucasians in our complex, and it was a tough time for both my mom and us. And it was hot … Daly City has an annual average temperature of around 64 degrees, and it rarely varies much above or below that. Our little apartment in Salinas had no air conditioning and opening the windows would allow the 115-degree summer heat to make the place miserable. Salinas didn’t last … six months was about all my mom could take, and my dad was given a clear ultimatum … we’re moving back to Daly City or …


141 Park Plaza Apt #20 was our second apartment in Daly City. The shopping center continued to grow, the old Town and Country Market was about to be replaced by the new, modern Westlake Foods, which was in the middle of the shopping center and directly across the street from us. It was here that I had my first slice of pizza … nineteen cents got you a big slice of cheese pizza from the giant supermarket’s deli. Very important early formative years were spent in the Park Plaza apartments. Many friends from Westlake School are still good friends who I see several times a year. It was a safe, fun, friendly place to grow up. But alas, my mom was about to have twins, so …


41 Grandview, Daly City. Five kids just weren’t going to cut it in the little apartment, so we moved into a real house in the Westlake Knolls. Small place, looking back, but a giant leap from the two-bedroom apartment. We still had to share rooms for the first few years, but ultimately my dad and grandfather build a makeshift room in the garage, which would be mine. Cold and drafty, it wasn’t much more than two doors and some two by fours and sheet rock, in the forward part of the single car garage of our little ranch house in suburbia. But once again, this was a safe neighborhood, and we all have fond memories of the Grandview house. My Grandview school years included a brief (bussed) stint to Fernando Rivera School, until Thomas Edison was built, and I could walk down the street for 5th and 6th grades. Then Ben Franklin Jr. High, which was also a bus ride, and then to Westmoor High, which was an easy walk of about a half mile.

It was also at this house that my mom decided she liked monkeys. When I tell people this in 2009, they can’t believe it, but it’s true and all my sisters will vouch for it as well. My mom was dying to have a pet monkey, so my dad surprised her with a little spider monkey. Pain in the butt little thing, and it didn’t last long before being given away. Then came a squirrel monkey which met a similar fate. But then we got Shoo-Shoo the owl monkey and had her for upwards of 10 years. At one point Shoo-Shoo ran away, and we got a second owl monkey. After finding Shoo-Shoo a couple blocks from the house, we gave away the backup owl monkey. A couple of years later my mom increased the monkey population to two, with the addition of a capuchin. It lasted a couple years and was replaced by the last monkey in the Sullivan house … a wooly. This one was like a little chimp, or more like a two-year old kid, including all the associated crying and moodiness. The wooly was given away, and we were down to good old Shoo-Shoo for the last few years of her life. Fun pets.


244 Morton was the next move for the clan, which now included five younger sisters to yours truly. This would be my first real bedroom which I didn’t have to share with any of

the girls. I had my own phone and TV, and a bathroom right outside the door, as opposed to going upstairs and the far back of the house, which was the routine in the last house. I’d died and gone to heaven. This was a nice new house in the new community of Serramonte. This whole stretch of homes that included both Serramonte and the previously mentioned Westlake area, were the inspiration for the Malvina Reynolds composition (and Pete Seeger recording) of “Little Boxes.” Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky, little boxes, little boxes, little boxes all the same. There’s a green one and a pink one and a blue one and a yellow one, and they’re all made out of ticky-tacky, and they all look just the same.

San Diego State and a dorm room in Zura Hall was my next stop. I remember packing up all my worldly possessions, which included a nice stereo, tons of record albums, two surfboards, clothes, and my trusty typewriter, piling everything into my little orange VW (named Humphrey) and driving 500 miles south. San Diego was a great experience, but unfortunately it would prove to drain any savings I had, and my parents couldn’t afford to pay for it, so I was forced to return to home base for a while. But once again, I met some great friends in San Diego, and keep in contact with a couple of them. Took a lot of searching to track one of them down, and the other recently found me, but it’s great being in touch again.


