It is 7:38 on Thursday morning at the end of June. I’m sitting at Stauf’s Cafe in Grandview enjoying the cool morning air and people watching. The people watching is interesting because there is a difference between the population here and that of San Francisco; it has been a long time since I’ve seen Ohio people.
The week has been a blur and here we are, already into Thursday and the end of my time here in Ohio. When thinking of my Ohio trip in San Francisco I thought I’d have well laid plans, plenty of time and do a large number of activities. Instead, things have popped up and my schedule filled rather quickly.
During the first part of the week I was able to make it out to Wilson Road on Monday and Tuesday morning before sunrise. On my first time out and on the first hole I got a birdie. that first day I ended up with three birdies and a 34 which is just 4 over par. Playing Wilson is always a very special and downright ‘spiritual’ experience for me. I’ve written an extensive post on this so will just link it here instead of rehashing.
Memories of Raymond Memorial and Wilson Road Golf Courses
I’m at Stauf’s cafe on a quiet Sunday morning and have had my mocha can chocolate chip scone. I like getting here early while the sun is just rising over the houses across the road and the weather is cool. I arrived at 7:58 and wondered why everyone was just standing around. It turns out that Stauf’s doesn’t open until 8:00 on Sunday.
To get here I rode the 1950’s style blue framed bike which always gets me a lot of looks and even a couple of nods if not smiles. It is a great mode of transportation around Pleasantville otherwise known as Grandview.
It has been a small adventure so far.
I hailed a Lyft but forgot it is Pride in SF today so the first couple of drivers cancelled on me and there were none around in Pacifica. Finally Flavio came but drove right past me. I called him and he turned around. It was apparent he was new because he wanted to head the long way down Crespi (I told him to turn around and take Fassler) and then he almost missed the exit for Daly City. I let him know but other drivers were being jerks and not letting him over and honking their horns. I asked if he spoke Spanish and he did but it was apparent his first language was Portugese.
It is 3:24 AM. It is a chilly 39 degrees outside and although there is a beautiful waning gibbous moon it remains very dark on the ground. When I step outside to look at the stars I see Orion, faithfully in the southern hemisphere confirming that it is the latter half of the year.
There is a quiet stillness to the very early morning that most will never experience. It is a time when one can be alone with themselves and their thoughts without the innumerable distractions that come when everyone and everything awakes.
They say that old houses have memories and a distinct atmosphere created by the various inhabitants and what has occurred inside its walls over the decades. Time passes, children grow and families move away; yet each one leaves something behind which add to the character of the house. It could be something material such as a treasure hidden away in an air vent, or perhaps marks on the wall that measure a child’s height. I also believe that the actions, words spoken and feelings that took place inside the house also add a certain energy that although cannot be seen, still linger in some way even after many years have passed.