The Fillmore (Third course)

The Fillmore

Recently I drove past the apartment complexes on Turk street, and without much traffic behind me I was able to take a longer than usual observation. The balcony porches and the building complex still look the same, but taking a second glance the porches look re-done, less space between each vertical plank, and over all a bit taller. I contemplated for a few minutes if whether it was the building who had received a touch up, or if it were in fact my perception. My perception and height have grown the last few decades. The colors of the building are still a rusty chocolate brown, and the building a crème brulee stucco. I am under the impression the landlord/managers office is still in middle of the block.

On many occasions, we had accompanied Ganma (which is how we pronounced grandma), down to this building, for us being school aged children it was an adventure to get out of the house. Gandma was not of blood relation but she was indeed my babysitter. Many of the children who attended her child care were related. Her grandkids nieces and nephews. Her husband, well we addressed him by Pa-pa (pronounced paw paw). I came to Gandma as a toddler. I spent my infancy and first 8 years or so with Gandma, in the Fillmore, during the week while my mother worked, during spring and summer vacations from school. She was a strict woman, but she was also a nurturer. She was a part of the village who influenced my upbringing.

It was the Fillmore 1980’s, and we were observant to all. The current hairstyle was the Jheri curl, or a high-top 'Gumby' fades. Clothing we admired l; leather jackets, biker shorts, jogging suits, or wind breaker suits, tinted sunglasses with a gold brim. Young and impressionable this is one way we passed the time both i side and outside the house.

We were only allowed to play outside at certain times. Sometimes we would go along with Ganma to the rental office. Other times we would go out front of the building under her close supervision from above. We would play with the flowers in front, where there was a small strip of grass. We placed dollops of McDonald’s honey from packets we took off the kitchen table. Onto the flowers honey dripped, and we were hoping bees would come by. We did not understand that bees were attracted to nectar, not so much the byproduct from the bee itself.

In the back of the complex, where the parking lot consisted of pavement and a concrete walkway, there was more sectioned grass, similar to the strip in the front of the building, but larger. Some days we would peel the grass up, and there would be a family of worms wiggling and scrunching about, and other times snails or rollie pollies would reveal themselves when their cover was blown. At this age bugs were tolerable to me, but please don’t ask me how I feel about it now.

From time to time we would have to return to the front quickly so that we would not get caught disappearing in the first place. Whenever we were allowed to play outside or were taken to run errands with her, Ganma would make sure we were groomed and looked presentable. If some hair strands happened to loosen or grew wispy from playing, or unraveled from my barrette, she would put some hair grease on it and brush it back into place. She is the only one I knew of who would take Vaseline and gently put it over my chubby cheeks. The other kids the same. We would laugh and poke fun at each other while she was doing it. Sometimes we would go no further than the porch balcony. She told us not to step up on it (she lived on the second level), but you know we did anyway. There was a small ledge big enough for us to place our feet on it gave us enough height to look over onto the busy street. There we were, feeling tall, peering over onto Turk street. A one-way street, the cars all headed west. Every now and then when a Corvette, or Porsche rode by we would scream “That’s my car”. You must know about this childhood game. It’s a reflection of adolescent hopes and dreams, such a leisurely simple activity to partake in but it filled us up with joy for hours on end. Mind you, you had to be the first one to say “that’s my car” to claim it, then of course it was yours. Manisfesration at it's finest.

I clearly remember the theme song of General Hospital, and even the ambulance on the opening credits. When this or All My Children, Days of Our Lives came on, we understood what it meant to be quiet. We would sit and watch what we could in the living room, while Ganma, watched her stories in her room. We were never allowed to go into her bedroom, consequently apart of generational sense, what manners children would have while in someone else’s residence. Sometimes we would sneak a quick peek, and one time we saw some beige stockings hung neatly with clothes pins. Another time we saw a couple of wigs laying on their prospective holders (styrofoam heads). It amazes me how stylish she was back then. If we were to catch a glimpse of her taking one on or off we’d giggle then almost climbing over ourselves, we’d run back into the living room so we would not get caught.

