Meeting of the Minds

Of all the places to hold the coveted title of ‘best third places,’ San Francisco has to be at the top of the heap. While London has its pubs, Paris, its sidewalk cafes, and Beijing, its teahouses, I haven’t found a spot that carries such a coveted history.

Down through the decades, the ‘old lady by the bay’ has attracted a wide swarth of the talented, troubled, possessed, dispossessed, and marginally-coherent individuals who gave the city its unique brand of literacy.

The Montgomery block, when constructed in 1852 on the bay shore survived earthquake and fire long enough to become San Francisco’s most illustrious literary landmark. More than two thousand creatives are reputed to have lived in the building over the years. Among the writers, Stoddard and Joaquin Miller had rooms and affairs there. Ambrose Bierce wrote his blistering ‘Prattler’ newspaper column there. Jack London stayed there near his friend George Sterling who had a room for his many secret amours.

Long before North Beach and the infamous Barbary Coast brought San Francisco to America’s attention, the disenfranchised creatives were gathered on the Montgomery block. South of the city, Monterey Bay, also became a literary hot spot.

Much like Carmel before it, the area attracted a wide swath of brilliant, troubled, talented, drugged out writers, artists, actors, anarchists, alchemists, and socialists.

Many years later, my mother lived and worked as a maid in the same fog-draped, wind-swept enclave known as 17-mile drive after the bohemians moved back to San Francisco. The Black Cat Café, located next to the Montgomery Block, was the most famous of bohemian hangouts during the 1930s right up until the Berkeley Renaissance of the late 1940s.

My brief exposure to the sights and sounds and aroma of post-beatnik, pre-hippie culture came from several jaunts to an old working-class neighborhood not far from the base. Haight Ashbury was just beginning to attract a younger crowd of Berkeley intellectuals, folkie drop outs, drug dealers and young people looking for the next big thing. I was just a lonely GI accompanying a seasoned veteran looking for weed and hippie chicks.

As a young enlisted man, the closest I got to those mid-Sixties social and cultural changes was working at the Larkin Theater in the Art District and watching a ton of foreign films. Barracks life exposed me, for the first time, to a wide swath of other life styles captured as we all were by two or more years in Uncle Sam’s Army.

Life in the barracks was but a brief moment in time when we were all young and stupid and far from home. Asinine antics, weed-smoking on the window sills and stupid horsing around were daily occurrences. It was a non-stop party we all knew would end all too soon.

As a motley collection of draftees, we all knew there were eventual transfers for all of us to other army bases far less permissive than the Presidio. So, while we were there, the collective mantra seemed to be ‘let’s be stupid now for who knows what our future holds?’

After the service, it was the Triangle Bar on the West Bank that gave me the same comfortable ambiance to continue my search for direction and a glimpse into my future. It wasn’t the Chelsea Hotel in the Village where my folk idols gathered but it was better than nothing.

Third places take many shapes and forms but all serve as a collective gathering spot for like-minded souls. Mine have come and gone, based on current writing projects, Sharon’s art classes and lucky accidental meetings.

The one coveted ‘third place’ I’ve only visited once was the Henry Miller Library in Big Sur. It played prominently in my last novel ‘Playground for the Devil.’ The kids and I stopped there on our tour of the West Coast a couple of years ago.

The place reeks of moldy paperbacks, old rag sheets, new literature, cook-out and sing-alongs on the back porch and a gathering spot for the eccentrics of the area.

Unfortunately, there are no third places in Palm Springs, at least not for me. A patio chair and coffee will have to suffice. Minnesota does better with my mulch garden hideaway, my ‘Coffee and Chat’ sessions and one coffeeshop in Norde East.

It’s not the same as other third places but it still provides an out-of-the-way place to collect my thoughts, jot down writing ideas and spend the quiet with other like-minded souls.

When the Kids Came to Play

A big shout-out to Melanie and Amy for their sharp eyes and ability to capture just some of the highlights of our Christmas gathering again this year. It’s a most treasured time of year for the LaCombs and McMahons that we all relish.

It wasn’t just Charlotte doing her best Justin Bieber impression or Brennan wishing for another surfing lesson. Those were just a couple of hints that this year’s visit wasn’t going to be like all the rest. Both families have been coming to Palm Springs to share the holiday season with Nana and Papa for well over eighteen years now. But this year would be different. The urchins have all grown up.