San Jose Apartment. After briefly moving back into my old room on Morton, it was off to San Jose and a shared apartment with my friend Marty. Marty and I go back to early grammar school years, and we’ve always been the very best of friends. Fondest memory from this apartment was the release of Who’s Next and cranking up the entire “album” as loud as my stereo would go. We WON’T get fooled again!


Oakmont house, South San Francisco. Marty was working 30 miles north, and I was about to return to San Francisco State, so for the immediate future, it seemed like a good idea to move out of the apartment and back into the parents’ abode in South City. I was once again relegated to a room in the garage, but this time it was a professionally built room (with a heater!) in an otherwise very large garage. I was working in grocery stores at this point, making union wages and benefits that gave me a taste of having a few bucks. I had a decent car and a motorcycle, a new surfboard, and a nice set of Ludwig drums which I drove my parents crazy with. I was never a “subtle” drummer, and this was the height of my “I wanna be Keith Moon” days.


Pacifica, Esplanade #1. I soon tired of being under my parents’ roof and moved to a nice apartment on the beach in Pacifica. The apartment overlooked the water, and work was a five-minute walk to Brentwood Market.


Pacifica, Purple House. From the apartment on the beach, I moved about 3 blocks up Monterey Road to a purple house, with friends Marty and Bob. It was great telling people how to find us … Monterey Road is a main thoroughfare that cuts down to Pacifica from Skyline Blvd, and all we had to tell them was “look for the purple house.” You didn’t need the address … just look for the purple house. Trust me, you’ll see it. This place was a party house in the true sense of the phrase. Marty and Bob eventually moved out and replaced by two other friends (and we all were equally crazy party animals at that juncture), and we really had a good time there. Unfortunately, when we finally moved out, I discovered that my waterbed had been leaking slowly for a year, and the floors were quite a sight. Oh well.


Pacifica, Esplanade #2. When the lease at the house ran out, I moved back to the apartments at the beach, but this time to an “upper” unit, for an even better view. I recall an older lady next door who apparently took pity on this lonely bachelor, and frequently would send food over, via the adjoining patios. Amazing that I’ve gotten so into cooking, looking back at such days when I would consider a good dinner to consist of a heated can of store-bought Dennison’s chili con carne on an English Muffin with some pre-shredded cheese and hot sauce as the sole garnishes. Last Sunday’s full beef tenderloin with a wild mushroom duxelle stuffing and a port reduction, with sides of risotto and haricot verts, would never have seemed possible, in retrospect. You’ve come a long way, baby.


Culver City apartment. My dad was offered another of a seemingly endless stream of golden opportunities; this time it was a relocation to southern California. Four of my younger sisters were about to graduate from 6th grade, Jr High School, and High School respectively, so the timing wasn’t right for the whole family to move. I loved southern California, so I opted to move with my dad for a few months, after which the girls and my mom would move down as well. After a few months, it became clear that my dad’s job was not going to pan out as presented, so he moved back to South City, and I moved to Redondo Beach. Another fun place, very close to the beach and I truly enjoyed the area. I recall a memorable evening when I drove to the Roxy Theater in Hollywood and sat through two Tubes shows, back-to-back. Alone. Me and my little yellow Fiat.


South City – Brunswick townhouse. Returning to the Bay Area to resume my San Francisco State “studies” (a term I use loosely … I was going through the motions and not applying myself at all), once again meant a brief stay at the parents. They had moved to a townhouse in South City, and I was allowed to camp in their family room until I found another apartment. This is something I went about in a very diligent fashion, in an effort to quickly escape the parents and girls once again.


Pacifica, Hickey Blvd apartment with a view. The next apartment was a gem. I was at the top of Hickey, where it met Skyline Boulevard, also known as Highway 35. It was a small studio apartment, but one of only two in the complex that were situated in upper outside corners of a building. The view was a sight to behold. For those of you familiar with the San Francisco area, I had an unobstructed view from the Cliff House and Ocean Beach, to south of the airport. The entire north peninsula was out my living room window. This was my “house plant period,” and I probably had over 100 plants in this little place. My cat Tillie loved to eat them, so they were mostly hung from a variety of macrames and other hanging devices. Wandering Jews, Creeping Charlies, Philodendron, climbing ivy plants, a couple Norfolk Island Pines, and every color of coleus imaginable, were the main décor items for my beloved Tillie and me. Very solitary lifestyle at that point, as I recall.