We sat on the couch being sure not to wrinkle the plastic. We had minimal screen time and when we did it was cartoons or music videos. The groups I remember most, Oaktown 357, Salt n Pepa, New Edition, Heavy D and the Boys, EU and Kwame. I had a crush on Kwame, he was a rapper with a short lived career but he was notable by his “Gumby” hairstyle and he always wore polka ddots. When the TV was off, we played with various action figures , such as He-man here, a She-ra there, a perhaps lone G.I. Joe, Macho Man Randy Savage. With the Speak and Spell, we would try to make it say inappropriate words, so that we could giggle. But it never really did what we wanted it to do, which was probably the best thing. On occasion, while playing we would turn our attention to the smell of a nice soup, such as Split Pea wafting into the living room. But the best was when Ganma’s son, father to my playmates, would come in and make a fish fry. While the oil began to heat up, he’d set out two large pans, one with flour and seasoning, the other held the raw fish. He cut up some Russets for some Fries, and till this day my mom uses garlic salt on her home fries (coveted by many), all because I had watched him shake some over the pan fried French fries. I saw him using it on his. I remember those hot, succulent pieces of catfish and snapper put in the middle of the table. Along with a tray of French fries. I had never tasted anything like it. There was nothing like the experience of the family fish fries, which would sometimes fall in the middle of the week and sometimes on Sundays.

I rarely stayed over on a Sunday, but if I did Ganma would take me to Third Baptist Church or Serra Bowling alley which used to be in Daly City. Ganma would divide her time equally, mostly dedicating it to the Lord. Going to church, I had two braids with knocker-ball clips at the beginning and end of each end. My face had been smoothed over with Vaseline and my clothes were neat. Ganma had a part time job at Serra Bowl, which has since been shut down. I often stare at the dilapidated lot, and close my eyes, only to hear the glide of the bowling ball roll down the lane with the sound of hitting the pins. I can hear multiple balls, hit multiple pins, and I can remember the awe I felt when I watched it. Sometimes, she would get us an ice-cold Cola, on the rocks with a maraschino cherry from the bowling alley kitchen and bar. Besides the originals, that come in the glass bottles, those are my favorite Coca Colas. My love for maraschino cherries in drinks grew from there.

‘Oh Casanova, me and Romeo ain’t neva been friends’. I always remember that song playing on our ride home from the bowling alley. I would sit and stare out at the freeway traffic, as we approached the exit now known as Octavia Boulevard. Sometimes we'd take a detour to her niece’s house. When Ganma had to run some errands me and her youngest grandchildren would stay there for the day. Her niece was an adult of course and had two teenage kids, a brother and sister who we admired. They knew all the latest videos, all the slang all the latest fashion, they were keen in ours eyes, role models to look up to. Over there we were able to watch movies, but we still had to be mindful to the plastic on the couch. On hot days, we could go down to the first floor, and politely knock on the door of a lady who sold candy. However, it was not the candy we were after. On hot days she would have a special treat, frozen KoolAid in styrofoam cups. I think we bought a couple for a dollar. We would peel back the Styrofoam, and suck more than half the flavor out, before munching on the ice itself. Those were the days.

The corner-store on Turk and Fillmore is still there, but I will be damned if they have Now-and-Laters or the red, white and blue popsicle I loved so much as a kid. The Safeway, which my mother and I aptly named “Ganma’s Safeway” is still robust with hustle and bustle. Gan-ma and most of her family has since moved, and I wonder where they are today. Maybe Texas, which she flew me to when I was a toddler, and perhaps somewhere else.

I think back to when the Fillmore area was a different place, especially in the reflection of a child’s eyes. Even now, when I pass by the memories resurface, and I hope that it never fades. Even when buildings change, along with the people I will always have a special resolve about being baby sat by Ganma, and the time I spent in the Fillmore.