It's back, it was gone but now like the proverbial bad penny, it's back. It's no good looking the other way, looking past it or even on the bright side. IT is back and must be dealt with now and yes most likely dealt with for the rest of the day and evening. The only thing to do about it is meet it head on, than, THAN, there might be some small hope that it will not become the weekend house-guest. An uninvited, uninteresting boar of a house guest. A smelly, frustrating in all aspects, guest. One that consumes the whole day with need and is simply the worst way to spend a sunny fall Saturday. Housework!
It arrives as a plastic utility bucket full of special cleansing, polishing, buffing, scouring lemon scented potions. An increasingly rare one is for use on the 240 year old English table, the same for the 238 year old chair from London and their American cousin the 200 year old table from Philadelphia, the one which presently finds occupation as a bar in my dining room, so too is it used on the cherished new old friend, the 230 year old tall-case clock from Mad George's capital city. If this particular sauce is good for the Goose, it is sauce for the Gander, so it is freely also used on more recent family heirloom pieces. All treasured relics of the life of a very prosperous great -grandfather, bought from a store famous for furnishing Nabobs homes in a city that new how, from the time T.R thought it progress to save our most spectacular natural landscapes. It is also the serviceable yet unbearably oily mixture, which promises to revive wood, though I dare use that only on pieces bought in my youth. Another bottle for leather, yet another for crystal and glass. A soap mixture for floor, woodwork and fireplace mantel and surround. All simply all, to be kept away from wool carpets, swags, tassels,throw rugs, silk tablecloths, throw pillows and paintings. The list of what on what, where and how is simply too long and detailed to relate and has caused the hired cleaning team to be banned from two rooms, than finally, as idled help is never a desired housekeeping budget, let go entirely.
I simply could never relax when they were about. The thought of a harried cleaner using the wrong solution on the wrong piece was so horrifying I'd put on house slave clothes, greet them at the door, set them loose on bedrooms and bathrooms, halls, study, boudoir and kitchen, than I'd begin work on the living and dining rooms. I soon saw the wrong bordering on weirdness of being unpaid day labor while two or three ladies and gentlemen were happily cleaning away elsewhere in my house. Had I been unable to achieve Zen about it I would not have simply stopped booking them and took the work on wholly myself. The fact was and is that I simply do it better or at least as well. An added benefit is that. I have no fear of theft ( that's never happened) I never am late nor leave early and I trust me with the pieces that are rarer than most.
That doesn't mean I haven't broken things. I have, oh, have I. Naturally when I have screwed up the courage to 'fess up to my Miss June ( a.k.a. my 91 year old mom) it's because a favorite piece once belonging to her grandparents has been broken and the lady had noticed it gone from the niche it had resided in for decades. The work I destroyed was ba 2 foot tall, 100 year old statue of a farm woman bearing water and a stunningly elegant in its simplicity 19th century Swabian Crucifix. I've also shortened a flute being played by a boy in 18th century costume so that it appears more the jew harp than enlightenment period instrument. The fool really is me, I've let a semi- trained, upright walking, Ape loose in a room full of furniture promised to the National Trust for Historic Preservation. In addition and in summation I simply do not like it. THE HOUSEWORK!
It, however, is a tireless task master. It needs to be done. I've reached somewhat of a compromise. I will entertain this boar no more than four times a month. I treat it as my Dharma though it really is more like a non paying John. My housekeeping gods appeal to you. Oh the remembrance of Venice in fall. Jove rescue me from the Vestals slavery. Than it is what it is, it needs to be accepted and if at all possible embraced. It is an exercise at once fiscal (no charge) physical (did you know you can burn 150 calories per hour doing a rumba with a vacuum) and philosophical (the dust, like life, is transitory) but good good it is BACK.
Oi vey I think I need a union.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Pine Cones, Eucalyptus Leaves and a wall scaling dog named Barney.