Pacifica Vallemar house. From the apartment, it was another house with friends, once again in Pacifica. This one was a big house back in the Vallemar area, which was known for being sunny while the rest of Pacifica experienced the usual fog bank. Significant feature: a kitchen sink that was stopped up for 6 of the 12 months we lived there. We ran a hose downstairs to the stationary tub in the garage. Yes, this is true.


Oceana Apartment. Yet another Pacifica apartment. This one was on the east side of Highway 1, facing the ocean, and once again had a phenomenal view of the Pacific Ocean. Pacifica gets an inordinate amount of fog, but on a clear day you can see forever.


18th and Santiago in San Francisco. For someone who was born in San Francisco, I haven’t lived there much. The Taraval apartment, Parkmerced, and that was it until this house, which is the 20th place I called home. I had the room downstairs, my own kitchen, and a couple good friend / roommates upstairs. Another in a seemingly endless stream of party houses that I managed to land at, during this period.


St. Thomas, USVI. An old friend from high school came to one of our parties at the house above and mentioned that he was about to move to St. Thomas to live and work. It didn’t take much convincing for me to give my two weeks notice as Head Clerk at Byrne’s Fine Foods in the City, pack up, and head to the Caribbean. St. Thomas and the whole Caribbean area was a phenomenal experience.


I worked for a company called Resort Pool Management, Inc. The gig was that we took care of three different resorts’ pools, and in return we got to have a concession on the beach where we sold suntan products (Panama Jack), diving, fishing, and sailing tours, and rented snorkeling equipment and sailboats for use in the harbor in front of us. I worked at Pineapple Beach, and my day would start by putting on a bathing suit and T-shirt, going to work and taking off the T-shirt, cleaning a couple of pools, and either working on the beach or sailing to St. John’s and back. I returned to San Francisco three days before Christmas with the best tan I’ve ever had. Thanksgiving in St. Thomas was quite an experience. From the decks around the house (atop the Estate Wintberg district), you could see Puerto Rico, St. John, Virgin Gorda, Tortola, St. Croix, and a myriad of smaller islands that dotted the Caribbean around us. And I can’t possibly begin to estimate the amount of time we all spent at The Greenhouse on the waterfront in Charlotte Amalie (pictured to the left). Amazing time.


Parkmerced, with parents. I returned from St. Thomas with the afore-mentioned tan, and about twenty dollars to my name. The only answer was to spend a few weeks with my parents, who were now living in a little townhouse in Parkmerced. Something about living here felt like I’d come full circle, but not necessarily in an ideal or predictable way. But here I was.


18th and Santiago in San Francisco, round two. Back to the room downstairs for a few months, but my life and subsequent professions were about to change profoundly.


Oroville, CA. My friend Bob had an entrepreneurial idea that he needed some help with. He wanted to open an unfinished furniture store in Chico, which was about twenty miles from where he and his lovely wife Chris lived in Oroville. At the risk of offending any readers from Oroville, it’s not the most pleasant of places to live. Nothing much going on there, too much crime, ridiculously hot in the summer, and in fact would be a perfect place for an enema, if the Sacramento Valley needed one. ‘Nuf said. But move to Oroville I did, and commenced to putting the business plan, marketing ideas, advertising, profit charts, etc. for what would become Natural Habitat. I knew absolutely nothing about furniture or creating a business, and at that point it was unlikely that I could tell a piece of oak from one of pine or cherry. Quick ramp up, but I learned the business quickly. We started in Chico, expanded (and closed) in Paradise, opened a bigger store in Chico, and another successful one in Redding. Very fun business, which in fact I miss to this day.