At twelve, fifteen and eighteen respectively, all five grandchildren have moved on into teen status and all of its accompanying edges, attributes, and qualities. They still love to play poker, help Nana with technology, and just lounge around. Yet it’s not like before.

The parents are more comfortable now heading off to wine country and leaving their kids with the ‘rents for a whole day. The kids didn’t notice they were gone with all the time they spent in the pool. They’re old enough to entertain themselves.

A new twist this year was the annual ‘Teddy Bear Toss’ at the hockey arena. All bears and stuffies going to local children’s health facilities.

Ancient Indian culture and folklore got the kid’s attention one morning, with a jigsaw puzzle that afternoon and playing ‘cake’ with headlights on the golf course at night. The next morning it was parent enforced crunch time before hours back in the pool.

One of the many advantages for hikers in the Coachella Valley are the number of mountain trails and other geographically challenging hikes. The Ladder Canyon Trail is considered one of the best hikes in Southern California. The hike weaves through the canyons in the Mecca Hills Wilderness, a rugged series of rock formations and slot canyons created by the San Andreas fault and thousands of years of erosion.

We also found time to celebrate Melanie’s birthday and Papa’s annual ‘staged reading’ play now accompanied by singing and Samantha’s great ukulele playing.

Few words are needed to explain the pride and appreciation Sharon and I feel to be able to provide these experiences for our kids and grandkids. We are very fortunate indeed.

Age is a State of Mind

Age is a state of mind. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. If you care, you’re screwed.

I’m always amused by those soothsayers who’ve decided that since their parents lived long lives, somehow, they’re entitled to the same shot at longevity. Genetics and heredity aside, it doesn’t work that way. It’s a life journey we’re all on and no one has a ticket punched ‘eternity.’

My Mother lived a relatively healthy life until around age ninety then endured several years of gradual decline until her death at age 92. My Father died at age 46 of coronary thrombosis, a heart attack. So which parent will I follow? I’m just days away from 82 so I guess I should be aiming for the nineties like my mother. Oh, if it were only that easy.

One of the newest trends (read hot topic scams) is the hunt for longevity. Every day it seems there’s a new breakthrough on the road to Valhalla.

Too often the commercial focus on longevity gets it all wrong. Living well into old age is not a goal to strive for if good health and mental acuity isn’t present. Without a body that can move around somewhat agile and a mind still curious about life, living into old age is simply an exercise in cheating death for the moment.

Robert Reich (former Secretary of Labor in the Clinton administration) has an interesting piece on aging online. His synopsis on aging had some interesting observations. ‘In 1900, gerontologists considered ‘old’ to be 47. Today, you are considered ‘youngest-old’ at 65, ‘middle-old’ at 75, and at age 85, you are a member of the ‘oldest-old.’ Elderly friend once told Robert there were four ages to life: youth, middle age, old age, and ‘you look great.’

I have a friend, a former doctor, who reads the obituary pages religiously. I asked if he was looking for former patients. ‘Not ready,’ he answered, ‘I’m more curious how long they lasted and what brought them down. Maybe, I suggested, the banner page should read: ‘Older than Me’ or ‘Younger Than Me’ to refocus his real interest in the subject matter at hand.

There seems to be a new topic of conversation with some folks I know. Robert Reich calls it the ‘organ recital.’ The conversation almost inevitably turns to: how’s your back? knees? heart? hip? shoulder? eyesight? hearing? prostate? hemorrhoids? digestion? and the list can go on and on.

I’ve been extremely lucky in that I still have all my original body parts. After 47 years of running including three marathons, several attempted long-distance runs (over 50 miles) and countless trail runs, my joints, limbs, and extremities all seem to still be in reasonable working order. Whether that’s because of genetics or the support of walking sticks and knee braces on long hikes, I’m still going slow and easy and long.

One philosophy I try to adhere to religiously is the theme of keeping one’s mind active and body moving. There’s no time limit on one’s curiosity or one’s ability to find wonder in the little things around us. As we age, a lot of those things that mattered before like pop entertainment, political clowns and the weather lose a lot of their luster in the dawn of another brand-new day.

As I’ve repeatedly told friends, I have never looked forward to my afternoon at the gym but I’ve always felt one hundred percent better having completed my routines there. So, in a word, the secret is to keep moving; mentally and physically. The grim reaper may be coming around the corner but I’m going to give him/her one hell of a run for their effort to catch me.