The heady fragrance of drying Eucalyptus Leaves, dusty, musky and sweet, a smell that mixes minty and bitter, permeated the air throughout the Forest. The warmth of the week has turned the path into a quarter mile long perfume factory for my mutt Barney. The decay of the leaf releases the oil, a healthy perfume smell, not unlike a SPA, permeates the area. Pine Tree needles mix in and the essence of the two transports you to sylvan pastures, miles away from the city. Barney being far more sensible keeps his head or rather snoot, focused on the business of the walk. That chiefly being play. Play being chiefly toss!
Pine cones are as much a welcomed toss as any glow in the dark tennis ball and the fun of digging a tossed cone out of a pile of decaying leaves is, for Barney, akin to that of a lady on an outing to the Fragonard scents showroom in Eze, discovering the perfume oil worn when still a young beauty. One, they might both agree, simply needs to dig in and get on with the business of finding the right essence! I recall the choices at that particular showroom to be rather daunting, made all the more challenging by the very skilled saleslady urging me to mix the scents. The idea to create one that was even more unique than those on offer. The goal being a sale. My hesitation gave away my inability to read French and the rather kind lady, all at once so very casual and chic, urged me to consider the bottles of brushed steel that contained, I was informed, the firms more popular scents. I felt no less triumph in discovering Santel for the first time than Barney did in retrieving the tossed Pine Cone. My Euros meant far less to me than the crushed dog cookies he was duly rewarded with did to Barney and his satisfaction at the transaction, Pine Cone for treat, far exceeded mine at purchasing the brushed stainless steel canister. The walk continues a pace until another scent trail is discovered.
The joy of a dog as walking companion is in the taking joy in the joy the canine has in simply everything. They are, as best expressed by a truly loving lady, "Gods free spirits". If living fully in the moment, every moment, is the best way to live and I feel it is, than my mutt Barney lives life fully daily. The bliss is apparent. The range of expressions on his loving face while he is about the business of discovering and following smells, is worthy of the stage. Rapture is the only word which properly describes his expression, mirth brightening his eyes, when my best boy hears the word cookie. If there is an Academy Award for Best Puppy as Actor, than it would go to Barney. The sly smart boy will, in order to gain a second or third cookie, begin his whole range of tricks. When near a 4 foot tall retaining wall he will charge ahead, leap and crawl scale to the top of the wall and begin a varied array of tricks In no set order but at double quick time Barney will sit, shake hands, lie fully down, roll over and flirt with the prettiest brown eyes any dog has ever been graced with. Next Barney will works those baby browns. A charm technique the result I am certain, of a 3 three week long stay at a Kennel favored by Female early retirees from Silicon Valley. First a sultry over the shoulder back glance, than if that has failed to gain the desired treat, followed up by a full sulk from a sitting position. That last look being Barneys tried and true secret weapon. All at once it says. " but daddy I love you so much and you are making me sad", BAM the resolve goes, cookies are dispensed and the revived canine leaps up and is off for more adventure.
It, the solitary walking of a loving dog, has a wonderful way of being both reflective, engaging and centering. It is impossible to not tone down. The mind calms down allowing memories of other companion dogs to sneak into the moment. A boys first love is his first dog and the loss of it is often the first experience of death that a child will have. There is no way to mitigate the pain felt by losing your true play companion and the experience is a step in the long eventful march towards adult life. The brush against my leg is Barney dropping a Pine Cone at my feet, a begging demand of a round of toss, retrieve, cookie reward,.begins and brings me back fully into the present day world of a being in the moment with a too old to be adopted pound rescue mutt I renamed Barney. It is an hour well spent!
Pine cones are as much a welcomed toss as any glow in the dark tennis ball and the fun of digging a tossed cone out of a pile of decaying leaves is, for Barney, akin to that of a lady on an outing to the Fragonard scents showroom in Eze, discovering the perfume oil worn when still a young beauty. One, they might both agree, simply needs to dig in and get on with the business of finding the right essence! I recall the choices at that particular showroom to be rather daunting, made all the more challenging by the very skilled saleslady urging me to mix the scents. The idea to create one that was even more unique than those on offer. The goal being a sale. My hesitation gave away my inability to read French and the rather kind lady, all at once so very casual and chic, urged me to consider the bottles of brushed steel that contained, I was informed, the firms more popular scents. I felt no less triumph in discovering Santel for the first time than Barney did in retrieving the tossed Pine Cone. My Euros meant far less to me than the crushed dog cookies he was duly rewarded with did to Barney and his satisfaction at the transaction, Pine Cone for treat, far exceeded mine at purchasing the brushed stainless steel canister. The walk continues a pace until another scent trail is discovered.