Chico, mobile home. I’d never lived with a girlfriend before, but that was about to change. I met “D” through one of the ad reps who worked our store account, and it was a quick ramp up to serious dating status, which led to her asking me to move in with her and her daughter. The next seven years would be spent in an on again, off again relationship with her and her daughter. Suffice it to say, this was not the smartest way that I could have spent this time of my life.

Mountain View, CA apartment. “D” decided that there could be some real opportunities outside of Chico, and the furniture stores I was managing weren’t doing tremendously well (one of many recessions I’ve weathered, looking back!), so she decided to sell the mobile, and we moved to the Bay Area. Nice little apartment in the heart of Mountain View, but it was quite an adjustment for both “D” and her daughter, neither one of whom had ever lived outside of the sleepy college town of Chico, CA. I managed a rent-a-car company, and it was a miserable and low paying job.


Pacifica house. As luck would have it, her new dental career and my (once again, although for the last time!) grocery store experience, dictated a move to the north end of the peninsula. We rented a nice big house in Pacifica, which we needed for our two cats and nice big dog. We got Zorba as a puppy before leaving Chico, and he grew to be a 175-pound merle-colored Great Dane very quickly. Big boy, best dog I’ve ever had. You know how some dogs chase cars? Zorba would catch them.

Alas, “D” and daughter missed Chico, I’d had enough of living with the two of them, and she decided to move back to Chico. I stayed in the house, and had subsequently met someone new, and she moved into the house. Amazingly, her cat got along with both Zorba and Tillie, so it seemed like a natural.


Pacifica, townhouse. I came home from work one evening to discover that “K” had found a place that she was sure we’d like and signed a lease on it. Unfortunately, it meant I had to give up my beloved Great Dane, but he went to a great house with kids. It turned out to be a nice place, but after some initial good times, it was a quick downhill turn for this relationship.


Kathy and Chip’s, Daly City apartment. I was pretty much in dire straits at this point. I had a decent job with Pak ‘n Save (which we used to call “Pack and Slave” in Colma, but I’d pretty much had it with the grocery business and the Bay Area. After leaving the Pacifica townhouse, I found myself pretty much a man without a country … I had few possessions, nowhere to live, and I was very ready for a change. I spent a few weeks at my sister Kathy’s and took a leap of faith and returned to Chico. I’d had enough of the Bay Area again, the furniture store was once again calling, and it was back to Chico for a few more years.


“D’s” apartment. The first apartment for the second time around in Chico was a small place near the college with “D” and her daughter.” The best thing about this place was that it was walking distance to the best hamburger joint in town – the Burger Hut. Simple concept: Great burgers made to order, baskets of fries, and a long counter with anything you want to put on it, available for the taking. Yum.


House near the park. We soon tired of the small apartment and rented a nice little house by Bidwell Park. Chico’s a small town, but this put us closer to friends, and it was really a nice setting.


Apartment off East Avenue. There was a pattern developing here … “D” and I didn’t last long periods of time together. We didn’t fight or argue particularly, but it was a total pain being in the same house with them … commonly. So, my next place would be alone, on the far side of town.


Funky apartment. Another lease ran out, the rent was going up, I opted for what arguably was the funkiest place I’d ever lived. Tiny little apartment, and for the first and last time in my life … cockroaches. Never again. This one didn’t last long … a few months was plenty.


Apartment off C&J’s house. My friends “C&J” had built a room off their house, which was initially a macramé business for her, then an antique business for him, but they decided to rent it to me and make some extra money. Making a living in Chico is ridiculous. It’s a beautiful place to live, and lots of college students and grads end up staying here because of that fact … but they get away with paying you minimum wage and no benefits. Such was the case with C&J, and this is no way to get ahead.


