Nillytour 2004, San Francisco, Saturday 8/21 (part the first)

The morning was overcast and cool, which pleased me. The Zmayhem had promised a "flattish" walk through the park, ending at their place, and I was eager to see both. We set out from Deb's, and as we turned the corner and started up the gentle incline toward the park entrance, I fell to the rear. I can walk all day, but at my own pace. As is usual, the pace of the group was faster than mine. All I ask as a rule is a trail of breadcrumbs.

The friend that Ellen had brought, a tall drink of water named Larry, unobtrusively fell behind to pace me. I assured him that he didn't need to shepherd me, although I appreciated it. He made a graceful excuse and we walked on together at the tail of our gaggle of folk. It was incredibly Buffista-like, how fluid the group was, and how people took turns falling back to walk with me, and how the group as a whole slowed, dawdled, and took opportunities to look closer at the flower beds, the trees, the structures. Emmett was with us, on his scooter, and David, our guide and leader, switched off keeping up with him with Jacqueline.

I had noticed as Deb drove through the park on Thursday, how different the trees are from the ones I'm used to, and the chance to see them up close was too good to be missed. In the Piedmont (middle, or foothils) of NC, we have many native varieties of oak and maple, tulip poplar, locust, birch, as well as several varieties of pine, spruce, and fir. Toward the coast, as the terrain flattens and the soil gets poorer, the trees are smaller and more scrubby. Along the beach there used to be miles of water oak forests, looking from above like mats of intertwined mosses. Now they've been mostly eradicated by oceanfront homes and huge condo complexes, with a few trees left as landscaping. Individually they look like bonsai: gnarled, twisted trunks and limbs that in the aggregate had fought for light, and twined together to resist wind and wave. Occasionally one will see an ancient giant left in someone's yard, the house built around it in wings and ells. Mountain forests grow tall and straight, close-packed and reaching for light, except on slopes that are continually wind-swept, and then the forest leans into the slope, trained by the wind. On the highest peaks the wooly adelgid has left ghost forests of skeletons clothed in grey-white wool, and clouds with the acidity of lemon juice scud up mountain flanks bleaching the trees as they go. But on lower slopes, and in dells, the trees grow close and the air is still and damp, the ancient boles encrusted with lichen and moss. Rhododendron and laurel flourish in the green gloom, and wildlife is varied and abundant.

Except where slopes are clearcut to feed the chip mills, the resultant sawdust shipped to Japan where pressboard, OSB and chipboard are made, some of it fashioned into DIY furniture which is shipped back to the US and sold at Target and WalMart. Once the hillside is clear, the logging money buys a mansion on the crest, and the slopes below are planted in even rows of Fraser firs, a doll's house forest, trimmed to conical perfection, and destined to grace Christmas hearths in five years, or eight. These are my native forests.

But the trees I saw in the park were tall, deciduous, with smooth bark that peeled in vertical strips, unlike the horizontal sheets and patches of either crape myrtle or birch. Another species had multiple trunks, a grove rising from a single root, and thick bunches of small, glossy leaves. There were others, too, and all were familiar in their greenness and the woodiness of their presence, but foreign, alien, in their execution. I wanted to see them closer, breathe in the oxygen they exhaled, touch them, and know them more intimately. This walk gave me that chance.

There were monuments to public figures, and Jacqueline and Nilly stopped at every one to read the plaque or gaze into the face carved in stone. Larry strayed back with us, as did Ellen, and we enjoyed our slower walk. At the pond, we caught up with Emmett, who'd decided not to lead anymore, and he scooted along with us for a ways. David told us, "Emmett has played in this park since he was born," which gave me an insight into how differently city dwellers manage their lives. I grew up in a rural area which has since become suburb. My house has an acre yard (and I'm still too close to my neighbors. I can hear them—too close!), and as kids we played in the yard, ours, or someone else's. There were fields and woods, and trails through both that I, and my kids as well, used to get from one house to another without ever going onto the highway—essential for walking or biking to a friend's house. Those woods and fields are gone, replaced by new-built "neighborhoods." In each of them is a plot the size of two house-lots, with play structures on it. These replace the grassy lawns, the trees of varying climbability, the shady nooks under the grape arbor or the low-hanging branches of the magnolia. Somehow it doesn't seem a fair exchange. But the wide lawns of Emmett's park are different. They're pleasant and welcoming, rather than a sliver of land carved parsimoniously from the housing allotments so the developer can tout the playground as a feature.

We reached the carousel and its accoutrement of bistro tables and chairs, and sat to watch as some of the others rode the beautifully restored carousel, people perched on tigers, roosters, unicorns and other strange beasts, revolving in bizarre silence. In respect for our absent Empress, the camel went riderless. Leaving the park, Ellen, Larry, Jacqueline, Nilly and I lagged behind look at a beautiful monument someone had erected in memory of their daughter. It had the figure of a woman with a cat at her feet, and was set in a green and pleasant place. The ground was littered with what I learned were eucalyptus leaves. The trees soared overhead, and Nilly was amazed at their size. They have the same trees in Israel, but much smaller. David let the larger group go on with Jacqueline and stayed to play tour guide for Nilly, Larry, Ellen and me as we left the park. He pointed out the circus school, and the two auditorium buildings left from the high school, which have been preserved due to their 1930s archtecture. Then we were at the iron lace gate of his apartment building, and we climbed the winding stair to the top floor, and Chez Zmayhem.