The joy of a dog as walking companion is in the taking joy in the joy the canine has in simply everything. They are, as best expressed by a truly loving lady, "Gods free spirits". If living fully in the moment, every moment, is the best way to live and I feel it is, than my mutt Barney lives life fully daily. The bliss is apparent. The range of expressions on his loving face while he is about the business of discovering and following smells, is worthy of the stage. Rapture is the only word which properly describes his expression, mirth brightening his eyes, when my best boy hears the word cookie. If there is an Academy Award for Best Puppy as Actor, than it would go to Barney. The sly smart boy will, in order to gain a second or third cookie, begin his whole range of tricks. When near a 4 foot tall retaining wall he will charge ahead, leap and crawl scale to the top of the wall and begin a varied array of tricks In no set order but at double quick time Barney will sit, shake hands, lie fully down, roll over and flirt with the prettiest brown eyes any dog has ever been graced with. Next Barney will works those baby browns. A charm technique the result I am certain, of a 3 three week long stay at a Kennel favored by Female early retirees from Silicon Valley. First a sultry over the shoulder back glance, than if that has failed to gain the desired treat, followed up by a full sulk from a sitting position. That last look being Barneys tried and true secret weapon. All at once it says. " but daddy I love you so much and you are making me sad", BAM the resolve goes, cookies are dispensed and the revived canine leaps up and is off for more adventure.
It, the solitary walking of a loving dog, has a wonderful way of being both reflective, engaging and centering. It is impossible to not tone down. The mind calms down allowing memories of other companion dogs to sneak into the moment. A boys first love is his first dog and the loss of it is often the first experience of death that a child will have. There is no way to mitigate the pain felt by losing your true play companion and the experience is a step in the long eventful march towards adult life. The brush against my leg is Barney dropping a Pine Cone at my feet, a begging demand of a round of toss, retrieve, cookie reward,.begins and brings me back fully into the present day world of a being in the moment with a too old to be adopted pound rescue mutt I renamed Barney. It is an hour well spent!
An idyl in the City: A trip to an Ice Cream store
An idyl in the City: A trip to an Ice Cream store: There is one thing San Francisco style is defined by, which if you know San Francisco at all is no surprise, that being the juxtaposition o...
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
A walk to an Ice Cream store
There is one thing San Francisco style is defined by, which if you know San Francisco at all is no surprise, that being the juxtaposition of opulence and the ordinary. Rather than lessen the impact of the grand or shame the plain, here at least, more often than not, opposites compliment and foil the other. Each in turn showcase the very elements the other lacks or overstates.
The reasons for a continued celebration of cultural clash are rooted in our history. The magnificent hotel rising up from the bones of a Clipper ship. A Canvas miners tent pitched next to a Monterey Colonial. The post '06 Nabob converts his town mansion into a store and apartment building and opens for business next to a credible copy of a English country Gothic Cathedral. The row of cleverly painted carpenter gothic townhouses interrupted by the stray Spanish neo-colonial facade The work not a result of early facadeism but a disgrace foisted upon one of the painted ladies in the distant past by an owner attempting to stay fashionable in the ever hopful game of collecting fashionable rents. The visual effect on the streetscape is much like encountering a group of elegant ladies, all of a certain age, whose wiles are more discrete than fresh and noticing that one or two of the ladies has had "some glamorous work" done. It can cause a less experienced gentleman a moment of pause. The charm of the rest of the group is perhaps appreciated for being more genuine and less taxing of a fellows smile.