House across the street. “J’s” father Paul was an excavator, meaning he tore down houses and buildings and hauled them away for people. A small Caterpillar tractor, a backhoe, and a big truck were his entire business tool collection. Occasionally, he’d run across a house that someone wanted to tear down, but it would be in good enough condition to warrant having it moved onto the street he owned. “C&J’s” house, as well as his own and several others were all “tear downs” that he moved, put some labor into, and either sold or rented out. One morning, we saw a big truck coming up the block with a nice looking blue two-story house in tow. Paul had bought it and moved it, and it was going right across the street from C&J. A couple of months of work and a coat of paint produced a very livable home, and once again I decided to take a gamble and rent the place with D & daughter. This was a fun house, and we had some great times here. C&J were great friends, we had other great neighbors, the kitchen was a huge sprawling country kitchen that I loved, and we got along well here and enjoyed the house.


Last Chico Apartment. We moved from the house to an apartment, once again near Bidwell Park. The furniture business had closed, “D’s” job was eliminated, money was tight, and the house had to go. About six months in the apartment was to be the end of my days in Chico, and the last time I’d see D & daughter, after seven years of ups and downs. I worked for a few months at Computerland as a salesperson, but quickly discovered that I was much better on the technical end. Back to the Bay Area, into a new profession that would be life-altering.


Shelter Creek with my sister and brother-in-law. My sister Colleen was kind enough to offer me a room in their condo while I got back on my feet. It took me about two weeks to get a job, which was downtown San Francisco at a Computer Craft store. Some sales, some technical, and a huge learning experience in what would be my new profession.


Shelter Creek studio. After a couple of months at my sister’s place (for which I will forever be in her debt), I got my own little studio apartment in the same complex. I’d spend the next 3 ½ years here … all alone, with my cat Tillie, who had now gotten a little long in the tooth, so goes the old saying. This place would prove to be Tillie’s demise. She simply ran away, never to be seen again. You’ve heard that animals can sense their “time” coming and they just go away? It’s true. But the Shelter Creek studio was fun. Small, for sure, but it was mine, and I treasured having a place of my own, making a few dollars, being able to buy a car and some new toys, and generally enjoying my life again. Chico, and living with “them” for so long was a mistake that took way too long for me to leave.


Fremont, with Colleen. After 3 ½ years in San Bruno, my sister presented me with an irresistible offer. She’d recently divorced her first husband and suggested I move into a spare room of her house in Fremont. We got along as we always have – tremendously. These were good times. I was doing great at work, where I was now a network manager at Western Digital. I had a new car, could afford to live a little, and things were on an upswing. It was while I was living in Fremont that I met my future wife, at work. After a couple of months, my nights would be split between Fremont and her house in Palo Alto. But we didn’t live together until a month before we got married, so I was technically still living in Fremont for well over a year.


Palo Alto. Just prior to getting married, I moved in with Risa at the house she shared with her son and a couple of roommates. Very nice place in a great neighborhood in Palo Alto. This was an “Eichler” home, which featured some interesting design features, as well as some downright weird ones. They got mixed reviews when they were built, but amazingly have stood the test of time and are once again something of a fashionable acquisition for young Silicon Valley couples. Along with getting married during this period, it’s also significant to mention that it was in this house that I became the “cook of the house.” I’d cooked quite a bit over the years, but it was always a shared duty. Not so any more … I’ve cooked all but a handful of meals for the past 20 years since this house. It has in fact become a major part of my life, and a lot of my social structure revolves around food, cooking, and writing about it. 


Greenhouse apartment. We decided to get into an apartment with amenities and save some money at the same time. The Eichler home was expensive to rent, heat, cool, and keep up in general. The Greenhouse condos on San Antonio Road on the Palo Alto – Mountain View border seemed like a good move. Great pool and clubhouse where we had many gatherings.


Bird Street house. From the Greenhouse, we once again opted to move into a “real” house. This one was in Sunnyvale in an area known as the “bird streets.” All the streets are named for different types of birds. You must wonder what the city planners were thinking … particularly since the “bird streets” blend into the “fruit streets.” Interesting concept for sure. Another nice house which had its own pool. I’d worked for a pool company in St. Thomas, so I had no problem being the pool boy here. Our pool was immaculate, and I loved it. Fun place.