(to be continued)

Nillytour 2004, San Francisco, Saturday 8/21 (part the first)

The morning was overcast and cool, which pleased me. The Zmayhem had promised a "flattish" walk through the park, ending at their place, and I was eager to see both. We set out from Deb's, and as we turned the corner and started up the gentle incline toward the park entrance, I fell to the rear. I can walk all day, but at my own pace. As is usual, the pace of the group was faster than mine. All I ask as a rule is a trail of breadcrumbs.

The friend that Ellen had brought, a tall drink of water named Larry, unobtrusively fell behind to pace me. I assured him that he didn't need to shepherd me, although I appreciated it. He made a graceful excuse and we walked on together at the tail of our gaggle of folk. It was incredibly Buffista-like, how fluid the group was, and how people took turns falling back to walk with me, and how the group as a whole slowed, dawdled, and took opportunities to look closer at the flower beds, the trees, the structures. Emmett was with us, on his scooter, and David, our guide and leader, switched off keeping up with him with Jacqueline.

I had noticed as Deb drove through the park on Thursday, how different the trees are from the ones I'm used to, and the chance to see them up close was too good to be missed. In the Piedmont (middle, or foothils) of NC, we have many native varieties of oak and maple, tulip poplar, locust, birch, as well as several varieties of pine, spruce, and fir. Toward the coast, as the terrain flattens and the soil gets poorer, the trees are smaller and more scrubby. Along the beach there used to be miles of water oak forests, looking from above like mats of intertwined mosses. Now they've been mostly eradicated by oceanfront homes and huge condo complexes, with a few trees left as landscaping. Individually they look like bonsai: gnarled, twisted trunks and limbs that in the aggregate had fought for light, and twined together to resist wind and wave. Occasionally one will see an ancient giant left in someone's yard, the house built around it in wings and ells. Mountain forests grow tall and straight, close-packed and reaching for light, except on slopes that are continually wind-swept, and then the forest leans into the slope, trained by the wind. On the highest peaks the wooly adelgid has left ghost forests of skeletons clothed in grey-white wool, and clouds with the acidity of lemon juice scud up mountain flanks bleaching the trees as they go. But on lower slopes, and in dells, the trees grow close and the air is still and damp, the ancient boles encrusted with lichen and moss. Rhododendron and laurel flourish in the green gloom, and wildlife is varied and abundant.

Except where slopes are clearcut to feed the chip mills, the resultant sawdust shipped to Japan where pressboard, OSB and chipboard are made, some of it fashioned into DIY furniture which is shipped back to the US and sold at Target and WalMart. Once the hillside is clear, the logging money buys a mansion on the crest, and the slopes below are planted in even rows of Fraser firs, a doll's house forest, trimmed to conical perfection, and destined to grace Christmas hearths in five years, or eight. These are my native forests.

But the trees I saw in the park were tall, deciduous, with smooth bark that peeled in vertical strips, unlike the horizontal sheets and patches of either crape myrtle or birch. Another species had multiple trunks, a grove rising from a single root, and thick bunches of small, glossy leaves. There were others, too, and all were familiar in their greenness and the woodiness of their presence, but foreign, alien, in their execution. I wanted to see them closer, breathe in the oxygen they exhaled, touch them, and know them more intimately. This walk gave me that chance.

There were monuments to public figures, and Jacqueline and Nilly stopped at every one to read the plaque or gaze into the face carved in stone. Larry strayed back with us, as did Ellen, and we enjoyed our slower walk. At the pond, we caught up with Emmett, who'd decided not to lead anymore, and he scooted along with us for a ways. David told us, "Emmett has played in this park since he was born," which gave me an insight into how differently city dwellers manage their lives. I grew up in a rural area which has since become suburb. My house has an acre yard (and I'm still too close to my neighbors. I can hear them—too close!), and as kids we played in the yard, ours, or someone else's. There were fields and woods, and trails through both that I, and my kids as well, used to get from one house to another without ever going onto the highway—essential for walking or biking to a friend's house. Those woods and fields are gone, replaced by new-built "neighborhoods." In each of them is a plot the size of two house-lots, with play structures on it. These replace the grassy lawns, the trees of varying climbability, the shady nooks under the grape arbor or the low-hanging branches of the magnolia. Somehow it doesn't seem a fair exchange. But the wide lawns of Emmett's park are different. They're pleasant and welcoming, rather than a sliver of land carved parsimoniously from the housing allotments so the developer can tout the playground as a feature.

We reached the carousel and its accoutrement of bistro tables and chairs, and sat to watch as some of the others rode the beautifully restored carousel, people perched on tigers, roosters, unicorns and other strange beasts, revolving in bizarre silence. In respect for our absent Empress, the camel went riderless. Leaving the park, Ellen, Larry, Jacqueline, Nilly and I lagged behind look at a beautiful monument someone had erected in memory of their daughter. It had the figure of a woman with a cat at her feet, and was set in a green and pleasant place. The ground was littered with what I learned were eucalyptus leaves. The trees soared overhead, and Nilly was amazed at their size. They have the same trees in Israel, but much smaller. David let the larger group go on with Jacqueline and stayed to play tour guide for Nilly, Larry, Ellen and me as we left the park. He pointed out the circus school, and the two auditorium buildings left from the high school, which have been preserved due to their 1930s archtecture. Then we were at the iron lace gate of his apartment building, and we climbed the winding stair to the top floor, and Chez Zmayhem.

(to be continued)