Grab Bag #020

The above image was one in a huge collection of color slides left on a street corner. I don’t know what that crossing guard on the far right did, but he’s obviously the guilty one in this line-up.

My old friend David Gallagher has been scanning these found 1960s shots of BART construction, fire department drills, and almost 1,000 other images which mostly suggest that the photographer was a city employee of some kind.

The cabinet of slides was one of three left on the sidewalk near Tiffany and Valencia Streets. While one case was being lugged home, the other two were salvaged by unknown folks. David is hoping they turn up again in some garage sale to bring the whole collection together again.

The scans will likely end up on David’s SF photo history site, sfmemory.org, but for now they are being showcased piecemeal on his very active Twitter account. Check it out as the last good thing left on Twitter, er, X.

Fruits on the Street

The watermelon shot above is the kind of non-monumental slice of daily life that David and I, and lots of our history friends, love. Yes, an exquisitely crafted photograph of the Palace of Fine Arts by Gabriel Moulin is beautiful, but the 3-for-a-dollar watermelon man is real life.

While I was putting together my Beertown talk (sold out, but I’ll find a way to do it again for you all), I was looking at the above photograph of the Ferries and Cliff House train for probably the thousandth time. The goofy little steam locomotive ran out 7th Avenue to Golden Gate Park for a few years in the 1890s. The waiting station is still there:

Only this week, however, did I notice the little treat stand on the left in the old photo.

In the 1890s, 6th and 7th Avenues on Fulton Street were major entry points to Golden Gate Park because they were the end of the line for a number of competing transit lines. Peanut, fruit, and candy sellers met the disembarking park-goers. An ongoing battle between competing vendors and between the sellers and the police made for colorful newspapers copy, especially during the 1894 Midwinter Fair.

Bertha Mitchell, known as the Queen of the Peanuts, had more than a few dust-ups defending her location against a one-eyed interloper, Mr. Breen. Chris Canellos, who later opened the El Portal Café restaurant at 8th Avenue and Fulton Street, got his start as a 14-year-old hawker of popcorn in the same strip.

These were small family operations and jobs for child laborers mostly. As Queen of the Peanuts, Bertha Mitchell was tough and sassy and had her admirers. “A small, but agile male member of the Mitchell family stands by his sister to hurl rocks at such men as try to flirt with his jocose sister.”

During the fair, the peanuters were joined by con men, pop-up sideshows, fake archaeological exhibits, and a “Persian beauty” hootchie-cootchie revue. A Chronicle reporter visited to give a quick review of the show, but found only two bored women huddled around a coal-oil stove: “The beauties may be able to dance, but they have not yet been detected in the act.”

My favorite Fulton Street fraud of the fair was the guy who came with a “wagon load of hot clam juice, which he desired to retail at a reasonable figure.” Two or three goblets of hot clam extract (at 5 cents per goblet) apparently could make one a physical specimen equal to Arnold Schwarzenegger in his gapped-tooth, bowl-haircut days.

On this gray fog-horned morning it might be worth a sip or two…

Gray Summer, Blue Summer

My mother-in-law passed away here at home a week and a half ago. Last month my uncle died on his birthday, which was also Father’s Day (he had six kids). A good friend, Pat Cunneen, died on June 11th, completing my summer trifecta.

None of these deaths was particularly a surprise. They were all up in years. I’m getting there myself.

I definitely remember my personal bad years (1994, 2020) and good years (1982, 1999) and a couple that were eventful on both sides but essentially ties (1992, 2009). I suppose bad years soon will be just another 12 months on the books.

Each death is sad, but Donna’s cuts very deep. We lived in a vertical family compound. Nancy and I in one flat, Donna in another. Our basement apartment (classic San Francisco granny flat) is currently occupied by my nephew, Dusty. Each of our days had some of each other in it. Already our routines are derailed without Donna.

She was sung out by her family, her daughter and granddaughter at her bedside, her nephew strumming “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” For all of our heartache it was a fairly peaceful exit for the West Virginia girl who lived in Napa for half a century and then smoothly transitioned to city life with a new community of church friends, days filled with volunteering, and chats with strangers on Muni.

I’m grateful for the Friends of Woody receiving this email. You thought you signed up for some bonus San Francisco history content and instead you’re a small support group for me to process some grief. I didn’t cry during it all, focused on supporting Nancy and doing what needed to be done, but now I am letting go while typing this to you all. Thank you for giving me the forum.

Woody Beer and Coffee Fund

I had a delightful couple of hours at the Plough and Stars talking San Francisco with Fred B. and Al B., both Friends of Woody and the nicest gents you can meet. These two have known each other since grade school. Here’s to life-long friendship in a beautiful city.

Great thanks to recent contributors to the Woody Beverage Fund who ensure I socialize with kind and interesting people: Michele R. (F.O.W.), Eric S., Lorraine L., Hans S., Susan C., and Jaci P. (F.O.W.). Is it time for your round?

Sources

"Fakirs Fall in Line," San Francisco Chronicle, January 20, 1894, pg. 14.