Manufactured home on Tasman. The next move was a gamble, of sorts. We were secure enough in our jobs that we decided we’d buy our first place. This was of course the Silicon Valley, and home prices are legendary. But we could afford a new manufactured home. This was just like buying a new house, meaning we got to pick colors, carpets, options, etc. We loved this place, and we managed to time the boom in housing well. Two and a half years here would net us enough money for a down payment on an incredible house in Gilroy.


Gilroy home. The house in Gilroy was awesome. Huge, four-bedroom, three bath place with a great yard, incredible neighbors, a wonderful community with proximity to the coast, the central valley, or the peninsula, nice restaurants, and amazing weather. We loved this house, and arguably should have stayed there. The only problem was the commute … I was working in Los Gatos; Risa was initially in Cupertino and then San Jose. The weekday grind took a minimum of ninety minutes and could easily become more than two hours … each way. They’ve since added three additional lanes in each direction which has made a huge difference, but this drive was absolutely killing us (and multiple cars).


La Mesa house. We then bought a house in San Jose, which should have been both a good move strategically, as well as a much easier commute. It was neither. We soon tired of the tiny house which we’d purchased from a contractor who had just remodeled it. But the remodeling was not the best, being more appearance than function. And the commute, although only 14 miles instead of 50, still took an hour each way, through the streets of San Jose and the lower peninsula. Crazy way to spend a significant part of your life; On the road to and from work, stuck in traffic at a crawl. It was about this point when we decided to start looking seriously for an entirely new place to live. Major contenders included Cambria (central California coast), Boulder, Atlanta, Fort Collins, and ultimately … Bend, Oregon. We sold the house on La Mesa, put the profits in the bank in anticipation of buying something out of state, and moved to a rental in a different part of San Jose.


Willow Glen home. We rented a house in Willow Glen, which is one of the nicest areas in San Jose. Very close to the downtown area, 10 minutes to the HP Pavilion where all the major musical acts play and walking distance to the quaint Willow Glen downtown area. This is truly a “walking” neighborhood, which is a rarity in San Jose. Safe, quiet, friendly, featuring tree-lined streets and older homes with predominantly older inhabitants who’ve lived there for decades. This house also had a pool, which of course I loved, as well as a room that was perfectly suited for my drums and occasional visits from the members of my band. We did lots of entertaining here, and as most of the places we’ve lived, I think people really enjoyed visiting us here. It was during our eighteen months in Willow Glen when we took up our next life-altering activity; Massage therapy training. What began as a two-weekend introductory course became several years of professional level training. Fundamentals, Advanced, Cranio-Sacral, Acupressure, Hot Stones, Deep Tissue, Hydrotherapy, Chair Massage, seminars, plus several semesters as a teacher’s assistant in the Advanced class. Dangerous hands that can rub you the right way!


Bend. In August of 2004 we took a trip to Bend and Ashland, Oregon. We’d read very positive things about both and figured a week would be enough time to come up with a yay or nay on a move to Oregon. We first drove to Bend, where we’d planned to stay three or four days at the La Quinta on 3rd Street, which is the main drag that runs the length of town. We fell in love with the place almost immediately. The river is gorgeous, the Mt. Bachelor and The Sisters mountains are a spectacular sight from just about anywhere, the towering pines, aspens, and junipers are everywhere, the people were friendly, the restaurants excellent, and at least in August … the weather was phenomenal. We looked at a good number of new homes, and one tract caught our attention. But of course, we had to compare this with Ashland, where we’d spend the second half of the week. Ashland’s beautiful, but we soon found out that the town revolves around the annual Shakespeare Festival, and that’s pretty much the basis for the economy. I’d planned to get into real estate, and the sales in Ashland weren’t nearly as attractive as they appeared in Bend. I’d already gotten my license twice in California and had managed to hit two recessions. Little did I know, the same would happen in Oregon the following year. We returned to California after a beautiful week in Oregon and had pretty much decided that Bend would be our new home. Risa spent some quality time working with the sales guy (Julian) and picked a wonderful corner lot in a cul-de-sac. We’d be across the street from the Deschutes River with a peek-a-boo view of Mt. Bachelor from the upstairs windows. The house would be started in December, and complete and ready for its new occupants, the following June. A trip up in late December proved to be an indication of what can happen on some years up there … the winters are generally mild (although cold and full of snow), but this one was the worst in a decade. The normally eight-hour trip from the Bay Area, took about 15 hours. Terrible weather, blizzard conditions, accidents, delays, etc. No fun. The house was finished in May, and the decision to leave the Bay Area and take a gamble in Bend was a relatively easy one. The house was just too beautiful to be a part-time home, or something we’d move into “someday.” We gave notice at our jobs, and moved all our possessions and four cats, on the last day of July 2005.


