Two years ago, we moved here from a place I thought I’d never move from, and we have not regretted it. San Francisco has given us much, not only enriching us with new friends and experiences, but giving us a place in its complex history – a history consistent with our deepest beliefs, our truest natures. After reading David Talbot’s Season of the Witch, I now know what I only suspected as a younger woman living on the East Coast in the 1960s: San Francisco is where the spirit, the heart, the bravery, and daring of our country came of age in this modern era. We now live in a city that saw it all – struggled massively through some of it, yes, but welcomed it all. Gave it a chance to see daylight, breathe, and expand into the conscience of America.
Our latest elections show that conscience is alive and well and, though attacked, not about to retreat into darkness. I am proud to live in this city. My holiday gift? Here’s a suggestion: read Talbot’s book to remind you – read it and let it make you proud, too. Sure, California needs to catch up with other parts of the country, allowing people to love fully and legally and smoke a benign weed without a prescription; but hey, the good fight began here, and this country’s soul would still be asleep if it hadn’t begun – in my very neighborhood – those decades ago.
Now, for one more silly gift (add eggnog and sing aloud):
A YEAR IN SAN FRANCISCO
(to a familiar tune)
Our first month in San Francisco, we saw with such a thrill, one parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our second month in San Francisco, upon our windowsill, two chirping wrens, and the parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our third month in San Francisco, in Chinatown for lunch, three Peking ducks, two chirping wrens, and one parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our fourth month in San Francisco, while walking by the bay, four squawking gulls, three Peking ducks, two chirping wrens, and one parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our fifth month of schlepping hills here made us feel like five OLD THINGS; four squawking gulls, three ducks, two ever-chirping wrens, and the parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our sixth month in San Francisco, from shops on Union Street, six months’ bill paying, for five TONS OF THINGS; four squawking gulls, three ducks, those duet-chirping wrens, plus the parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our seventh month in San Francisco, a cold and wet July, seven nudes with goose bumps, six months’ bill paying, five TONS MORE THINGS; four squawking gulls, three ducks, two pesky little wrens, and that parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our eight month in San Francisco, the chilliest of all, eight days of sunshine, seven nudes with goose bumps, six months’ bill paying, BUYING MORE THINGS; four squawking gulls, three ducks, those two wrens chirping on, and the parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our ninth month in San Francisco, a warm and misty fall, nine foghorns moaning, eight days of sunshine, seven nudes with goose bumps, six months’ bill paying, ALWAYS MORE THINGS; four squawking gulls, three ducks, two wrens still chirping loud, and the parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our tenth month in San Francisco, Fleet Week and all it brings, ten Angels screaming, nine foghorns moaning, eight days of sunshine, Castro nudes with goose bumps, six months’ bill paying, MOUNTAINS OF THINGS; four squawking gulls, three ducks, the window-sitting wrens, plus that parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our eleven month in San Francisco, while walking through the Haight, eleven pipers smoking, ten Angels screaming, nine foghorns blowing, eight days of sunshine, seven nudes a’ sunning, six months’ still paying FOR YET MORE THINGS; loudly squawking gulls, three ducks, two wrens that never tire, and the parrot from Telegraph Hill.
Our twelfth month in San Francisco, it all went by so fast, twelve months a’ flying, eleven smokers sighing, ten Angels screaming, nine foghorns streaming, eight days a’ sunning, seven nudes a’ bunning, six months of spending, ALWAYS MORE THINGS! Stereophonic gulls, wild ducks, eternal singing wrens, and the parrot from Telegraph Hill!
Happy holidays!
