Mickey's Moment

Helping out with the church Physical Resources committee, I was resetting pews on a weekday when a flicker of motion at the far end of the administration hall caught my eye. The volunteer in charge of the office that day was the only other person I expected to be in the building at that time. Since most people entering the church on a weekday are deliberately very noisy, banging on doors, stomping along halls, especially if they have come in via any entrance other than the front, this needed checking out.


A silent, furtive figure definitely was not here to help me secure benches to the deck. So, setting aside my cordless drill, tape, and the general mess I'd been making, I went past the open office door and the volunteer. I continued to the end of the hall.
There were three doors, two ajar and one closed. The two open rooms were obviously not occupied. Very carefully, as silently as I could, I eased open the third door.


Kneeling, I could see beneath the several tables of the meeting room. Sure enough, prone on a bench, was the partially blocked figure of a man, short, and probably a bit overweight. As silently as I could, I reclosed the door and drifted toward the office.
The volunteer, with the phone to her ear, waved and smiled. I put a finger to my lips and stepped inside.


When she put the phone down, I explained our unusual visitor. I said calling the sheriff seemed appropriate. She nodded and put her finger on the emergency button contact to the sheriff's office. After she had them on the line, she looked up and said,
"They want to know if the man is wearing a yellowish shirt."  I recalled that he was.


"They'll be here immediately," she said.  I stayed in the office doorway where I could see the hall end. 


Three officers arrived in minutes. I led them to the hall end, where one leaned in and said loudly, "Hey, Mickey, c'mon out now. We have a great place for you to spend the night. It comes with coffee. Remember? Like the other times."


The figure sat up. He had on a grimy yellowish shirt. He left the bench and shuffled to the door, a scruffy fellow who looked fifty-ish. At the door the three officers smiled and looked friendly while they gracefully surrounded him.


As the four moved along toward the church entrance, one of the officers turned to me, saying, "Mickey loves doors, unlocked ones. This is his first church, though. "I don't think he prays a lot. I'm sure he doesn't tithe, either."

Rooting Section

College Football rooting sections used to be more fun than today's.


When Oregon came to Stanford one year they brought along a tall, stunningly beautiful cheer leader. So, Stanford's cheer leaders "kidnapped" her. The price of her freedom was to lead a Stanford cheer. She did. Then she called on us to do a cheer for her team. The Oregon rooting section joined in. The whole stadium shook with "ORRRRRR - re GONE." The game?  It was ignored.


U.C. Berkeley was .....well, it was Berkeley.


U.C.'s students didn't go to games to watch football. They showed up, ten thousand in the section, to entertain each other. They often disregarded the cheer leaders, instead giving their own cheers, always rowdy, often bawdy, and always irrelevant to the game, or team, or the university. Routinely, some college fan would be "rolled" down the section. The rooting section sang songs that probably had been composed the night before in an Oakland bar, printed off-campus, then discreetly distributed before game time – to the embarrassment of selected victims.


I attended a game when Santa Clara University was very, very good, and Cal (UC Berkeley) was not.  Cal had actually gotten to Santa Clara's five yard line. A "movement" penalty was called, costing U.C. five yards. As the referee stepped off the five, Cal's rooting section counted with him: One, two three, four, five," then screamed in unison  "YOU (bleep)!"  So, the referee stepped of another ten, which the rooting section chanted again, including the "You (bleep)."

At that, the referee stepped off another ten. Same result.  The referee had to go to the coach and make him go to the microphone to tell the section that one more chant would result in awarding the game to Santa Clara. The rooting section at least quit swearing in unison, not because they cared about the game.  They just didn't want to go home that early.

U.C. eventually did find an effective way to curb the Cal rooting section’s behavior. The university's teams began winning football games. Now about the only insufferable fans left at Cal games are the freebie folk who climb to "Tightwad Hill," above the canyon-nestled stadium, and sort of watch the game though binoculars while partying.

The Bay Before Bridges

An uncle and his family lived across The Bay in Berkeley. When my sister and I were in the primary grades, New Year's was not a big deal at home; but Uncle Ath and Aunt Alice were celebrators. We could expect to be regaled with lively stories, and our three cousins always made the visits fun. We looked forward to them.


But, for me, the highlight wasn't our uncle and his family: it was the Ferry Building. Until the bridges were completed in 1939, the distance from San Francisco to Oakland was a miserable trip through San Mateo, across a bumpy two lane causeway to Hayward and back north -- or an eleven mile leisurely ride on a ferry. No contest.

We boarded a trolley at our home near the beach, rode clear across town through a tunnel, past the federal mint and the cable car terminals, made the loop at the Embarcadero in front of the Ferry Building, and my day was made. I didn't really care if we boarded a ferry.

Oh, the ferries were continuing delights. Gulls always trailed along for bread (or candy wrappers and cigarette butts; they weren’t too particular). I knew that crossing the Bay there would be Goat Island, now Treasure Island, since the World’s Fair, and subsequently turned into a Naval base. I tried always to be toward the front as the slips gradually took shape. I’d usually guess as which slip would be ours.


I liked to watch the passengers begin to crowd at the bow to dash off when the big metal ramp wheeled down, as if they might not find a seat in the waiting big red trains. I would wonder if their weight might tilt the ship forward and soak their feet. And I’d guess which pilings, port or starboard, the ferry would bump first.

Ferry Building 1898 - 1938

But my real goal was to sprint up to the second level of the Ferry Building to study "The Map," to move slowly along the sides of the thirty foot three dimensional full color map of California as it rested on a table I now guess to have been desk high. I would imagine myself in a Curtis Wright WWI single seat plane scooting barely above the ground from the Ferry Building, over San Jose, past Salinas, eastward to King’s Canyon, north from Mt. Whitney to Mt. Shasta, and back over the redwood forests. Usually, I switched, mid-air into a sea plane to alight amid the sailboats in the marina at the foot of Van Ness.


Of course, more often than not, my journey was curtailed by a parental call to get on the ferry before it left me. I wanted to test their threats; but I never quite did.


I was disappointed when our family didn't go at Christmas to my uncle's place .I wouldn't have time with the map that season. The map never dimmed. I suspect because of it I've walked every part, border-to-border and Coast to Nevada. If I had not been entranced by the map, what I might have missed!

Modern Ferry with Golden Gate Bridge