The reasons for a continued celebration of cultural clash are rooted in our history. The magnificent hotel rising up from the bones of a Clipper ship. A Canvas miners tent pitched next to a Monterey Colonial. The post '06 Nabob converts his town mansion into a store and apartment building and opens for business next to a credible copy of a English country Gothic Cathedral. The row of cleverly painted carpenter gothic townhouses interrupted by the stray Spanish neo-colonial facade The work not a result of early facadeism but a disgrace foisted upon one of the painted ladies in the distant past by an owner attempting to stay fashionable in the ever hopful game of collecting fashionable rents. The visual effect on the streetscape is much like encountering a group of elegant ladies, all of a certain age, whose wiles are more discrete than fresh and noticing that one or two of the ladies has had "some glamorous work" done. It can cause a less experienced gentleman a moment of pause. The charm of the rest of the group is perhaps appreciated for being more genuine and less taxing of a fellows smile.
A very sweet example of this sort of San Francisco style is found at a rather plain-jane store named Swensons Ice Cream. Located on Cable Car line at the corner of Union and Hyde. The corners there being uneventful ones on otherwise fashionable Russian Hill. Russian Hill is elegant San Francisco writ small on a half dozen densely built up blocks. Each house jealous of views of the bay and rare sunlight. The result is a lot of sophisticated, well heeled people living in rather small houses, too close together but then that could describe much of residential San Francisco in the teens.
The rich that seek domestic bliss upon its slopes were once bohemian rather than the Nabob rich of Nob Hill. That difference ended decades ago and Russian Hill is now home to "establishment" sorts. Swensons is a holdout from decades past. The long gone time when flats and tiny cottages were home to working artists and fishermen's families, living cheek to jowl with wealthier raffish residents. The very mix of people created a lovely village within the glorious city.
Very chic pocket sized restaurants replaced corner markets decades ago and their wine lists are as complete as any Napa winery, the produce as fresh and select as the finest farmer's market. The prices ignoring the financial crisis. The sidewalks are crowded with table and chairs set outdoor in an attempt to cultivate a Roman dining experience but one requiring that all spare space be filled by outdoor heaters. The romance of al fresco dining being somewhat challenged by our climate. The sight of chic pretty women sitting out of doors at tiny tables, inclining their heads towards their lovers, shivering in the cold is simply a sight not seen elsewhere in California during summer. The overall effect can be mere urbane pretense and yet the passing cable car and bellowing fog horn ground it all in a subtle San Francisco urban reality which is at once chic and timeless. All at once it is authentic, unique, lovely and not found elsewhere in the world. It is the perfect setting for Swenson.
The rich that seek domestic bliss upon its slopes were once bohemian rather than the Nabob rich of Nob Hill. That difference ended decades ago and Russian Hill is now home to "establishment" sorts. Swensons is a holdout from decades past. The long gone time when flats and tiny cottages were home to working artists and fishermen's families, living cheek to jowl with wealthier raffish residents. The very mix of people created a lovely village within the glorious city.
Very chic pocket sized restaurants replaced corner markets decades ago and their wine lists are as complete as any Napa winery, the produce as fresh and select as the finest farmer's market. The prices ignoring the financial crisis. The sidewalks are crowded with table and chairs set outdoor in an attempt to cultivate a Roman dining experience but one requiring that all spare space be filled by outdoor heaters. The romance of al fresco dining being somewhat challenged by our climate. The sight of chic pretty women sitting out of doors at tiny tables, inclining their heads towards their lovers, shivering in the cold is simply a sight not seen elsewhere in California during summer. The overall effect can be mere urbane pretense and yet the passing cable car and bellowing fog horn ground it all in a subtle San Francisco urban reality which is at once chic and timeless. All at once it is authentic, unique, lovely and not found elsewhere in the world. It is the perfect setting for Swenson.
