Old Timings, New Times

Yesterday, at a BBQ north of the City, I connected with a bunch of old friends and made some new ones. That simple experience pulled me out of an alienation partly driven by the weather -- on Saturday in the City it was stiflingly hot, around 98 degrees in this end of town. We also had high humidity. The kids were languid and didn't want to go outside at all.

Then, on Saturday night, the fog moved in and yesterday it was freakishly cold and windy. Nobody wanted to go outside into that.

But up in Marin, it was a different story. Nestled in one of the valleys that creep down from mighty Mount Tamalpais, we met in a yard sheltered from the elements.

I used to "own" a house one valley south of there. My wife and I bought it in 1987 for just over $200,000, in that time a fairly princely sum. It was a dream property for raising our three then-young (now grown) kids. We sold that house over a decade later.

A lot has happened since then. I have rarely returned to the area, maybe just a handful of times each year -- or even less. But I remember the fresh air smell under enormous trees, the flora and fauna, the narrow, winding roads, the deer, my garden, the contours of a community where we were relative strangers at first, but soon felt at home.

And I remember the ineffable sadness of leaving the house myself after only two years on the property. Transition time had arrived, and I was the one who had to go. The kids did grow up there, but without me on the scene -- except as a frequent visitor.

There were regular visits, when I got them dinner, helped with homework, attended Little League games, or took them on shopping outings. Come to think of it, these amounted to almost every day of the week. Then there were the unscheduled visits I made, when somebody was ill and couldn't go to school. I'd drive out with snacks and treats and sit for them for an hour, before returning to work.

And there were also the days when I scored Giants' tickets. Then, I'd drive out and take one of them far south to windy Candlestick Park. I did a lot of driving in those years. That's another thing I remembered yesterday.

It can be pretty scary driving to and over the Golden Gate on 101 North, these days. For locals, it's a commute. For tourists, it's a time to drive slowly and take in the scenery.

I'm neither now, and I don't like being caught, as a driver, between these two distinct groups. It felt yesterday like I was the only one paying attention, frankly.

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