Second Sight: Remembering Some San Francisco Neighborhoods - 5. v. Castro

.

v.

Castro

 

 

Now as I indulge in strolling up to

A parting glance of personal recall,

The Castro of yesteryear needs loom large,

For living next to it made it all mine

In ways weekend visitors could not claim.

And although some plant color could be found

In planter beds carved out of the sidewalks

– Less than its Duboce Triangle neighbor –

Castro hosted an urban oasis

In the guise of a well-seeded plant shop.

For among clothes and gift stores, and the clubs,

A pair of glass-fronted storefronts offered

Green’ry twix Nineteenth and Twentieth Streets.

First opened in the 1970s,

When everybody needed indoor plants

And a home was not a home without them,

The interior of the store featured

Every variety people could want –

From petals of magenta cyclamen,

Reaching towards the ceiling as they do

With a familiar sight, to exotic

Madagascar dragon trees like wee palms,

Content to live their lives in potted bliss,

Long as they’re safe and warm behind closed doors.

Color abounded in these plant-shop rooms,

And as you meandered from space to space,

You’d be rewarded as if wand’ring through

The best-kept of botanical gardens:

Sherbet-orange Calathea crocata;

Inextricably peach-pink Ixora;

Mauve swagger for days from Gloxinia;

The blood-red crimson of Anthurium

Pitted against the pearly white basins

Of the Peace lily, so like a mini

California Calla lily indoors.

But, for all of their heated indoor space,

It was this shop’s retreat of a back yard

That pulled me back like a magnet each time.

An erected fieldstone grotto hoisted

A cascading fountain in one corner –

In the pool below, goldfish and minnows

Played fast and furious with life because

Any night could bring an urban racoon

To eat up those too slow to find a place

Between rocks where no paws could gain access.

Paths laid out back here, in this manmade land,

Would beg for a stroll to see all the plants

Available for transport to one’s yard.

Although a neighborhood with scant parkland,

Many back gardens were lush in wet times;

Times that changed as the climate has dried out,

And my last visit to this plant shop’s lair

Proved to be a sad sight, as nothing thrived

The way it still does in my memory. [i]

Yet that same calm in the eye of a storm

Could be found in a special, corner bar.

Just in the news a pair of weeks ago,

“Harvey’s” closed its doors rather suddenly,

A slow-motion victim of pandemic

Changes to the way people drink and eat.

That being said, to me that corner will

Always be home to the Elephant Walk,

The business Harvey’s took o’er and renamed

In honor of Gay Rights champion, Milk,

Martyred by a bigot set free by peers

– white and straight, and hate-filled against Gay folks –

As the murdering villain Dan White was.

But, Elephant Walk proved its own retreat,

For in fair weather, rolling glass windows

Opened up bar-height-counter seating where

Patrons could hail or chat with passers-by

In the warmest and friendliest of ways.

As a shared, low pressure Community

Hangout spot, equally inviting for

An afternoon cup of coffee and scone,

As a post-club “chaser” before parting

From groups of friends – or a special someone

Invited home to keep the party up,

Though it be on a one to one basis.

Yes, Elephant Walk is gone, and so too

Its successor, with people hopeful for

The next Harvey’s to re-open its doors.

And this is not the work for me to do

Justice to the clubs I favored the most,

So the Pendulum and the Midnight Sun,

And now and then, a draft beer at Moby’s,

Will have to wait, for each is deserving

Of a separate treatment all on their own.

But thoughts of “the old times” puts me in mind

Of how I was there to experience

The last entrenchment of old-neighborhood

“Eureka Valley” folks moving away.

For across from the movie theater,

A mid-sized supermarket was in trade

Between restaurants and Community bars.

I found out quick, ‘my type’ was not welcome,

For this fading bastion of grocery store

Resisted the times and only sold to

“The right kind,” who did not live in Castro,

And never would until they moved on out

To their suburban-Peninsula drab,

Conformity and dull hegemony. [ii]

That store, with its nearly empty displays,

Gave off the vibe of eyes always on me,

Lest I haul off and do something ‘queer’ there,

In the Hostess Twinkie aisle where Dan shopped. [iii]

But rather than think of such dead-end joints,

I do better to recall the restaurants,

Like the quaint German place on Market Street.

Run by a likewise quaint older woman,

Prob’bly come to San Francisco post-war,

She slung her red-cabbage sauerbraten

Half-sloshed, and seemed to live for the bar folks

Who bought her shots, and doubtlessly talked of

The good old days either here or abroad.

She showed no animosity to Gays,

And with easy recall, I still can see

A dinner spent there, where seated nearby,

A male, cross-generational couple

Enjoyed what I took to be an outing

To a romantic, tourist getaway.

The “Daddy” seemed sheltering, protective;

While his strapping blond lad, loving and shy.

I can yet conjure the way this young man

Gripped his paper beer-coaster afterwards

As they rose from their table to exit.

I imagine when back in Iowa,

Or Idaho – I don’t know – this coaster

Served as treasured memento of a meal

Spent in the warm glow of the man he loved;

Spent in our exotic San Francisco.