Swenson is, in addition to being the only ice cream store left in the city's north end not given over to tourists, superb! The shop's 20th century ordinariness is its charm. The storefront window on Hyde Street features an ice cream making machine which is lovingly maintained and is used in the preparation of the solid if not expansive choice of flavors. Its well cared for metal has a mellowed glow. Can there be anything more joyful in the mechanical world than a lovingly cared for Ice Cream machine? Waiting patiently (mid-day, mid-week is the best time for quick service, a rare hot Friday night being the worst) you can, when the interior door is open, see shelves lined with large dark brown glass bottles full of flavoring syrups. Bold script written on labels of tan paper announce flavors. While I wait for service I indulge in a fantasy of donning a white lab coat and mentally play for a moment the mad scientist concocting ever more scintillating tastes of delight. I for one would die happily of Swiss Chocolate Orange Chip overdose. It would a worthy end if my demise yielded a low calorie, low fat version of the superb caloric laden delights without sacrificing portion size. I think there would be no finer reason to be celebrated. That is not to be. Swensons is a well run place whose employees have no time to spare to indulge the whimsey of a 21st century foodie on a stroll.
I only allow myself the treat if I stroll before, during and after my eating the decadent scoop. Luckily, the views in the neighborhood are their own reward and I happily set out, melting indulgence in hand.
The location is equal part San Francisco plutocrat, plebeian, historic and modern. The class of toil resident on the hill is chiefly represented by young urban professional's who rent Romeo flats. The monthly rates paid to absentee landlords would have been extravagant annual salaries when Jack London was sailing on the crested bay below. Strolling with quickly melting cone in hand I slowly pass dollhouse size house after doll house sized house. Many painted colors chic 15 years ago when a golden age had been declared and now sun faded in the mist. The views are still superb butonce bright futures are shadowed for the moment in gloom. Gloom being the chief color offered up in post Great Recession San Francisco. The painting of houses in the colorists latest choices is no longer deemed prudent in the post speculative property market.
Rising in stark counterpoint on a block otherwise dominated by a 19th century plutocrat's octagon sided mansion is a Brute design highrise. It is an arrogant and ugly thing. Its salesmens pitch fullfilled in unrelentingly horrid design. Floor after ever higher floor housing units promised built to offer the resident superior views over the lower floors. The crescendo of poured concrete is unremitting until the Penthouse floor is reached. There two story floor to ceiling windows cap the bleak Stassi headquarter design. This Penthouse is where a Getty and his childhood friend, now a middle aged politician, held youthful orgies fueled by an excess of hedonism, drugs, booze and stupidity. This part of Russian Hill, once intended to have the look of a Tuscan hill town ruled by a benign oligarchy more Dante than Medici is more Benito than Fellini around this brutally placed mid century monstrosity. It does inform even the mildly attentive stroller about the arrogance of last quarter 20th century modern building design arrogance.
The casita sized villa's of Russian Hill Lane are made more glorious by the shadow of the simply wrong and massive. The rightness and charm of small house and garden much like a strong American arm, fist and finger answer to the International style nightmare down the block. The juxtaposition is made tolerable.perhaps even chic by the view of the Ferry's on the bay below. A blast of a foghorn, the sound of the clang of a Cable Cars bell rung by the gripman to announce the cars jolting start, feeling the warmth of late afternoon sun and the mellowing effect of a scoop of Swiss Chocolate Orange Chip Ice Cream softens the harshest of sights and Russian Hill plays its part in the fiction of 21st century San Francisco.
The spell cast is not unlike that cast by the fictional Pied Piper of Hamlin.. Where have all Hamlin's children gone? On a mildly misty late summer afternoon, fog horns blasting, a cone melting in hand, as a black Audi sedan driven by a handsome man drives past I think I might know. Listen very carefully and in the stillness of the fog you can hear a flutes note wafting here and than there. Careful now the lotus is having its effect!
The spell cast is not unlike that cast by the fictional Pied Piper of Hamlin.. Where have all Hamlin's children gone? On a mildly misty late summer afternoon, fog horns blasting, a cone melting in hand, as a black Audi sedan driven by a handsome man drives past I think I might know. Listen very carefully and in the stillness of the fog you can hear a flutes note wafting here and than there. Careful now the lotus is having its effect!
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