San Jose Apartment. As I mentioned earlier, I became a real estate broker in Bend … just in time for the whole market to fall apart (worldwide, not just here). I found a job in I.T. at a local healthcare provider and spent the next two and a half years working for exactly half of what I made doing the same thing in the Bay Area. A call from a former co-worker, who was now the CEO of a promising start-up in San Jose, was too good to resist. We packed up about a quarter of our possessions and once again headed back to San Jose. This time, to a small apartment in a huge complex. Two months after we landed here, the “promising” company I went to work for had a 25% layoff, and I was a victim. First time I’d ever been laid off and coming from a guy who was allegedly my friend, really hurt. A summer of consulting work and job hunting produced a new position in South San Francisco. As Risa was working on the north peninsula as well, we left the apartment and moved to Belmont.


Belmont house. The house in Belmont was built in 1951, and was occupied by its original owners until we moved in. It started out small, but was added on to over the years, producing a nice living area, master bedroom, and a killer downstairs area which provides ample area for our massage room, my drums, and a second “living room.” The big yard was a hit for this year’s Meatfest, which is a big BBQ I do every Memorial Day weekend. Although amazingly, the weather was just as bad here as it was the first year we were in Bend. Cold, rainy, dreary, unfriendly. But the yard’s nice, the house is old but comfortable enough and I can’t complain about the commute.


Bend … Home. The Bend house is currently occupied by my friend Bob’s daughter and her cat. 3000 sq. ft. house with four bedrooms, three full baths, massage room, media room, separate living, dining, family rooms, and a kitchen to die for, with one person and 

her cat. But it’s in good hands, and I’d rather see it have one appreciative occupant, than to be empty. I have no doubt that we’ll ultimately end up back in Bend. The weather can be a struggle some years, and the “four mild seasons” we heard about are a fallacious marketing ploy. The “mild” winters can start as early as October (they got seven inches of snow two weeks ago), and it’s not uncommon to have snow on Mother’s Day in May. Summers are usually three months long … no more, no less. Spring is usually an extension of winter, until late June. But fall is gorgeous, and our trip up there a couple weeks ago provided some exceptionally nice weather and fall colors.

We miss our friends, the slower pace, the lack of traffic, the beautiful scenery, and of course my kitchen. I can’t believe I’ve lived fifty places. When I got the idea to approach this piece, I hadn’t taken a count, nor did I get into the emotions and decisions that were to come with this little exercise. One thing that’s changed is something I mentioned in the first paragraph … the notion (at least when I was growing up) that moving was not a negative thing, but rather an interesting experience that would certainly provide new friends and new places which I’d get to know.


One thing that’s proven to be true over the years is that people tend to gravitate to our homes, and I’d like to think they enjoy being here. Gatherings tend to be in the kitchen, which was also the case in my parents’ and grandparents’ homes. I’m sure it’s a combination of people wanting to watch how I prepare their meal, as well as just liking to hang out in or near the kitchen. I’m friendly by nature, and the fact that I put on a reasonably good meal tends to attract people to our homes. For the time being we’re living two lives; One’s on the San Francisco Peninsula, where we spend the bulk of our time and of course where we’re employed. But our hearts are in Bend, and I’m sure there will come a day when four or five trips a year to the house and area we love so much, will cease being enough.


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