And exotic seem the holidays here

In the retrospection of innocence.

Halloween would close off a dozen blocks,

And thousands came outside to spend all night

In blameless, harmlessly Queer partying –

But that was before Gops made mass murder

A thing in America, and whites came

To hunt ‘the queers’ to death on Market Street. [iv]

But, similar al fresco parties were

Had on Pink Saturday – the night before

The Pride March commenced on Sunday morning

Last day of June to venerate Stonewall.

And in autumn, always the hottest time

In this climate zone, the Castro Street Fair

Offered booths of activism, food, plus

Artistry made by Community hands.

Sometimes, wild, impromptu street performance

Would erupt in closed-off intersections,

With one playing guitar or percussion,

And others dancing clothed, half-clothed or nude.

Sadly, such sights are now things of the past,

Because the new-come, newly rich het folks

Pushing baby strollers round the Castro

Close down all free expression over their

Dread, suburban sense of “safety concerns.”

But, nevertheless, they can’t take from me

The wonderful holidays I spent there,

‘Cause this was home, and after Halloween,

Thanksgiving would mean time with treasured friends,

And then, the preparations for Christmas

Would equal far-greater celebrating,

While hosting responsibilities meant

Trips to another venerable shop –

Cliff’s Variety, old-style hardware store

With a little bit of everything home

A person could ever possibly need.

Here I met that brusque blond of a Texan

Who cruised, manned and worked the cash register.

The bruising charmer first had a good laugh

At my Dickies overalls and Jack Purcells,

But wound up slipping his own phone number

In my front pocket with his very hand –

Yes, Texas can grow some mighty sweet things.

Our cabinets still hold glassware bought here,

And of the dinnerware coming from there,

One terracotta bowl survives hard use.

Cliff’s was also home to old-school products,

And from its shelves I discovered the joys

Of Bon-Ami in its original

“Cakes” – like hefty bars of soap – and ideal

For every thinkable household cleaning.

Also, I first encountered Kruckenberg’s

Gourmet Wood Cleaner, white ring remover –

Another ‘obsolete’ but valuable

Sunday cleaning tool from the shelves of Cliff’s.

Their holiday décor’s admirable,

And Beistle “flats,” or high quality trees

– Like the one I bought and set up yearly

In the kitchen for our “personal” things –

Are found there to this day, I’m pleased to say.

What’s not there is a favored place to eat,

For after shopping – and cruising – at Cliff’s,

It was fun to window-shop the next block,

And pop in the place called “The Patio,”

For here, the whole restaurant was out of doors,

And chilly weather dining was made warm

By mushroom-capped space heaters round about.

But on sunny days, what’s better than brunch? –

And the Patio’s menu featured treats

Like Eggs Florentine – with its cooked spinach –

Mimosa – orange juice and champagne, or then

Peach Bellini – peach juice with the bubbly.

On the menu, they had an eccentric

Way to spell e-t-c. that few recall,

But their “& cetera”s still clear as day.

And on this menu lived old-time favorites,

And hearty fare too, to stick to the ribs,

Such as chicken-fried steak, or thick biscuits

With sausage cream gravy poured all on top.

Are there any places in the city

Still serving such delectable bathos

With what they offer for brunch anymore? –

Somehow, I’m inclined to truly doubt it.

Then full and half-buzzed, we’d mosey over

To the charity shop organized by

The Names Project to support its funding.

“Under One Roof” received new merchandise

From certain, friendly companies to sell,

While all proceeds supported charity.

At Christmas, they used to pack the alley

Running alongside the store front to back

With lit Christmas trees full of ornaments.

Baskets full of those ready to be bought

Crowded the bases of these twinkling trees.

I can almost smell the merrymaking

Holiday glitter on my fingertips.

And, as said, mention of a personal

Tree we set in the kitchen each season,

Has many ornaments hanging right there

That are the selfsame we bought from this store

All those long, many years ago – coming

From Under One roof – which shows the reason

They continue to mean so much to us.

And I’m old enough to remember when

This store was on Market Street, right next door

To the sewing studio of the Names

Project itself – the memorial quilt

Stored in boxes up on the mezzanine,

While volunteers worked the long, thankless hours

To assemble the increasing patches

With people’s lives taken by HIV.

Like the cyclamen, or Gloxinia,

Bright colors are in the embroidery

Which no amount of denial, or time

Shall bleach or wither away to nothing.

For I remember them, and will never

Let such memories fade from my being.

 

 

~

 

 

 

 

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Mine Forever

 

What are neighborhoods in our mind if not

Stage sets where we’ve arranged places

To people in our memories as times

Sunnier with smiling faces? —

Where the grass of parks seems greener for our

Dogs to carefree rove o’er the range

While we’d watch, never giving thought to how

All of our tomorrows could change.

 

For the alterations may be little

And S. F. spared much urban blight,

Those places gone are ever mine to sing

About in sorrow or delight.

In such humor, I’ve raised my pen and freed

My mind to do its recalling,

Knowing these to be but personal thoughts

Unashamed, though quaint and sprawling.